Lucy sat in her tree, just as the sun was going down in Devil's Lake, North Dakota. She laid there on her stomach where the trunk split off into another wide extending branch and looked down at the hair atop her brothers head. It swirled around and around to a still point at its center.
In a similar way, Devil's Lake was the still point of a mighty continent that spun around its quiet axis.
"Its gonna get cold Lucy, come down." Bill said. He stood up, his little rifle with him.
"Just a little more?" She looked out over the prairie. The hill rolled down and the road trimmed its side vertical toward the horizon, across its boundry a little waste land of swampy grass.
"You're not gonna get sick on my watch, Lucy. Besides, there's a storm coming."
"I can't hear it," she said. Out in that field, the cyclone twisted in on itself so quiet and still. At its edge, very close, a ring of dust danced in circles in the sun, so close and so obvious, you could never imagine such a thing to ever be dangerous. Lucy slid down, never looking away, the orange sun in her eyes.
They said nothing more. Bill took her hand and they walked quickly to the cellar, opening the grey wooden doors and latching them behind them. Their white house in the descending sun, as the wind whistled slow and calm in the prairie afternoon. Behind, the dark night peeking over the roof.
Our camera lies low in the grass and presses weight against the thin stalks. It moves through, across the open road to the marshy side, stepping in the water past where the barbed wire fence once was before the flood. In the grass is a man on his stomach with not much of a head left. It melts into the dirt, overwealmed in sight by his large body.
No matter where you go, there are places where your thoughts stay and build little homes. And in little suburbs dark in the night, celebrating before the 4th of July, people are drunk and laughing but not here. This is a place far from any ocean. You drive outward on the spiral road from the city but it leads only inward, more lost than ever on its galactic edge. There is a town here, but even in the diner the sun leaves its letters on the tablecloth stealing our attention again.
The young man sitting at the bar reads the newspaper. The buffalo are coming back only to be dying of some disease. Behind the bar, the white light exposes a refridgerator door. He's waiting for the signs of someone behind the counter to notice his presence. We'll leave him here. We know what happens next.
Tucson's the weird capital of the world... WEIRD.
The Enigmatic Jodie Foster
When James Lipton asked me what my favorite sound was, I replied simply: Jodie Foster's voice. The way she pronounces her R's. Let me take this time here to elaborate. Before I explain anything to an actor about how I want a character to be played, I show them the scene of Jodie Foster standing on a staircase in "The Hotel New Hampshire". She's the archetype of mysterious cool. Jodie is so natural the world curls around her in awkward silence. Maybe it was seeing her in "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore", and connecting it in a strange way to the place where I was born but had not seen or remembered. Was Jodie there? The attraction to Jodie is not like the attraction other more common Hollywood actresses. She is too authentic and ambiguous to be moronically labeled as "hot" for hot's sake, like Michelle Pfeiffer or someone like that. She's a tom boy. I don't care for how the media portrays her. They are always trying to make her some other actress, trying to cover her freckles in gloss. Part of me wonders if she even realizes. She seems the kind of girl that somehow is, but could not possibly be as mysterious as she appears. Who could really live up to that, in all fairness? Somehow, Jodie is all these things.
One always feels a profound sense of deviance in one's attraction to Jodie Foster. What does that say about me? For every creepy male in the 70's and 80's, of which there was an unlimited supply, that fell in love with Jodie Foster, the "nymphet"... you feel like maybe you have joined them. Why must that be so? Cannot one's fascination with Jodie be pure of heart? Or has a part of me become John Hinckley? Jodie, it isnt true! I'm not sure I feel this, but one could also have the wanting to save Jodie Foster, but that she is too strong to be saved. Or you could be honestly attracted to her but she would reject you out of modesty. Does being in love with Jodie Foster make me a homosexual? How twisted it all becomes! There is something non-threatening about her, she could easily be a lesbian icon if it were the case. Let her be herself! The media is so unfair. Don't you see she is challenging the shallowness of our sexuality? There is so much more to Jodie than her body. So much that is hidden and apparent that makes her an alien anomaly to our ridiculous world. If she is guarded about her sexuality, how do you think you would develop going through puberty as a rising star constantly being poked and prodded by journalists and psychopaths? It's a completely sensible response to keep those things out of the voyeur's eye. And I apologize for my own transgressions. But this is all in praise and defense of someone I consider a genius, and someone emblematic of something I find truly exciting and interesting in the holy pantheon of cinema. She is the nexus of so many contradictions, none of them out-rightly absurd, but a special case to this one actress.
It is unfortunate that one cannot make movies yet where you can take a single actress at specific periods of their lives and project them acting together. One of these days I'm going to direct a movie where everyone will be played by Jodie Foster. With the exception of a 50 ft. tall Claire Danes, perhaps. I know they tried that with Jon Malkovich once, but he is not as interesting as Jodie Foster. He made a remark once about Robert Fisk I didn't care for. But I understand that Ms. Foster has children now and only does pictures she is deeply interested in for her own reasons. I am the same way, about my films I mean. I'm a little young to be thinking about kids. I'm sure she would think it was just too strange and more honestly, too insignificant. But I imagine that if you were to know Jodie Foster intimately, she might even be strange too. Strange in the amazing and monolithic ways very normal people are strange. In a way that most people might say was simple, but to me has always seemed so other-worldly complex and bizarre and beautiful.
It is a shame such an actress had to be wasted on Hollywood. Do you know she speaks French? Her voice has entirely different quality in French. Ms. Foster, if you ever read this and it, I hope, has carried no offense, I humbly request that you produce a new film with a French director. It is only another shame that the greats of the Nouvelle Vague are all in their late periods. If it were up to me, I wish I could only write a good-enough script in French and that I could produce this said film. To do so, I would consider to be one of the very greatest achievements of my life.
With much holy reverence,
Oskar Vortanz
Tucson, AZ U.S.A.
When James Lipton asked me what my favorite sound was, I replied simply: Jodie Foster's voice. The way she pronounces her R's. Let me take this time here to elaborate. Before I explain anything to an actor about how I want a character to be played, I show them the scene of Jodie Foster standing on a staircase in "The Hotel New Hampshire". She's the archetype of mysterious cool. Jodie is so natural the world curls around her in awkward silence. Maybe it was seeing her in "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore", and connecting it in a strange way to the place where I was born but had not seen or remembered. Was Jodie there? The attraction to Jodie is not like the attraction other more common Hollywood actresses. She is too authentic and ambiguous to be moronically labeled as "hot" for hot's sake, like Michelle Pfeiffer or someone like that. She's a tom boy. I don't care for how the media portrays her. They are always trying to make her some other actress, trying to cover her freckles in gloss. Part of me wonders if she even realizes. She seems the kind of girl that somehow is, but could not possibly be as mysterious as she appears. Who could really live up to that, in all fairness? Somehow, Jodie is all these things.
