It is time for Italian class! I'm afraid you must excuse me; I have to go fill a can of gasoline for my presentation on Dante's Inferno.

Doughy Wrath!


Photo concocted by Joey Moore.


Given my fondness for juxtaposition, I think I should put up some stuff that isn't particularly related to homicidal dough people. This is from the journal I carry around with me from time to time. I often ponder the relationship between where a person is writing and what they write. Some authors, like Stephen King, recommend creating a personal, intimate space in order to be alone with your thoughts. Others, such as Neil Gaiman, write in bars, airports, and even while waiting in lines. I've never gone to a bar with writing in mind. I've been pretty happy with what I've produced in airports. I've never tried while waiting in line for anything because my handwriting is already terrible.


I'm not sure that either way is better or worse. I like having a personal space to write because hey, sometimes you just don't feel like wearing pants. I also like writing when I'm somewhere I don't necessarily want to be because when I turn my attention to the journal I am essentially creating my own personal space amidst the din and clamor of the world at large. Well, anyway, here's some of that non-doughboy stuff.


* * *
I often forget that this is a journal. The purpose of this book has become blurred. If it ever had a purpose, of course. The only purpose I could bring myself to assign to this particular composition notebook is to relieve stress. Except that it doesn't always do that, either. The pen dips into the mind and stirs up the thoughts. The words, already written, eagerly wait for the eye to light upon them. When I read them again they seem to spring up like tiny imps to unearth old graves.


This journal is a headstone, a grave marker for an aborted idea.


Lack of motivation. Might not that be a good sign? Contentment and complacency are inbred cousins, if not outright conjoined twins who enter together when you only meant to invite in one.


* * * *
He wears all black except for a green arm-band around his left forearm. The large screen in the center of the viewing hall has descended from the ceiling. Projected upon it is the delicate visage of a young Italian woman with the title "Catalina Va In Citta'."


What does he think of as he sips black coffee from a Styrofoam? He thinks of love, no doubt, as all men do when they find themselves alone. What keeps him from loving, then? What keeps him alone? A fierce desire to master himself. A foolish pride that will not allow anyone else to succeed where he has failed.


* * * * *
The old theatre master used to smile grimly and say that the thick, red curtains that hide us from the audience are the border between the living and the dying. He never said which of these we were.


* * * * * *
This time last year, I had no idea how happy I was to become. Nor how great my despair would be at the end of that summer. I don't regret it. I was happy then. I remember the feeling among the others as one would remember the sun more brightly than the stars. That time is gone but I keep it still. I have grown around that summer the way a tree grows. That ring of joy and pains is buried deeper now; under the thinner rings of this past year. At times I feel that ring down under all the others, pulsing with its own heartbeat. I am reminded of a cocoon, lying patient and afraid.


* * * * * * *
"I make 80,000 a year," he said, straightening up slightly in the narrow seats of the airline gate.

"Eighty thousand what?" I asked quietly.

He stared. "Are you joking? Dollars. I make 80,000 dollars."

I looked down at my feet. "Oh. I thought maybe you made songs or stories or fuzzy oven mitts that look like big red lobster claws."

"What? No, man. I make money."

"Drat. I always wanted an oven mitt that looks like a big red lobster claw."

My Interview Today


OR


Guillermo Attempts To Swing A Leg Up Whilst Dangling From The Bottom Rung Of The Corporate Ladder


I had an interview today for a position in a slightly more prestigious area of the company. I wore black, pin-striped pants, a white buttoned shirt and the thin black tie which is the only tie I own. I stole that tie from the United States Army along with a few other items. Well, I didn't steal them so much as simply not return them after Uncle Sam and I parted ways over creative differences.


In all my years of wearing a tie, I haven't ever known how to tie it.


I would simply close my eyes, twist the ends around like I'd seen other people do, and hope for the best. After wasting a great deal of time and effort much like everything else in life I somehow managed to cover my neck.


My gurgy-rigged knot was holding steady as I strolled into work this morning. On a whim, I decided to ask my supervisor, Ron, if he would teach me how a proper knot. Ron is quite a character and by far the best boss I've ever had. He knows a great many things, not all of which I agree with but most that will do in a pinch.


