THE WIZARD
My neighbor was there again today - sitting in his Lazy Boy in the open garage. I catch a glimpse of him as I pull into the driveway. His garage door is eternally open – a fourth wall of some tiny theatrical stage-as if the whole world would want to stand in awe and fascination of the happenings in his garage. Or else he felt compelled by some sort of vanity or need of attention to parade his shirtless–sports-watching before the passing cars as a form of performance art. I park the car in my own garage and walk out to get the mail. There he is- flattened in his brown, beaten recliner. Behind his chair, center stage, a large round wooden table sits surrounded by wooden chairs and littered with playing cards and poker chips. The concrete wall in front of him is swallowed by an enormous poster of 6 naked women on a summer beach of someone’s imagination. They have their backs turned demurely towards him-even in his fantasy they won’t look at him.
A television sits 3 feet in front of him, situated in a corner to give everyone in the neighborhood a good view. A 3 foot stereo sits proudly on a ledge among garden tools. That same infernal stereo that pumps out the sounds of electric guitars, alternating with country crooners lamenting lost loves –all at 2 AM while my wife and I glare at each other, and at our bedroom window that is situated 5 feet from that infernal garage. And there, beyond the table, is a row of beer mugs cluttered on a small shelf with hedge clippers, hammers, nail guns, screwdrivers, and wrenches. A “Bud Light” sign glows on the wall between a ladder and a weedwacker, under which those same beer mugs will later be drained over and over again by loud, careless drunks – also at 2 AM. Then I will lie in bed, fuming, along with my wife, imagining all the things I should say to my neighbor. I should storm over in my pajamas and point out the windows of my two sleeping children and gesture to my nonexistent watch. I could remind him he has a house, and rooms with four walls, and a door on his garage. No, I could be very calm and shame him with my reasonability, with my “Hey, I’d appreciate it if you guys could keep it down – my house is just 5 feet from your garage and my kids are trying to sleep.” Then he would apologize, or we would fight. Instead, I will just roll over and go back to sleep.
He sees me now at the mailbox and raises a hand. I nod. He looks back at his TV. He does have a TV inside doesn’t he? - And a room with four walls? A room that’s not a cement echo chamber, sending every whisper and yell out into the open air with or without the speaker’s blessing. Doesn’t he know we can see him in there? We can see his lust on the wall; we can hear his anger towards his wife from our mailboxes. A garage is for hiding cars and tools, for closing behind a locked door the unsightly inner workings of our lives -the clutter in boxes, the broken appliances, maintenance equipment, useless tools, water heaters- all concealed behind metal doors, like the curtain hiding the man inside the wizard of Oz. And He sits there with the curtain removed, naked, looking unashamed and unconcerned.
Maybe he’s hoping for human contact. Looking for neighborly connection the way people used to when they sat out on their porch swing- when neighbors talked to one another before porches were empty vestibules reserved for potted plants and address numbers. He sits out there, an open book, staring at row upon row of closed doors. I could go talk to him. I could sit in one of those wooden chairs and find out his last name, or his wife’s name, or what he does for a living. All these things I think as I slowly walk back into my garage. I turn and look at the nicely tailored houses lined up along the street - opaque facades holding strangers. The stranger next door has a face. Just before I go inside the house, I press the button on the wall and close the curtain.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Bread
" - look here, friend, said the orator, do you think the Pope is Antichirst?
- I haven't considered the matter, said Candide; but whether he is or not, I'm in need of bread"
-from Candide, chapter 3
I had to read Voltaire's Candide for my World Literature class, and I really liked this quote from the book. In the chapter, Candide is flees to Holland from the Bulgar army and is broke, without food or shelter. "but having heard that everyone in that country was rich and Christian, he felt confident of being treated well" Candide finds an orator who is preaching about charity and approaches him to beg for bread. That's when the above exchange takes place.
It reminded me of many peoples feelings about Christianity today. Sometimes it seems like we're more interested in getting people to agree to our way of understanding than we are in offering help, or offering hope. More interested in support for a cause than in supporting people. Of course the cause of Christ ( salvation for the world) is the greatest cause there is. But some people might look at us and say, "I'm not sure what i think about Jesus, but I'm in need of bread"
- I haven't considered the matter, said Candide; but whether he is or not, I'm in need of bread"
-from Candide, chapter 3
I had to read Voltaire's Candide for my World Literature class, and I really liked this quote from the book. In the chapter, Candide is flees to Holland from the Bulgar army and is broke, without food or shelter. "but having heard that everyone in that country was rich and Christian, he felt confident of being treated well" Candide finds an orator who is preaching about charity and approaches him to beg for bread. That's when the above exchange takes place.