One always feels a profound sense of deviance in one's attraction to Jodie Foster. What does that say about me? For every creepy male in the 70's and 80's, of which there was an unlimited supply, that fell in love with Jodie Foster, the "nymphet"... you feel like maybe you have joined them. Why must that be so? Cannot one's fascination with Jodie be pure of heart? Or has a part of me become John Hinckley? Jodie, it isnt true! I'm not sure I feel this, but one could also have the wanting to save Jodie Foster, but that she is too strong to be saved. Or you could be honestly attracted to her but she would reject you out of modesty. Does being in love with Jodie Foster make me a homosexual? How twisted it all becomes! There is something non-threatening about her, she could easily be a lesbian icon if it were the case. Let her be herself! The media is so unfair. Don't you see she is challenging the shallowness of our sexuality? There is so much more to Jodie than her body. So much that is hidden and apparent that makes her an alien anomaly to our ridiculous world. If she is guarded about her sexuality, how do you think you would develop going through puberty as a rising star constantly being poked and prodded by journalists and psychopaths? It's a completely sensible response to keep those things out of the voyeur's eye. And I apologize for my own transgressions. But this is all in praise and defense of someone I consider a genius, and someone emblematic of something I find truly exciting and interesting in the holy pantheon of cinema. She is the nexus of so many contradictions, none of them out-rightly absurd, but a special case to this one actress.
It is unfortunate that one cannot make movies yet where you can take a single actress at specific periods of their lives and project them acting together. One of these days I'm going to direct a movie where everyone will be played by Jodie Foster. With the exception of a 50 ft. tall Claire Danes, perhaps. I know they tried that with Jon Malkovich once, but he is not as interesting as Jodie Foster. He made a remark once about Robert Fisk I didn't care for. But I understand that Ms. Foster has children now and only does pictures she is deeply interested in for her own reasons. I am the same way, about my films I mean. I'm a little young to be thinking about kids. I'm sure she would think it was just too strange and more honestly, too insignificant. But I imagine that if you were to know Jodie Foster intimately, she might even be strange too. Strange in the amazing and monolithic ways very normal people are strange. In a way that most people might say was simple, but to me has always seemed so other-worldly complex and bizarre and beautiful.
It is a shame such an actress had to be wasted on Hollywood. Do you know she speaks French? Her voice has entirely different quality in French. Ms. Foster, if you ever read this and it, I hope, has carried no offense, I humbly request that you produce a new film with a French director. It is only another shame that the greats of the Nouvelle Vague are all in their late periods. If it were up to me, I wish I could only write a good-enough script in French and that I could produce this said film. To do so, I would consider to be one of the very greatest achievements of my life.
With much holy reverence,
Oskar Vortanz
Tucson, AZ U.S.A.
No water in the lake
Gordie lay in bed and before he knew it he was walking through the forest with a wooden sword. He was walking a trail that let up a hill to where his aunt kept a camper. On the side of the trail was a little log fort not four feet tall. Inside his brother was speaking to Anna, the girl in woods. He was asking if she had rock, scissors, or paper. Gordie walked further and as he walked he could hear hands clapping a steady rhythm somewhere. The fire is out. No one sits in the chairs. No one is in the camper. He follows the clapping hands. Theres a clearing in the woods. Some one is remembering this but its not him. His brother and all his cousins stand in the clearing around a tree stump, covered in objects. They made a little church? They sang:
This is the day
This is the day
That the lord has made
That the lord has made
We shall rejoice
We shall rejoice
And be glad in it
And be glad in it
As they worshiped, Gordie saw that someone noticed him. He was looking right at him without blinking. Was Anna lying there on the tree stump? They finished singing and they must have left.
"I can't see the bottom of the lake Gordie. Can you help me?" she said. She was lying on the tree stump soaking wet.
Gordie looked as he held her hand at the edge of the valley. A snake slithered across down in the valley in the air above the lilly pads and dry dirt.
"Theres no water in that lake."
She was older and the trees behind her were fake, not real trees. The colors werent the same. Everything was flat, like glass against glass except for her. There was an intensity to her face as though she suddenly joined him there and she could not look away. The light that covered her and the things around her was more like the set of an old movie or the brightly lit stage of a television program. "There are several people you have to meet, they will be looking for you too. At the parking lot of an elementary school is the meeting place."
"Everyone is saying terrible things about you." He could have cried for her.
"Dont believe them," she said. "Everythings going to be quiet. But now you have to be open. You are an instrument, Gordon."
They stood holding hands in a one room cabin. There were so many children standing, gathered around something at the corner of the room. They broke away as He emerged from the center and began to sing. It was so sad and so beautiful and real, he could hear it even as he awoke.
This is the day
This is the day
That the lord has made
That the lord has made
We shall rejoice
We shall rejoice
And be glad in it
And be glad in it
As they worshiped, Gordie saw that someone noticed him. He was looking right at him without blinking. Was Anna lying there on the tree stump? They finished singing and they must have left.
"I can't see the bottom of the lake Gordie. Can you help me?" she said. She was lying on the tree stump soaking wet.
Gordie looked as he held her hand at the edge of the valley. A snake slithered across down in the valley in the air above the lilly pads and dry dirt.
"Theres no water in that lake."
She was older and the trees behind her were fake, not real trees. The colors werent the same. Everything was flat, like glass against glass except for her. There was an intensity to her face as though she suddenly joined him there and she could not look away. The light that covered her and the things around her was more like the set of an old movie or the brightly lit stage of a television program. "There are several people you have to meet, they will be looking for you too. At the parking lot of an elementary school is the meeting place."
"Everyone is saying terrible things about you." He could have cried for her.
"Dont believe them," she said. "Everythings going to be quiet. But now you have to be open. You are an instrument, Gordon."
They stood holding hands in a one room cabin. There were so many children standing, gathered around something at the corner of the room. They broke away as He emerged from the center and began to sing. It was so sad and so beautiful and real, he could hear it even as he awoke.
The Man Himself
Anthony Cox, on himself.