He demonstrated how to tie a Windsor knot, named after the legendary balladeer Johnny Windsor of Lower Umpington. I attempted to imitate the movements and succeeded in fashioning a tangle that looked unnervingly like a noose. I kept practicing, being very careful to avoid hanging myself. Eventually, success was mine. I wore my tie proudly as I awaited my interview at the end of the day.


My interview went moderately well. It was held in a very cold room about the size of a walk-in closet. I arrived early and while I was awaiting my interviewer I pulled a lunch receipt out of my pocket and scribbled,




Check your purpling
rage before it colors
every option


To that same dull throbbing
royal ichor
weeping from your wounds


An almost Oedipal emotion
anger seeks to strike the loins that spawned it


Coursing along a lineage
no holy book has dared to chart


The path when followed
fractures into shards
of silvered glass reflecting
every step that led you here
and none that lead you back




I don't know where all the rest came from but I just liked the sound of "purpling rage." I picture a furious Pillsbury Dough-Boy or something. As I said, my interview went moderately well as far as presenting myself as a potential candidate for whatever the hell I was applying for. I believe the interview went extremely well as far as me realizing that the winds of of change were fluttering my newly fashioned Windsor knot madly about and I was desperate to leave that tiny closet of a room and set sail.

I formally apologize about the feet. That usually doesn't happen to me.


Unless, as I've long suspected, my feet begin to disappear when I consume alcohol. That would explain all the missing footwear.


My birthday is coming up in May. The twelfth. Another milestone that month will be my one-year anniversary at my corporate job.


I wonder if I can remember my first impression of the place...[text goes shimmery, flashback-style]


This is Hell. An easy-listening, khaki-and-polo Hell.


[text goes shimmery, returning-from-flashback-style]


Foolish young Guillermo. How wrong you were.


Foolish current Guillermo. You really should have listened to foolish young Guillermo.


I don't entirely blame young Guillermo. That was a very interesting week as I recall.


The third milestone will be the one-and-a-half month anniversary of the time I saw the Red Elvises perform at the Rhythm Room. I went with Alan and Matt. The three of of us have been fans since we were sixteen years old and saw Six String Samurai. It was one of the greatest shows I've ever attended. I'm eager to go back. I'm also eager to get to class and see if my Italian teacher has dropped me yet.

A idea I've been kicking about in my head...maybe the beginning of
something bigger.


The day before she died, I think my grandmother tried to kill me.
Every night before I went to sleep she would tell me a story. And not
just the same few stories over and over. She would tell me a new
story every night. She would only retell a story if I asked. I
usually did. Her grey eyes would shine whenever I asked to hear one
again. Those eyes would also glint like a cold knife whenever I
became impatient and asked for two new stories in one night. I can't
recall how often she would scold, "How do you expect me to tell you a
new story when you haven't finished hearing the one I told you?" I
think she meant I should think about it for a while in case I was
missing the point.


It isn't unusual for me to come across one of grandmother's stories in
a book I would read or a movie I would see. But it happened much less
than I expected. I think she pulled a lot of those stories right out
of her own head and was trying to put them into mine for safe-keeping.


The last story she ever told me was the only one I think I'd ever
really forgotten.


I was eleven years old. I was sprawled out on the floor at my
grandmother's feet. She was quiet for a long time, rocking slowly and
gazing out the living room window at the snow. "Douglas, I'm going to
tell you about God and the first animals."


"Oh, this one's about God?" I said. A lot of the stories were about
God. Often, God had a cool name like Vishnu, Zeus, Allah, or Ah
Kinchil. But that night it was just God.


She ignored me in the way she would when she knew I didn't need an
answer. She went on "The animals you see all around you today are not
the first animals. They are the second. I will tell you why."


She had my attention.