It reminded me of many peoples feelings about Christianity today. Sometimes it seems like we're more interested in getting people to agree to our way of understanding than we are in offering help, or offering hope. More interested in support for a cause than in supporting people. Of course the cause of Christ ( salvation for the world) is the greatest cause there is. But some people might look at us and say, "I'm not sure what i think about Jesus, but I'm in need of bread"
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Friday, June 30, 2006
some writing
I'm gonna start posting some of my writing from my creative writing class and see what you guys think. THis first one is a short story called, "Sarah May"
The sun stood naked over a cloudless sky. Sarah sat alone at the top of the unused metal slide, rolling handfuls of gravel down its shiny slope. The ring of the rock on metal covered over the sound of distant squeals and of little feet crunching over the pebbled ground. She pulled her dress snugly over her legs so they wouldn’t be burned by the hot surface, and squinted across to the newer and more used conglomeration of scratched plastic winding slides, rows of short metal bars held together by thick wooden beams of unstained wood, and bright blue creaky swings that stood out against the browns and grays. The oppressive heat radiating from the metal equipment distorted her view making the others seem more separate, farther away. She closed her eyes. Vibrant red engulfed her sight, her nose full of the smell of wood, hot metal, and sweat.
The sound of crunching feet grew closer. Sarah opened one eye. Four boys were parading across the playground towards her slide, grins on their faces, led by Marvin Glascow. They ceremoniously circled around the slide and, at a nod from Marvin, began chanting, “Sarah May!, Sarah May!, Sarah May!” in a sing-song taunt.
Though it was a scene played out a dozen times, Sarah didn’t miss a beat, calling out over them, “My name is Sarah! Just Sarah!” Encouraged, the boys grew louder, grinning widely at one another. Sarah escaladed her response to wild screams. Finally, she shoved her self down the shiny slide and promptly struck a startled Marvin Glascow across the chest, shouting, “My name is not Sarah May!”
“Hey now!” came Mrs. Dowdy’s voice across the playground. She was walking towards them briskly, her mouth drawn into an angry bow. “Sarah, you know there is no hitting,” she said sternly.
“But,” whined Sarah, “they were calling me Sarah May and saying, ‘Sarah May, Sarah May,’ but my name is not Sarah May, it’s Sarah!”
Mrs. Dowdy glanced sideways at Marvin and the others, “All right now, that’s enough, you boys. Go and play and leave Sarah alone.”
Mrs. Dowdy pulled her denim skirt away from her knees and knelt down beside Sarah.
“Sarah, you can’t let them get to you so easily. Just ignore them. You know hitting is never an acceptable reaction.” She looked into Sarah’s eyes for some sign of acknowledgement, but her eyes gave away nothing. Her irises and pupils blended together into black holes. It was like looking into a void. “Do you understand, Sarah?” she asked.
“But, Mrs. Dowdy, they said I was Sarah May and…” Sarah began, but Mrs. Dowdy interrupted.
“We’re not going to discuss it any more. You let me worry about those boys. You need to worry about your own behavior. Do you understand?”
“ But Marvin was..,” Sarah answered
“Do you understand?” Mrs. Dowdy repeated.
“…Okay.”
“You’re in love with Sarah May” Julie’s voice rang out over the cacophony of high pitched conversations echoing through the cafeteria.
“Am not!” answered Marvin defensively
“Yeah, Sarah May’s your girlfriend,” added David.
“Oh, yeah, well you want to kiss Sarah May!” Marvin retorted
“Eewwww!” they all intoned together.
Sarah sat on the opposite side of the room, the sole occupant of the six foot brown table. She calmly set her tuna-fish sandwich on top of her crumpled brown lunch bag, one hand habitually rubbing her nose. Mr. Nichols, the new vice principle, appraised Sarah from his post by the open double doors. Her face looked pale and washed out in the artificial light. Her clothes were second-hand, her hair an unkempt, flat brown.
He approached her table. “Would you like some company Sarah May?”
“My name is not Sarah May,” she snapped, “It’s Sarah.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he answered, “I thought I heard some of the other kids say your name was Sarah May. I didn’t mean to –“
“It’s not Sarah May.” Sarah corrected again. “My name is Sarah May Lindsey, so May is my middle name, but my first name is just Sarah, and I don’t want to be called Sarah May, “she said, matter of fact.