I wake up in the morning, and after taking a piss the first thing I do is sit down at the computer. It seems strange. I cant imagine that early humans woke up and then automatically proceeded to sit down. They probably took a walk or ran away from panthers or something. To imagine my life you would have to see the ancient forest as a giant catalog of information. I wake up. I take a walk. The TRANS-VERN woods of the Funk and Wagnalls dimension. I dont know if that is the best analogy. Maybe an encyclopedia is like a continent and book is a state in a country. Ideas are little towns or maybe even big cities. I understand this is probably wasting your time. Im sorry. Ive been asked to talk about myself and its about the only thing Im good at so here it goes.
I grew up in the south suburbs of Chicago, up in the valley area. Thousands of years ago, thats where the glaciers stopped and deposited all the dirt and things they picked up through Canada and whatnot. This is the route I take on my bike to the train station. Im a student at Madison. I study Political Science. The elevated trains follow straight up from here. Yes, its scary. I happen to be kind of afraid of the water. And thats all it is until the big concrete toll ports where the Wisconsin border used to be. Why am I afraid of the water? Im not afraid of the water, per se. Id die of thirst if I was really afraid of the water itself. Its the depth of it. Theres two thin little rails and little car that rides on top and OCEAN on either side. I think it might be the idea that something might be down there. I think the first dream I ever had was being in the ocean. Just floating there with nothing all around and then theres this shadow in the water of maybe a whale or just something big. I remember it was terrifying. I only had bad dreams growing up. I dreamt about the tidal waves too, I did! It was really weird. A year before it happened. You dont forget that. Oscar, whos going to play me in this movie anyway? Do I get to play you? Perfect, man, thats gonna be hilarious.
Madison is a pretty cool town. The Berkeley of the Midwest. The Venice of the Midwest. Its just Madison, you know? It kind of smells but theres nowhere else quite like it. Town is really nice. Theres the stone boardwalk streets just at the waters edge. Around the university are a lot of cool places to hang out. Everything is double-decked. The theatre is awesome. Plays all the best movies. So its no small town, its a real city now. I room with Teddy, he goes to Madison too. Hes probably one of the most radical thinking people I know, but most of the time him and Mark just talk about zombies, and what theyre gonna do if the zombies come. Yeah, I know. Anyways, our neighborhood is kind of like a giant fire escape. Youre always teetering on metal staircase 50 ft. over some little canal. Its cheaper here. The trains go by right on the other side of the wall. Its noisy, but you get used to it.
Im not afraid of the government. I think buying into the paranoia is what gives them power. Its a much more important to realize that they arent all powerful and that things can change. Things are changing. You can see Madison on a map and say, hey, thats in the United States. But if you come here, its different. People know where the line is, at least the kids do. We can push that line straight to the waters edge. They cross their own risk. And thats how it is. I have an uncle that works for a private contractor with the military and his son is part of one of the best organized affinity groups Ive ever seen. Clueless. Think about that. So Im not afraid of the government. I am afraid of the water, but not the government, no.
I wake up in the morning, and after taking a piss the first thing I do is sit down at the computer. It seems strange. I cant imagine that early humans woke up and then automatically proceeded to sit down. They probably took a walk or ran away from panthers or something. To imagine my life you would have to see the ancient forest as a giant catalog of information. I wake up. I take a walk. The TRANS-VERN woods of the Funk and Wagnalls dimension. I dont know if that is the best analogy. Maybe an encyclopedia is like a continent and book is a state in a country. Ideas are little towns or maybe even big cities. I understand this is probably wasting your time. Im sorry. Ive been asked to talk about myself and its about the only thing Im good at so here it goes.
I grew up in the south suburbs of Chicago, up in the valley area. Thousands of years ago, thats where the glaciers stopped and deposited all the dirt and things they picked up through Canada and whatnot. This is the route I take on my bike to the train station. Im a student at Madison. I study Political Science. The elevated trains follow straight up from here. Yes, its scary. I happen to be kind of afraid of the water. And thats all it is until the big concrete toll ports where the Wisconsin border used to be. Why am I afraid of the water? Im not afraid of the water, per se. Id die of thirst if I was really afraid of the water itself. Its the depth of it. Theres two thin little rails and little car that rides on top and OCEAN on either side. I think it might be the idea that something might be down there. I think the first dream I ever had was being in the ocean. Just floating there with nothing all around and then theres this shadow in the water of maybe a whale or just something big. I remember it was terrifying. I only had bad dreams growing up. I dreamt about the tidal waves too, I did! It was really weird. A year before it happened. You dont forget that. Oscar, whos going to play me in this movie anyway? Do I get to play you? Perfect, man, thats gonna be hilarious.
Madison is a pretty cool town. The Berkeley of the Midwest. The Venice of the Midwest. Its just Madison, you know? It kind of smells but theres nowhere else quite like it. Town is really nice. Theres the stone boardwalk streets just at the waters edge. Around the university are a lot of cool places to hang out. Everything is double-decked. The theatre is awesome. Plays all the best movies. So its no small town, its a real city now. I room with Teddy, he goes to Madison too. Hes probably one of the most radical thinking people I know, but most of the time him and Mark just talk about zombies, and what theyre gonna do if the zombies come. Yeah, I know. Anyways, our neighborhood is kind of like a giant fire escape. Youre always teetering on metal staircase 50 ft. over some little canal. Its cheaper here. The trains go by right on the other side of the wall. Its noisy, but you get used to it.
Im not afraid of the government. I think buying into the paranoia is what gives them power. Its a much more important to realize that they arent all powerful and that things can change. Things are changing. You can see Madison on a map and say, hey, thats in the United States. But if you come here, its different. People know where the line is, at least the kids do. We can push that line straight to the waters edge. They cross their own risk. And thats how it is. I have an uncle that works for a private contractor with the military and his son is part of one of the best organized affinity groups Ive ever seen. Clueless. Think about that. So Im not afraid of the government. I am afraid of the water, but not the government, no.
Strings, or The Smell of Chlorine
Old music comes loudly from a radio in the garage as Denny stands in the pool. Its a hot summer day, the smell of chlorine is heavy in the air. Calvin and his sister Anna are in their floaties splashing around. Jenna sits in a deck chair with her sunglasses smoking a cigarette as her boyfriend Mark runs far from the other side and does a cannonball into the children. Calvin wastes very little time before repeatedly slamming down upon his older brother's back with his fists and when he comes back up for air he dunks Calvin underwater, struggling against the buoyancy of his wrap-around blow-up water-monster.
