Sanity in Silence

He knew well that hell was tinted in red and yellow, but it took the golden arches hovering above his head to realize the evil power of those colors. The eyes of dozens lit up a the sight of them, condemning themselves in complicity. They took from him what the devious ones had told him to do. He did not believe in his actions, but he knew well what should come next. He figured he should cure cancer since he was giving America diabetes. And heart disease. And future trash. All before 11 AM.

The partner assigned to him talked endlessly about anything and everything. Early on in the task, the partner proclaimed the absence of love in his life presently and possibly for the future. The morning crept more slowly the more the partner talked. Occasionally, he disappeared around the corner and the silence was golden, much like the arches hovering above his head.

The task was easiest when no word were necessary. A photo of a burger, coffee, fries, a knowing glance between two strangers and another step closer to a double bypass. The exchange had to happen five hundred times in four hours. Some needed convincing, however. Free fries and drink would do it most of the time. Other questioned the quality of the burger. He had nothing to say for it had never passed his lips. He nodded and smiled. Complicity in silence.

Done by 11 AM, he would be asleep by 11:30. The roars of traffic, rumbling construction, shouts of train riders, endless streams of words from the partner, all disappeared. He had probably dreamed of arches above his head, people reveling in the sight of a floating corporate logo, the distribution of disease in the form of a coupon. The rest of the day continued in silence, sanity returned.

The next morning he was back on the street with the red and yellow, golden arches above him. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. Free fries and drink. Dollar coffee. The partner told him his car had been towed and that he had anger issues and he managed a bar and grill and-

Soon silence soon.

Bright Side

Hoping for any sign from the bright side, he comforted himself with the notion that the sun was always darkest before the dawn. It took him no time to realize that the sun was a giant ball of flame that burned perpetually millions of miles away, except in Britain where the metric system still reigned.

He walked home humming a tune that must have belonged to INXS because he had found it in the freezer thinking it was someone else's tune completely. On second thought, it may have been his own tune to hum found in a dream or on the moon. Maybe the moon was darkest before the dawn, but that made no sense because the moon had no power of persuasion in the first place let alone the capacity for dark, light, and dim.

In Japan, the sun always rose or so he heard or so the flag told him. It did nothing to get the INXS tune out of his head, which was fine for the moment or at least for the walk home. He looked off left and saw where the land ended and the lake began. That was about the time he realized he was walking the wrong way and the tune immediately escaped him. So much for the bright side or the sun or the moon or any damn thing really.

His knees did him no favors and clinched up three blocks from home. He leaned against a sign pole hoping that his shame and the cold metal would ease the pain or even unlock the binding agreements his knees had opted to take. The magical pole did neither and proved itself only to be a mostly normal pole of deadening streetlife persuasion. He cursed the pole and hobbled home stiff-legged and still ashamed.

The pie is always darkest before the dawn. Maybe, just maybe this would bring him salvation. Salvation of apple filling and crumble topping. His knees told him no and his fridge concurred. The bright side proffered him no pie tonight and no pie tomorrow and his heart thanked him for another clogless night.

He lumbered log-legged into bed and dreamed of falling asleep. The night stayed bright no thanks to the city lamps and cars and revel screams below. Sleep is always darkest before the dawn. No. Sheep are darkest before the lawn. Definitely not. Bright night tonight and nothing to show for it. He drifted off several minutes later with thoughts of black sheep eating pie on the moon and admiring the darkening sun.

A man of great humility and work ethic. Speaking with Mara the other night, I realized I admire players like Mr. Stockton because they remind me of who I hope to be as a person more than as a player.

His opening statements were tremendous, congratulating the other inductees and asking, "What am I doing here? I played 30 years competitively... in all those years, not once, was I the best player on my team."

There is a love of basketball that is pure. It comes from the swish of a ball through a net, the squeak of sneakers on a hardwood floor, watching Hoosiers, listening to Bill Russell speak. No outlandish shoe ads, unnecessary energy drinks, indulgent tales of sexual conquests. This speech and the speaker himself brought me back to that purity.

Please. Enjoy.

Sung by a man on Chicago Avenue

McDonalds is my favorite place

They feed you rattlesnakes

Put roaches in their shakes

They give me belly aches.

Day one

His journey began with a stop at the 24-hour doughnut shop. The apple fritters tasted best at 4 AM and here it was nearing 3:58. He stepped in and saw no fritters and thought to wait. The gaunt master of doughnuts behind the counter told no fritters would be coming his way anytime soon. He settled on a plain buttermilk and maple old-fashioned and continued on his way.

By 5 o'clock he had passed from the city into the outer suburbs. The doughnuts were long gone, though glimpses of maple still appeared in his mouth. Here there were trees, fences, cars in driveways. He saw a man delivering newspapers from his car and wondered whatever happened to the Schwinn. He stopped in a park for a sip from the drinking fountain. The water tasted fine, but he could not help thinking of all the dirty suburban kids that had put their mouths on the spigot. Maybe a doughnut would kill the germs.