“… I see” he replied hesitantly, “Sarah it is then.” He gave her a saccharine smile to which she seemed indifferent.
But, nevertheless, she continued the conversation, saying, “My brother has a fish named Jason that he got out of the pond, but you’re not supposed to take a fish from a pond and keep it because you have to buy them at a pet store, but my brother didn’t buy Jason – he just took him from a pond and he shouldn’t have done that. But, this is a tuna fish sandwich and its not a real fish because its tuna. My brother says it’s a real fish , but he’s just lying because it’s not real, because it doesn’t look real, it looks like tuna.”
“mmm hmmm,” said Mr. Nichols. “Well you enjoy. …I’ll just let you finish your lunch then.”
“Why is my brother so mean?” she continued. “It’s not a real fish, if it was real there would be blood and stuff, but there’s not blood is there?”
“well…no,” said Mr. Nichols, “No, but um, if you’ll excuse me.” And he retreated to his double doors.
Sarah thought she caught a “Sarah May” said from another table, and quickly stuck her tongue out enthusiastically at that whole corner of the room.
Sarah’s brother, Simon, sat in a heap if front of his bed. Sarah sat next to him, cross legged on the stiff, torn carpet in front of her own bed. Both were quietly staring at the small television screen, pretending it was more interesting than their mother’s conversation.
“Frank,” her mother growled into the phone. “if it’s just gonna be every four months, I’d rather you not call us at all. Don’t pretend you’re interested in their lives only to drop of the face of the earth for months at a time. It just confuses them.”She turned her back to the children and pulled the phone further into the kitchen area, continuing in a mock whisper, “Don’t you tell me you’re their father, tell yourself! And tell them! Or, better yet, just make up your mind to leave us all alone. We’re doing just fine without you around to …” She paced abruptly up and down the five foot strip of linoleum, screwing her face into unnatural poses as she listened. “All right, Frank, but don’t expect to talk to them again until I see a check in the mail.” She turned stiffly toward the motionless children. “Sarah, your father’s on the phone for you.”
Sarah stood expressionlessly, crossed the room, and took the extended receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sarah May, “ came the response
“….”
“Hello?”
“Hi, Daddy.”
The sun stood naked over a cloudless sky. Sarah sat alone at the top of the unused metal slide, rolling handfuls of gravel down its shiny slope. The ring of the rock on metal covered over the sound of distant squeals and of little feet crunching over the pebbled ground. She pulled her dress snugly over her legs so they wouldn’t be burned by the hot surface, and squinted across to the newer and more used conglomeration of scratched plastic winding slides, rows of short metal bars held together by thick wooden beams of unstained wood, and bright blue creaky swings that stood out against the browns and grays. The oppressive heat radiating from the metal equipment distorted her view making the others seem more separate, farther away. She closed her eyes. Vibrant red engulfed her sight, her nose full of the smell of wood, hot metal, and sweat.
The sound of crunching feet grew closer. Sarah opened one eye. Four boys were parading across the playground towards her slide, grins on their faces, led by Marvin Glascow. They ceremoniously circled around the slide and, at a nod from Marvin, began chanting, “Sarah May!, Sarah May!, Sarah May!” in a sing-song taunt.
Though it was a scene played out a dozen times, Sarah didn’t miss a beat, calling out over them, “My name is Sarah! Just Sarah!” Encouraged, the boys grew louder, grinning widely at one another. Sarah escaladed her response to wild screams. Finally, she shoved her self down the shiny slide and promptly struck a startled Marvin Glascow across the chest, shouting, “My name is not Sarah May!”
“Hey now!” came Mrs. Dowdy’s voice across the playground. She was walking towards them briskly, her mouth drawn into an angry bow. “Sarah, you know there is no hitting,” she said sternly.
“But,” whined Sarah, “they were calling me Sarah May and saying, ‘Sarah May, Sarah May,’ but my name is not Sarah May, it’s Sarah!”
Mrs. Dowdy glanced sideways at Marvin and the others, “All right now, that’s enough, you boys. Go and play and leave Sarah alone.”
Mrs. Dowdy pulled her denim skirt away from her knees and knelt down beside Sarah.
“Sarah, you can’t let them get to you so easily. Just ignore them. You know hitting is never an acceptable reaction.” She looked into Sarah’s eyes for some sign of acknowledgement, but her eyes gave away nothing. Her irises and pupils blended together into black holes. It was like looking into a void. “Do you understand, Sarah?” she asked.