"Hey baby, get out of the water. I want to show you my new bathing suit."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
They walk down the cement steps to the musty smell of the basement. There is a large picture of Kenny Loggins on the wall and large pieces of petrified driftwood and electrical company paraphernalia. They slip into the bathroom with their wet feet and close the door. Mark sits on the can and Jenna removes the top of her bikini.
In the pool, Calvin kicks around in his flippers and Anna sits on side of the pool. Denny is looking back at the house, blowing bubbles out his nose just above the water.
Mark and Jennas bodies meet against wall. She tries to pull down his wet shorts.
Denny swims low under the water like a shark. He lifts himself out of the pool and walks toward the house over the splintered wood and hot pavement. Music plays. Theres a yellow scooter under the porch. He walks up the tall porch stairs to the kitchen where he passes quietly and stealthily through the house to the basement. Edging near the bathroom by the submerged entrance he creeps slowly and lowers himself down by the door, sitting next to it listening very closely. He can their quick short breaths on the other side.
Meanwhile, Anna sits on the pool side kicking her feet in the water. Calvin comes up spraying water from his snorkel.
"I think I'm hungry. I don't want to swim any more," Anna whines.
"I can't do anything about it, Anna. Have Denny make you a sandwich."
"Everybody went inside."
Calvin goes underwater for a second and comes back up, "Its gonna get all cold." He looks at her and pulls himself up the ladder. "Anna, stay away from the pool. I'm gonna go get Denny. Just stay by the picnic table until I get back, OK?"
He walked into the house and went to the refrigerator where he grabbed a jar of pickles and fished one out with his fingers. He took a snap and spun the top back on and put the jar in the fridge. Calvin noticed only the sounds of the radio playing outside. He followed the wet foot prints to the carpeted basement stairwell that twisted down.
In the basement there was a wooden wall behind the pool table. Sometimes in the wall there was a door, and that door frightened Calvin more than anything he could think of alone in that basement. Only because sometimes it wasn't there. As he walked on the cement floor he tried quick and hard to find it with his eyes but couldnt place it. Just then he ran smack dab right into Denny.
Denny wrapped his hand tight around Calvins mouth and he tried not to scream out as Denny dragged him to the pantry door. "Ill show you what happens when you come in the house," Denny said.
Elsewhere in time, in the dense sprawling suburbs of Chicago, a truck screeches to a halt and Subcomandante Teddy runs to its side hopping into the trailer with his automatic rifle. "Lets do this shit!" I yell from the passenger side. By I, I mean myself, of course, Anthony Cox. Oscar hits the gas and Heather blasts the sound as we skid out to the beat of "Teen Age Riot". The streets unwinded to far edges civilization to the hills I had known over many summers long ago, a land a few us now knew as the Northern Wisconsin Front.
"Hey baby, get out of the water. I want to show you my new bathing suit."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
They walk down the cement steps to the musty smell of the basement. There is a large picture of Kenny Loggins on the wall and large pieces of petrified driftwood and electrical company paraphernalia. They slip into the bathroom with their wet feet and close the door. Mark sits on the can and Jenna removes the top of her bikini.
In the pool, Calvin kicks around in his flippers and Anna sits on side of the pool. Denny is looking back at the house, blowing bubbles out his nose just above the water.
Mark and Jennas bodies meet against wall. She tries to pull down his wet shorts.
Denny swims low under the water like a shark. He lifts himself out of the pool and walks toward the house over the splintered wood and hot pavement. Music plays. Theres a yellow scooter under the porch. He walks up the tall porch stairs to the kitchen where he passes quietly and stealthily through the house to the basement. Edging near the bathroom by the submerged entrance he creeps slowly and lowers himself down by the door, sitting next to it listening very closely. He can their quick short breaths on the other side.
Meanwhile, Anna sits on the pool side kicking her feet in the water. Calvin comes up spraying water from his snorkel.
"I think I'm hungry. I don't want to swim any more," Anna whines.
"I can't do anything about it, Anna. Have Denny make you a sandwich."
"Everybody went inside."
Calvin goes underwater for a second and comes back up, "Its gonna get all cold." He looks at her and pulls himself up the ladder. "Anna, stay away from the pool. I'm gonna go get Denny. Just stay by the picnic table until I get back, OK?"
He walked into the house and went to the refrigerator where he grabbed a jar of pickles and fished one out with his fingers. He took a snap and spun the top back on and put the jar in the fridge. Calvin noticed only the sounds of the radio playing outside. He followed the wet foot prints to the carpeted basement stairwell that twisted down.
In the basement there was a wooden wall behind the pool table. Sometimes in the wall there was a door, and that door frightened Calvin more than anything he could think of alone in that basement. Only because sometimes it wasn't there. As he walked on the cement floor he tried quick and hard to find it with his eyes but couldnt place it. Just then he ran smack dab right into Denny.
Denny wrapped his hand tight around Calvins mouth and he tried not to scream out as Denny dragged him to the pantry door. "Ill show you what happens when you come in the house," Denny said.
Elsewhere in time, in the dense sprawling suburbs of Chicago, a truck screeches to a halt and Subcomandante Teddy runs to its side hopping into the trailer with his automatic rifle. "Lets do this shit!" I yell from the passenger side. By I, I mean myself, of course, Anthony Cox. Oscar hits the gas and Heather blasts the sound as we skid out to the beat of "Teen Age Riot". The streets unwinded to far edges civilization to the hills I had known over many summers long ago, a land a few us now knew as the Northern Wisconsin Front.
Rochambeau's Assistant
Rochambeau held in his hand a pair of five red dice. He looked at them hard and thought for a moment how silly it was that human beings had not figured out a way to predict with any certainty the roll of the die. Or, a person could remember the future the way we remember the past and simply see the result. For a moment, it seemed so easy. A clear envelope of vacant space in Rochambeaus mind opened up and as nature so often abhors a vacuum, the electronic laughter of wonder crept into that little spot. Maybe Im asking a little too much out of some dice, Rochambeau thought. Besides, what he really wanted to know really depended on two distinct probabilities. One, that he could predict the roll of the dice, and two, that the rolling of dice had really any correlation at all to the prediction of personal human events. He shook his head as his senses came to him again, and the heavy fog of reason drew down on a single direction in time.
5, 1, 8, 6, 3
"So, your brother been telling you ghost stories again?"