The suburbs began to dissipate around him, then finally ended altogether. A wall signaled their end, and starkly at that. People lived on one side, weeds grew on the other. He thought of stopping to take a last look, but kept on ahead. Best to think of some things instead of doing them. A person sees the suburbs and no last look is going to change a damn thing about them.

At midday he stopped and chewed on some jerky out of his pocket. He imagined a wolf or bear or even a deer coming up and fighting him for it. Nothing and no one came anywhere near him just then. Nor did they the rest of the day in fact. A lonely bit of travel that day was, especially for a man who had no idea where he was going.

He thought maybe that would be the best part of his journey, an existential trip for the ages. He was wrong. With no destination and no company to keep, he was just meandering lonely for lonely meandering sake. But the doughnuts tasted nice and god bless to be out of those suburbs.

Graduated from a state school

Richard the Ninth and the First Rabbit War

Richard the Ninth shopped for oranges one afternoon when suddenly he was struck with a carrot, struck in the face actually. He looked for the source of the carrot, but found he was alone in the market. A closer look revealed that he was not in the market at all, rather he had wandered into a library.

Libraries confused and angered Richard the Ninth and he wondered why he wandered there. Just as another carrot struck him in the ear he realized the library was where those jerk rabbits had been hoarding all of the town's oranges and, yes, carrots.

Richard the Ninth scanned the room, but nary a long-eared hooligan was to be found. Thinking quickly he very suddenly became very tired. He sat down for a nap when a carrot flew into the back of his head. He stood up again but could not see a single buck-toothed bastard anywhere.

Ignoring the longstanding law of silence, Richard the Ninth began making a ruckus and ran around the library shouting invective aimed squarely at the rabbits. This did nothing to help his cause but did tire him again. He fell to the ground and slept for several minutes.

When Richard the Ninth awoke he had forgotten where he was, why he was there, and even wondered who he was in the grand scheme of things. He did have the awful taste of carrots in his mouth which marred his slightly more pleasant hunger for oranges.

Richard the Ninth's memory was suddenly jogged as a rabbit hopped past. He stood and chased the rabbit through holistic medicines, agriculture, and LSAT study aids when he was stopped short by a diminutive librarian. Though meager in height, she was abundant in discipline.

The librarian removed Richard the Ninth from the premises, ignoring any and all proclamations of war against those furry feckers. She instituted a ban to begin immediately and last through until the next day. Richard the Ninth had lost the First Rabbit War. He headed for home knowing another war would follow, feeling uneasy at the way the librarian had touched him, and still craving oranges.

Sure Enough

We found ourselves nearing a dead end so we kept going just to make sure and sure enough the dead end came and we were stuck with nowhere to go but right back where we came from.

So we turned around and started going back the way we came from but everything looked different since we had only come the one way and instead of realizing that everything looks different coming back the other way we thought it best to turn back around and make sure we were going the right way and sure enough we ran right back into the dead end.

We turned back around and started going back the way we came which was also now the way we left and things looked similar to the last time we turned back around and so we thought well maybe this is the right way now. Sure enough this ran right into a dead end too. Well how do you like that we thought.

We turned back around started towards what we just knew was a dead end but knew there was no place else to go and at least everything looked familiar by the time we hit the dead end again.

About the fifteenth time we hit the second dead end we thought to look left and sure enough we see a little door way where the walls didnt meet each other and so we turned down to the left. Then wondering what maybe if there was a door to the right too we went back from the way we came and turned right and everything started looking real familiar because it turns out sure enough we had just gone right back down to where that dead end was.

At this dead end though there was a way off to the right and so we turned right down it and we was walking a good long while when lo and behold sure enough there was our car just waiting right where we left it in the middle of the road and was people in other cars ever upset.

Well we told them all about all those dead ends and they could not for the life of them understand how we could be so unlucky to find the one place in this world that had two dead ends and a whole lot of confusion all for nothing.

When we got into the car and sure enough there was no key and we got to thinking about maybe if the key fell out of our pants when we were walking around all those dead ends but then we realized sure enough that there was no way we would ever have the key because sure enough this was not our car.

Cute

A puppy was born today and the world rejoiced. They carried the cute creature across many lands and waters until he arrived at his new home, the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness. He opened his eyes that evening and through the haze of newborn confusion and religious fervor saw no teat from which to suckle. Many of the surrounding observers offered their own teats to the puppy (mostly men), but were denied access to His High Puppiness for fear their milk was poison (especially the men).

The ministers of the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness knew well the proper diet for the leader of all the Universe's Cuterrians and offered His High Puppiness a small plate of crickets and raw bulgar. When the puppy ate neither offering, the ministers collectively chuckled and explained to the observing masses that the puppy had never tried either one.