“But, Mrs. Dowdy, they said I was Sarah May and…” Sarah began, but Mrs. Dowdy interrupted.
“We’re not going to discuss it any more. You let me worry about those boys. You need to worry about your own behavior. Do you understand?”
“ But Marvin was..,” Sarah answered
“Do you understand?” Mrs. Dowdy repeated.
“…Okay.”
* * *
“You’re in love with Sarah May” Julie’s voice rang out over the cacophony of high pitched conversations echoing through the cafeteria.
“Am not!” answered Marvin defensively
“Yeah, Sarah May’s your girlfriend,” added David.
“Oh, yeah, well you want to kiss Sarah May!” Marvin retorted
“Eewwww!” they all intoned together.
Sarah sat on the opposite side of the room, the sole occupant of the six foot brown table. She calmly set her tuna-fish sandwich on top of her crumpled brown lunch bag, one hand habitually rubbing her nose. Mr. Nichols, the new vice principle, appraised Sarah from his post by the open double doors. Her face looked pale and washed out in the artificial light. Her clothes were second-hand, her hair an unkempt, flat brown.
He approached her table. “Would you like some company Sarah May?”
“My name is not Sarah May,” she snapped, “It’s Sarah.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he answered, “I thought I heard some of the other kids say your name was Sarah May. I didn’t mean to –“
“It’s not Sarah May.” Sarah corrected again. “My name is Sarah May Lindsey, so May is my middle name, but my first name is just Sarah, and I don’t want to be called Sarah May, “she said, matter of fact.
“… I see” he replied hesitantly, “Sarah it is then.” He gave her a saccharine smile to which she seemed indifferent.
But, nevertheless, she continued the conversation, saying, “My brother has a fish named Jason that he got out of the pond, but you’re not supposed to take a fish from a pond and keep it because you have to buy them at a pet store, but my brother didn’t buy Jason – he just took him from a pond and he shouldn’t have done that. But, this is a tuna fish sandwich and its not a real fish because its tuna. My brother says it’s a real fish , but he’s just lying because it’s not real, because it doesn’t look real, it looks like tuna.”
“mmm hmmm,” said Mr. Nichols. “Well you enjoy. …I’ll just let you finish your lunch then.”
“Why is my brother so mean?” she continued. “It’s not a real fish, if it was real there would be blood and stuff, but there’s not blood is there?”
“well…no,” said Mr. Nichols, “No, but um, if you’ll excuse me.” And he retreated to his double doors.
Sarah thought she caught a “Sarah May” said from another table, and quickly stuck her tongue out enthusiastically at that whole corner of the room.
* * *
Sarah’s brother, Simon, sat in a heap if front of his bed. Sarah sat next to him, cross legged on the stiff, torn carpet in front of her own bed. Both were quietly staring at the small television screen, pretending it was more interesting than their mother’s conversation.
“Frank,” her mother growled into the phone. “if it’s just gonna be every four months, I’d rather you not call us at all. Don’t pretend you’re interested in their lives only to drop of the face of the earth for months at a time. It just confuses them.”She turned her back to the children and pulled the phone further into the kitchen area, continuing in a mock whisper, “Don’t you tell me you’re their father, tell yourself! And tell them! Or, better yet, just make up your mind to leave us all alone. We’re doing just fine without you around to …” She paced abruptly up and down the five foot strip of linoleum, screwing her face into unnatural poses as she listened. “All right, Frank, but don’t expect to talk to them again until I see a check in the mail.” She turned stiffly toward the motionless children. “Sarah, your father’s on the phone for you.”
Sarah stood expressionlessly, crossed the room, and took the extended receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Sarah May, “ came the response
“….”
“Hello?”
“Hi, Daddy.”
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
A SUNDAY MORNING PRAYER
A Sunday Morning Prayer
On Monday, Lord, let my heart still be true
On Monday may my mind strive to know You
On Monday let my faith be steadfast and strong
Let the breath of Your Spirit still be my song
on Monday.
On Monday, Father, I don’t want to fall
Let today’s conviction still be my call
Let my mouth still praise, my heart still repent
Let the joy that is put there be the joy that is spent
on Monday.
On Monday, Lord, let my heart still be true
On Monday may my mind strive to know You
On Monday let my faith be steadfast and strong
Let the breath of Your Spirit still be my song
on Monday.
On Monday, Father, I don’t want to fall
Let today’s conviction still be my call
Let my mouth still praise, my heart still repent
Let the joy that is put there be the joy that is spent
on Monday.
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