A tall Polish woman with dark hair opened the door to find an older man in glasses and a long white mustache, normal and dorky looking save the cowboy hat placed on his head. To his side was a boy, maybe twenty, with a backpack slung over his shoulder eyeing a metal spoon tucked into his hand. Behind them was Calvin, a client.
"You guys the ghost hunters?"
"I guess you could say that. Im Dr. Rochambeau, this is J., my assistant."
"Come in, Ill make some coffee."
As the woman talked to Rochambeau, J. finished stirring his coffee and then took the spoon out and stared at in until he was sure he had Calvin's attention. The boy rubs his thumb over the handle of the spoon for half a minute, as it then slowly turns and bends itself at the neck. Ms. Goniadza's speech trailed off as she became distracted by this anomaly.
"Thats a hell of a trick."
"Anybody body can do it."
J. extended his hand and held out the bent spoon to Ms. Goniadza like a twisted metal flower. As he did so he cast a glance over at the professor, who just rolled his eyes.
"Is this her room?"
"Yes." Calvin cowered outside the door, refusing to come in. His mother stares into a corner at the ceiling, with wonder. "It started there."
The edges of the walls were completely baked. The wall paper was crisp and peeling off.
J. however is looking down at the floor, something completely different has captured his attention.
"Are these her shoes?"
"Yes, why?"
"Theyre beautiful."
Two violet shoes, for small feet. A velvet textured floral pattern.
"Wow. You know I used to have a toy exactly like this."
"Your mother made you play with your shoes?"
"No, no. It was Battlecat, that's what it was. You know I'd swear I had never seen this color violet my whole life, least since then. Its like a door has been opened that was closed." He smiled, confused, shaking his head. "Ms. Goniadza may I have these shoes?"
"J, really" Rochambeau looked at her apologetically.
"If it would help with the case, I guess you could."
J. crouched down and set the shoes back on the floor where he found them. "No ma'am. On second thought, it might be best not to disturb the things we admire."
Ms. Goniadza thanked them as they left and they stood on the porch silent for a second before proceeding down.
"You put on a hell show in there."
"Im sorry, Doc. I just never heard a story like that before."
"I dont know J. You know as well as I do weve never had the real thing yet."
"I dont think she was lying."
"She can believe it all she wants. It doesnt make it true. If what shes saying is really happening, its a first. And not just a first for us. Its a first for everybody, the whole world."
"You think she bought the spoon-job?"
"I dont know I think shes exhausted. This might be tough."
"If I may say so, Sir, youre the perfect man for the job."
"Thanks J. I needed that."
And at that they took off into the sunset, past the empty streets, through the avenues of wild grass and electrical towers, like an old Midwestern movie.
5, 1, 8, 6, 3
"So, your brother been telling you ghost stories again?"
A tall Polish woman with dark hair opened the door to find an older man in glasses and a long white mustache, normal and dorky looking save the cowboy hat placed on his head. To his side was a boy, maybe twenty, with a backpack slung over his shoulder eyeing a metal spoon tucked into his hand. Behind them was Calvin, a client.
"You guys the ghost hunters?"
"I guess you could say that. Im Dr. Rochambeau, this is J., my assistant."
"Come in, Ill make some coffee."
As the woman talked to Rochambeau, J. finished stirring his coffee and then took the spoon out and stared at in until he was sure he had Calvin's attention. The boy rubs his thumb over the handle of the spoon for half a minute, as it then slowly turns and bends itself at the neck. Ms. Goniadza's speech trailed off as she became distracted by this anomaly.
"Thats a hell of a trick."
"Anybody body can do it."
J. extended his hand and held out the bent spoon to Ms. Goniadza like a twisted metal flower. As he did so he cast a glance over at the professor, who just rolled his eyes.
"Is this her room?"
"Yes." Calvin cowered outside the door, refusing to come in. His mother stares into a corner at the ceiling, with wonder. "It started there."
The edges of the walls were completely baked. The wall paper was crisp and peeling off.
J. however is looking down at the floor, something completely different has captured his attention.
"Are these her shoes?"
"Yes, why?"
"Theyre beautiful."
Two violet shoes, for small feet. A velvet textured floral pattern.
"Wow. You know I used to have a toy exactly like this."
"Your mother made you play with your shoes?"
"No, no. It was Battlecat, that's what it was. You know I'd swear I had never seen this color violet my whole life, least since then. Its like a door has been opened that was closed." He smiled, confused, shaking his head. "Ms. Goniadza may I have these shoes?"
"J, really" Rochambeau looked at her apologetically.
"If it would help with the case, I guess you could."
J. crouched down and set the shoes back on the floor where he found them. "No ma'am. On second thought, it might be best not to disturb the things we admire."
Ms. Goniadza thanked them as they left and they stood on the porch silent for a second before proceeding down.
"You put on a hell show in there."
"Im sorry, Doc. I just never heard a story like that before."
"I dont know J. You know as well as I do weve never had the real thing yet."
"I dont think she was lying."
"She can believe it all she wants. It doesnt make it true. If what shes saying is really happening, its a first. And not just a first for us. Its a first for everybody, the whole world."
"You think she bought the spoon-job?"
"I dont know I think shes exhausted. This might be tough."
"If I may say so, Sir, youre the perfect man for the job."
"Thanks J. I needed that."
And at that they took off into the sunset, past the empty streets, through the avenues of wild grass and electrical towers, like an old Midwestern movie.
A Note on Episode 2
The Director sits in an office where there is low light and a record spins quietly on the run-out track. He looks at an old picture, square with a white border, of a couple neither young or old, and he seems a little sad as he does. He is not the man in the picture, however that man may be familiar to us.
There are several ways to make a picture live, he says. It helps to have a lot of them. The more the better. You can take two pictures of the same thing, only moving the camera the distance of one eye to the other. You can look at these pictures and cross your eyes, bringing them together. It does not matter how old the pictures are, you will see them exactly as they where. You can pass light them. It helps. There is a difference between an image that is reflected light from an image that is direct light, pouring light. Do you see what I mean? If you take several pictures and pass them in front of the eye faster than the mind can see, you can make them live. Anything faster than the mind is alive to the mind. The faster, the more alive. (This is called a frame rate.) A small flash, too quick to see, if repeated on a short enough loop, will become perceivable to the mind as something distant, something there but not there. A ghost, perhaps. You cannot be seeing what you are seeing. The eye is not camera. The eye does not record anything. It participates. And you cant participate with the dead, can you? We are getting closer.