"Soon," they said, "His Puppiness' inexperience will be obliterated by an abundance of curiosity. Then His Puppiness will feast on this great Cuterrian feast. Shortly thereafter His Puppiness will offer us advice on how we, too, can be so cute."

Three hours later, His High Puppiness died. While the natural cause of death could be attributed to starvation or malnutrition, the ministers insisted it was the lack of surrounding cute within the Temple.

"But fear not, followers!" the ministers proclaimed, "For His High Deceased Cuteness was one of a litter of seven. Each one cuter than the last."

The recordkeeper of the Temple of Rambunctious Cuteness made a small note on the death certificate about His Puppiness' apparent lack of cuteness with relation to his litter. The note went on for several pages.

She Talks Sometimes For Days

He understood her better with his eyes closed. She occasionally took to severe rambling which could last all night if the moment -- or many hours of moments -- took her there. He had learned that his eyes told too much and absorbed too little when she went on talking this way. He assured her that she looked just fine, very nice most of the time, but closing his eyes was the only way.

With closed eyes he made images of her words. Instead of her steadily rocking jaw or the pale white wall behind her, he now saw every last lettuce leaf from her lunch. Every patch, paw, and pee of the puppies she came upon. Every single syllable of her sojourns with her mother. He saw still-lifes, faces, moving images, floating words. Years of media inundation had gifted him with the ability to listen to his wife.

This practice went well -- splendidly he thought -- until two problems arose. First, he began falling asleep. It was so much easier to do with closed eyes, so comfortable. So painful when she would discover it and respond with scolding and a kick to the shin. Second, he began improving on her stories in his mind's eye. Embellishments came more easily as he listened with closed eyes. Her tales of walking from work to car became camel caravans across vast Ankharan deserts. She detailed a broken nail and he saw the first exploration of the earth's core. The chats with her mother now included dragons, always dragons. They made him chuckle. She never seemed the wiser of his practice until the chuckles came.

The chuckles were not the only telltale signs. Soon, he began remembering her life in a different order than she lived it. She had met foreign dignitaries and famous athletes, discovered rare birds and new rock forms, leaped across canyons and dimensions. Her conversations were rife with witty banter and (yes) extraordinary repartee. He loved her adventures as seen behind closed eyes. He dreaded the times when she asked him if he remembered such and such or so and so. Occasionally, she did just that. He would nod or feign confusion and lithely evade her inquisitions. Then, he would close his eyes again and make for her a life far better than the one she thought she lived.

New Eyes

He looked at the world through new eyes; eyes he found at the Salvation Army beneath piles and piles of In Styles. The eyes looked large in his smallish hands, but once placed properly were dwarfed by his lollipop head and low, cro-magnon brow. Dainty eyes, he called them. Eyes to be tender by, or with, or to. With these eyes, he thought, I can begin the day with poetry and end with soft glances across candlelight.

By midday, that first day, the left one fell out and down into a sewer grate. He chased it, but was much too late. Goodbye left tender eye, and with one tender eye left, he went back to the Salvation Army looking for a replacement.

Amid the stacks and stacks of National Geographics he found a proper set, but already having a right he only took the left. Here's hoping it fits, he thought, as he popped it in its slot. Snugly this one fit, almost to popping. And off he went with a tiny tender right eye and bugged out left.

Through his new eyes the world looked soft and insane, lovely and stank, sighing and ow-wooooo-gah. A woman walked by on his right, a lady by all accounts, and smiled at him with his sweet little eye. He turned to look and the hideous left sent her straight into a run. His right eye wanted to cry and his left wanted a doughnut.

One night, as his right eye slept, his left stayed awake singing off-key about bottles of beer taken down from a wall. When the song ended, his left eye slapped the right awake, then pretended to be asleep. The right knew better, but thought better of retaliating.

All through breakfast the left eye smoked cigars and listened to sports news, guffawing at the perpetual biting commentaries. The right eye closed both from fatigue and ignominy. Soon the left eye would fall asleep on the couch and the right eye could listen to Debussy, read some Proust, admire the begonias.

He enjoyed his new eyes enough, despite the frightened looks of children, women, men, dogs, giraffes, and insects all. However, he eventually went back to his old eyes. He returned the new two to the Salvation Army, pretending to read an old SI as he popped out the left and an antiquated copy of the New Yorker as he gently slid out the right. They stayed among the piles and stacks of magazines there at the Salvation Army. Neither eye found its partner, former or new. Nobody ever adopted them as new eyes again because nobody wants an eye unless its part of a pair.

He looked at the world through his old eyes. And everything looked the same.

Away and Away Again

Tonight they sing at 8PM, then on a plane by midnight. They wake up in New York and dash to the 6x10 room. Shortly after, they speed off to Rome. Good luck tracking them down. Feel free to email, call, or send up smoke signals. Some day they will stop and sit and you can find them then.