"God created the first animals gave them intelligence. Unlike the
animals of today, these had the ability to look at their own past to
learn from their mistakes. When they had learned from their past,
they could then better prepare themselves for whatever they might face
in their future." She turned those clear grey eyes on me as if she
expected me to speak. I looked up at her and remained silent. "This
was a great help to them at first. Sadly, there was an unforeseen
consequence. Unlike human beings, they were mere animals and had no
higher purpose. Whenever one of the animals contemplated too deeply
about their own purpose they would realize that they had none. With
the discovery of this knowledge, their hearts would break and they
died of utter despair." She looked down at me. "Imagine how it feels
to find out that, however hard you may try and whatever great deeds
you may accomplish, all amounts to nothing in the end. Not a single
thing.


As time went on, every kind of animal would ask realize this of
themselves. They all met the same fate. Except one.


One animal survived by never looking too far into the past or the
future. One animal avoided stumbling upon the one truth that could
completely destroy it. The animal accomplished this by creating
distraction upon distraction. So clever was this animal that it
invented distractions to distract itself from all the distractions,
lest the truth become too obvious." Grandmother paused to see if I
was confused. I didn't think I was.


"One favorite distraction was to try to look and act like human
beings. They were so very clever, in fact, that they became better at
apearing human the humans themselves." Her voice had been dropping
lower and lower as she said this. She leaned down towards me and
continued. Her voice was little over a whisper. "To this day, the
greater part of the people you see everyday are not God's Chosen.
They are the animals, pretending to be human in order to protect
themselves from the terrible knowledge; still preventing themselves
from questioning too deeply about their own natures."


Grandmother always told me that every story she told me was true. If
I told her I thought it was false she would tell me that I was looking
in the wrong place. Other than in her stories, Grandmother had never
lied to me. Not once. This was not lost on a boy who had been told
contradictory information from almost every other adult he met.
Grandmother was also unique because she would always tell me when she
didn't have an answer. At that moment in the story, I had a very
urgent question.


"Grandmother, how do I know you're not one of those animals pretending
to be human?"


Her eyes flashed again but her voice remained a whisper. "Foolish
child! The question you should be most concerned with is how do you
know that you are not one of these animals?" I stared up at her with
wide eyes. Through the large window behind her snow began to fall.
She held my gaze with her grey eyes that seemed sharp enough to cut
you open and see everything hiding inside you. I'll never forget her
eyes. My own eyes were large and brown and seemed to carry none of her
strength. My lower lip began to quiver and I felt my eyes stinging.


Grandmother smiled. She seemed very tired. "Go, young one. Go find
out. Keep your eyes open and try to see what you really are. Then,
if you die, you will know for certain. But if you live, then you will
understand what a life can truly be." She hugged me and I went
silently to bed.


Grandmother died the next morning just as the sun was coming up. In
my grief I buried all that I knew of her. The years passed and I was
no longer able to see my grandmother in the same delicate features
that my mother and I carry on in our own faces.


Until this morning, I had almost entirely forgotten Grandmother, her
last story, and the childish fear I had felt upon hearing her telling.
I was trying to shave by the dim light of a bare bulb. The mirror
itself hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I was halfway done and had
managed to cut myself only twice when I saw them. My grandmother's
steel grey eyes were staring fiercely at me through the grime on the
silvered glass. I yelped as I nicked myself again and threw the razor
into the sink. I grabbed a towel, scrubbed furiously and looked
again. I was wrong. Those were not my Grandmother's eyes in the
mirror. They were my eyes. Sometime between last call at the bar, my
stumble back to my apartment, and getting up for work this morning, my
brown eyes had become a stormy grey.


Now I'm late for work, Grandmother's final story is echoing in my
head, and I'm as afraid as I was the night before she died.


I finished shaving, got dressed, and jumped into my car. As I turned
the corner out of the narrow-laned parking garage, I ran the stop sign
and was nearly broadsided by a garbage truck. "Easy, Doug," I told
myself over the pounding of my heart, "Pay attention to what you're
doing or you're going to get yourself killed."

Jared is still in Southeast Asia working dilligently towards a better future for the devastated region. I suggest that everyone show some love. Or, as a Buddhist might say(as I learned from his post), transfer some merit.