At that, the Director swivels in his chair to the phonographic noise looping behind him. It stops for a moment as his finger touches the record and music slowly fades in as he drags it backward.
Its his voice!
"I hope you all enjoy this very special episode. Blessed is the Autarch."
There are several ways to make a picture live, he says. It helps to have a lot of them. The more the better. You can take two pictures of the same thing, only moving the camera the distance of one eye to the other. You can look at these pictures and cross your eyes, bringing them together. It does not matter how old the pictures are, you will see them exactly as they where. You can pass light them. It helps. There is a difference between an image that is reflected light from an image that is direct light, pouring light. Do you see what I mean? If you take several pictures and pass them in front of the eye faster than the mind can see, you can make them live. Anything faster than the mind is alive to the mind. The faster, the more alive. (This is called a frame rate.) A small flash, too quick to see, if repeated on a short enough loop, will become perceivable to the mind as something distant, something there but not there. A ghost, perhaps. You cannot be seeing what you are seeing. The eye is not camera. The eye does not record anything. It participates. And you cant participate with the dead, can you? We are getting closer.
At that, the Director swivels in his chair to the phonographic noise looping behind him. It stops for a moment as his finger touches the record and music slowly fades in as he drags it backward.
Its his voice!
"I hope you all enjoy this very special episode. Blessed is the Autarch."
An early short work by Oscar Vortanz
EXT. BACK DOOR. DAY
BEN knocks on a back door three times, and waits about eight
seconds then knocks again five times.
Beat.
KEITH answers the door about shoulder width, not meeting the
eyes of Ben.
BEN
Hey.
Keith looks down.
KEITH
Hey man.
Beat.
KEITH
Yeah. Come on in.
INT. BACK DOOR. DAY
Keith opens the door and Ben walks in.
BEN
Happy International Labor Day.
KEITH
Sure, sure.
BEN
I woke up too late to go to the
demonstration downtown. Every year
I tell myself I'm gonna go, and the
one May Day I don't have a job, I
sleep in instead.
KEITH
Well... figures.
BEN
Yeah, guys get hanged fighting for
the eight hour day and a hundred
years later, in the same city,
everybody's either working or
sleeping in. You know every other
country in the world celebrates
Labor Day on May 1st?
KEITH
Yeah, you tell me the same story
every year, Ben. Its like
clockwork.
Ben puts his hands in his pockets and stretches back,
bouncing on the balls of his feet.
KEITH
Don't worry about it Ben. I look
forward to our little chats.
Keith and Ben walk off through the laundry room to the
kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN. DAY
Keith and Ben enter the kitchen. Keith picks up a paper
carton of fried rice off the table and takes a few bites.
Ben stands near the fridge and eyes Keith's food.
BEN
You see Rochambeau last night?
They had Oscar Vortanz directing an
episode.
KEITH
No I missed it.
BEN
(sitting down)
Yeah, there was a giant railway
accident. Then it segwayed into
some documentary on the history of
Antarctic exploration. Theories on
continental counterbalance and
intuitive cartography. Terra
Australis Incognita.
Beat.
It didn't make any sense at all.
It was awesome.
KEITH
Yeah, that's really weird.
Beat.
Here, I got Liz on the phone over
there in the other room.
Keith sets the food on the table and walks in the living
room.
Ben folds his hands with his forearms meeting in front of him
at the elbows, and leans in, adjusting his posture nervously.
He stares blankly at the food on the other end of the table.
KEITH (O.C.)
Hey. Sorry Babe.
The paper carton sits.
KEITH (O.C.)
Yeah, he just stepped in.
Ben turns his face a little, looking into a neutral
direction. He leans into his arms, obviously not hungry.
KEITH
Ben, Liz wants to talk to you.
Keith stands in the doorway facing the lamp stand on the left
and bends his arm back to hand off the phone.
Ben gets up and walks though the door frame, taking the phone
while Keith walks into the kitchen.
INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY
BEN
Hey Liz, so whats new?
INT. BED ROOM. DAY
LIZ sits on a bed, sun streaming in through a window. She
sits with a box of tissues, with several used laying all
around her. Her face is wet with tears, her mascara running.
LIZ
We have to tell him now. We have to
tell him the truth.
BEN
(Un-phased)
No, I don't know about that.
LIZ
We have to be honest. Your his
friend. Its what we have to do.
Keith sits in a chair at the kitchen table, scooping out a
little bit of rice with his fork and putting it in his mouth.
BEN
No, I'm not sure any of that really
matters.
There is a wide shot of the living room where Ben is standing
from the far end of the room, near the hallway to the bed
room. His arms are crossed, one hand supporting the other at
the elbow which is holding the phone just away from his ear
as he looks just into the camera, as if it were a frightening
object sudden sharing the room with him. It slowly, then
quickly, gathers momentum as it dollies into a close up of
his face look off out above the camera.
BEN
I'll talk to you later Liz.
Goodbye.
Ben hangs up the phone.
INT. KITCHEN. DAY
Ben enters the kitchen, walks to sit at the table near the
fridge.
KEITH
(carefully eating)
So what did Liz want?
Ben looks confident and a little amused. He rolls his chair
back a little with one leg crossed over the other, taps his
finger on the table.
BEN
She wanted me to tell you that I
was fucking her. Basically.
Keith cracks up laughing, Ben joins in. Keith's laughter
comes down slowly, as he thinks.
Ben watches Keith.
Keith blows some air from his nose and looks abstractly
forward.
CUT TO:
INT. CAR. DAY
The loud sound of a broken car horn fills the air. Ben lifts his face from the steering wheel, blood along his hairline. He instinctive finds the button on the seat belt and pulls it off of him. Ben opens the door and bolts from the car.
As Ben runs across the screen, two characters stand in a driveway discussing. One is a young boy in thick glasses, the other is a large red puppet, or possibly a man in a suit.
MHARMAR: (low mharmar language.)
THE DIRECTOR: Its not that I necessarily disagree with you, nor am I calling you stupid, Mharmar. I just think youre better than that. Its a matter of taste.
MHARMAR: (mharmar-mar-mar-mh-mar)
THE DIRECTOR: Listen, I just dont think Dali is very good. Oh, hello there.
The spokes of two bicycle wheels come into frame. The boy on the bike looks at them suspiciously. He then takes off down the street as fast as he can.
The boy rides through the chirping suburban streets around a wide turn coming up to a house with an open garage. He drops his bike off in the driveway and we follow him to the open garage where an older gentleman in a cowboy hat sits in a lawn chair with his feet up on the table. A younger boy sits on the table, lifting the earpiece of a pair of headphones to see what is happening. A large map of the United States hangs behind him.
The boy drops a quarter into an empty gasoline tank.
"Rochambeau, I think we might have a case."
BEN knocks on a back door three times, and waits about eight
seconds then knocks again five times.
Beat.
KEITH answers the door about shoulder width, not meeting the
eyes of Ben.
BEN
Hey.
Keith looks down.
KEITH
Hey man.
Beat.
KEITH
Yeah. Come on in.
INT. BACK DOOR. DAY
Keith opens the door and Ben walks in.
BEN
Happy International Labor Day.
KEITH
Sure, sure.
BEN
I woke up too late to go to the
demonstration downtown. Every year
I tell myself I'm gonna go, and the
one May Day I don't have a job, I
sleep in instead.
KEITH
Well... figures.
BEN
Yeah, guys get hanged fighting for
the eight hour day and a hundred
years later, in the same city,
everybody's either working or
sleeping in. You know every other
country in the world celebrates
Labor Day on May 1st?
KEITH
Yeah, you tell me the same story
every year, Ben. Its like
clockwork.
Ben puts his hands in his pockets and stretches back,
bouncing on the balls of his feet.
KEITH
Don't worry about it Ben. I look
forward to our little chats.
Keith and Ben walk off through the laundry room to the
kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN. DAY
Keith and Ben enter the kitchen. Keith picks up a paper
carton of fried rice off the table and takes a few bites.
Ben stands near the fridge and eyes Keith's food.
BEN
You see Rochambeau last night?
They had Oscar Vortanz directing an
episode.
KEITH
No I missed it.
BEN
(sitting down)
Yeah, there was a giant railway
accident. Then it segwayed into
some documentary on the history of
Antarctic exploration. Theories on
continental counterbalance and
intuitive cartography. Terra
Australis Incognita.
Beat.
It didn't make any sense at all.
It was awesome.
KEITH
Yeah, that's really weird.
Beat.
Here, I got Liz on the phone over
there in the other room.
Keith sets the food on the table and walks in the living
room.
Ben folds his hands with his forearms meeting in front of him
at the elbows, and leans in, adjusting his posture nervously.
He stares blankly at the food on the other end of the table.
KEITH (O.C.)
Hey. Sorry Babe.
The paper carton sits.
KEITH (O.C.)
Yeah, he just stepped in.
Ben turns his face a little, looking into a neutral
direction. He leans into his arms, obviously not hungry.
KEITH
Ben, Liz wants to talk to you.
Keith stands in the doorway facing the lamp stand on the left
and bends his arm back to hand off the phone.
Ben gets up and walks though the door frame, taking the phone
while Keith walks into the kitchen.
INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY
BEN
Hey Liz, so whats new?
INT. BED ROOM. DAY
LIZ sits on a bed, sun streaming in through a window. She
sits with a box of tissues, with several used laying all
around her. Her face is wet with tears, her mascara running.
LIZ
We have to tell him now. We have to
tell him the truth.
BEN
(Un-phased)
No, I don't know about that.
LIZ
We have to be honest. Your his
friend. Its what we have to do.
Keith sits in a chair at the kitchen table, scooping out a
little bit of rice with his fork and putting it in his mouth.
BEN
No, I'm not sure any of that really
matters.
There is a wide shot of the living room where Ben is standing
from the far end of the room, near the hallway to the bed
room. His arms are crossed, one hand supporting the other at
the elbow which is holding the phone just away from his ear
as he looks just into the camera, as if it were a frightening
object sudden sharing the room with him. It slowly, then
quickly, gathers momentum as it dollies into a close up of
his face look off out above the camera.
BEN
I'll talk to you later Liz.
Goodbye.
Ben hangs up the phone.
INT. KITCHEN. DAY
Ben enters the kitchen, walks to sit at the table near the
fridge.
KEITH
(carefully eating)
So what did Liz want?
Ben looks confident and a little amused. He rolls his chair
back a little with one leg crossed over the other, taps his
finger on the table.
BEN
She wanted me to tell you that I
was fucking her. Basically.
Keith cracks up laughing, Ben joins in. Keith's laughter
comes down slowly, as he thinks.
Ben watches Keith.
Keith blows some air from his nose and looks abstractly
forward.
CUT TO:
INT. CAR. DAY
The loud sound of a broken car horn fills the air. Ben lifts his face from the steering wheel, blood along his hairline. He instinctive finds the button on the seat belt and pulls it off of him. Ben opens the door and bolts from the car.
As Ben runs across the screen, two characters stand in a driveway discussing. One is a young boy in thick glasses, the other is a large red puppet, or possibly a man in a suit.
MHARMAR: (low mharmar language.)
THE DIRECTOR: Its not that I necessarily disagree with you, nor am I calling you stupid, Mharmar. I just think youre better than that. Its a matter of taste.
MHARMAR: (mharmar-mar-mar-mh-mar)
THE DIRECTOR: Listen, I just dont think Dali is very good. Oh, hello there.
The spokes of two bicycle wheels come into frame. The boy on the bike looks at them suspiciously. He then takes off down the street as fast as he can.
The boy rides through the chirping suburban streets around a wide turn coming up to a house with an open garage. He drops his bike off in the driveway and we follow him to the open garage where an older gentleman in a cowboy hat sits in a lawn chair with his feet up on the table. A younger boy sits on the table, lifting the earpiece of a pair of headphones to see what is happening. A large map of the United States hangs behind him.
The boy drops a quarter into an empty gasoline tank.
"Rochambeau, I think we might have a case."
Brass, or the Northern Wisconsin Front
Leif Sjustrom finished a page long report on Charlemagne and handed the paper to his mother sitting over at a computer desk in the living room. He then headed to his mothers computer room and took his favorite rifle out of the wooden cabinet. He took it apart and cleaned it and put it back together and filled it with ammunition. He filled a little grenade pouch with some extra things and took off, gun in hand.
He picked up his bicycle from the sandy slope off the side of the house and hopped on, his rifle slung around his shoulder, and made his way across the deep rolling hills of the Northern Wisconsin Front. Eventually he came to a town called Trego, which was not like any town we now know, but merely a gas station and a bar and lumber mill and old snow mobile shop out of season. He crossed a little wooden bridge over the river and there was a large unoccupied white house on the other side past some trees and a little further down the road an old abandoned school complex.
It was a beige brick building, three stories tall with weeds grown up all around and windows broken in a few places. Leif made a loon call with his hands and Teddy poked his head out the window from the third floor, laughing and answering with a gurgling dove call. Leif walks through the sunlit hallways to a locker and spins the combination. A fluorescent light turns on and he takes out a cold bottle of soda before heading upstairs.
Oscar is sitting on a table polishing his rifle and his girlfriend Velma flips through papers delivered in the middle of the night by Railers. A bespectacled young boy lies on the floor reading through a book. Leif enters.
"Any of you guys know how to take out a tank?"
"Were working on it," Eli says, barely looking up from his book. The others nod.
"Heres the outgoing mail." Velma tosses a batch of letters on the desk. Mail comes into the snowmobile shop. Inside the addressed envelope is another envelope. These generally go between students and civilians. The postal service does most of the work.
"I made a reply to that letter from Chicago. You hear about A.B.U.?"
Eli puckers his lips and makes a long sound at the back of his throat like the echoing report of a fantastic explosion.
"Hell yeah we did. Its all over the place."
"They have no idea what they've got right under their feet."
"Hey Teddy, I want to get a little closer to that thing their building on Trudeau."
"Its a radio telescope," says Eli.
"Whats it for?"
"I guess thats what were going to find out."
American Haiku:
The Buffalo died
So that we might live
In gated communities
He picked up his bicycle from the sandy slope off the side of the house and hopped on, his rifle slung around his shoulder, and made his way across the deep rolling hills of the Northern Wisconsin Front. Eventually he came to a town called Trego, which was not like any town we now know, but merely a gas station and a bar and lumber mill and old snow mobile shop out of season. He crossed a little wooden bridge over the river and there was a large unoccupied white house on the other side past some trees and a little further down the road an old abandoned school complex.
It was a beige brick building, three stories tall with weeds grown up all around and windows broken in a few places. Leif made a loon call with his hands and Teddy poked his head out the window from the third floor, laughing and answering with a gurgling dove call. Leif walks through the sunlit hallways to a locker and spins the combination. A fluorescent light turns on and he takes out a cold bottle of soda before heading upstairs.
Oscar is sitting on a table polishing his rifle and his girlfriend Velma flips through papers delivered in the middle of the night by Railers. A bespectacled young boy lies on the floor reading through a book. Leif enters.
"Any of you guys know how to take out a tank?"
"Were working on it," Eli says, barely looking up from his book. The others nod.
"Heres the outgoing mail." Velma tosses a batch of letters on the desk. Mail comes into the snowmobile shop. Inside the addressed envelope is another envelope. These generally go between students and civilians. The postal service does most of the work.
"I made a reply to that letter from Chicago. You hear about A.B.U.?"
Eli puckers his lips and makes a long sound at the back of his throat like the echoing report of a fantastic explosion.
"Hell yeah we did. Its all over the place."
"They have no idea what they've got right under their feet."
"Hey Teddy, I want to get a little closer to that thing their building on Trudeau."
"Its a radio telescope," says Eli.
"Whats it for?"
"I guess thats what were going to find out."
American Haiku:
The Buffalo died
So that we might live
In gated communities
Movie Director on his new film, which you are watching, right now.
Let me be unambiguous. I am speaking from the here and now. And I'm here to tell you that there is a God.
(audience applauds) We are his instrument. And he doesn't like the way the world is and he doesn't like the way youve been living your life.
(A deep unintelligible animal form of speech comes from the figure beside him, of which we can only see a large red furry arm. Most likely a large puppet or a man in a suit.)
That's right. I've seen Rochambeau's drawings.
TALK SHOW HOST: So tell me about this Conductor?
(The figure speaks up. The second camera shows the Director sitting next to his large red furry figure who opens his mouth up and down in his puppet simulation of speech. This nearly 3 meter tall figure seems to have quite a lot to say, though is interrupted.)
Not yet, Mharmar. Yes, we live in very exciting times!
(a shout from the audience) A lot is going to happen and I'm excited that you're all going to get to see it. This is the best film I've made yet. By far. Blessed is the Autarch.
(Mharmar seems to echo his statement off screen. The Director looks smiling over to his big friend. The audience is now at very high volume.)
Wow did you see that?
(audience applauds) We are his instrument. And he doesn't like the way the world is and he doesn't like the way youve been living your life.
(A deep unintelligible animal form of speech comes from the figure beside him, of which we can only see a large red furry arm. Most likely a large puppet or a man in a suit.)
That's right. I've seen Rochambeau's drawings.
TALK SHOW HOST: So tell me about this Conductor?
(The figure speaks up. The second camera shows the Director sitting next to his large red furry figure who opens his mouth up and down in his puppet simulation of speech. This nearly 3 meter tall figure seems to have quite a lot to say, though is interrupted.)
Not yet, Mharmar. Yes, we live in very exciting times!
(a shout from the audience) A lot is going to happen and I'm excited that you're all going to get to see it. This is the best film I've made yet. By far. Blessed is the Autarch.
(Mharmar seems to echo his statement off screen. The Director looks smiling over to his big friend. The audience is now at very high volume.)
Wow did you see that?
Woodwinds
The band room at the Junior High School in Shell Lake, Wisconsin is emptying out. My name is Gordie, I play the clarinet. Theres an assembly for all the parents next Friday. They made it a half-day and everything. Playing the clarinet is stupid. For one thing, I cant even really play. Not the way somebody can play the guitar and write a song and play it for everybody. I just look at the dots on the paper and try to guess what notes they are and nobody can really hear me anyway. Thank God. Also, its not like I picked to play the clarinet. It's a girl's instrument and I've never heard of anybody choosing to play this dumb thing unless of course they were a girl.
Lessons are in a dark little room. Mr. Walden always gives some kind of oppressive lecture on practicing more. It just happens, over and over. I wish he'd just realize that it isn't going to happen. You just squirm around in your seat, scrambling for notes on this stupid, stupid instrument. It's a half hour of torture. Some times he'll extend it to almost forty-five minutes trying to get some passage right. I'm always kind of afraid he's going to do something. He never has. But I'm kind of expecting it. I bet he molests his kids. I bet theyre as stupid as he is.
Tall, rolling hills separate our home from town. You can smell cow pies and sandy roads for miles. Moms a nurse at the Hospital in town, she teaches Sunday School for third graders and every day when we come we have to write a report about something out of the encyclopedia after we finish our homework, even in the summer. We have a cabin in the woods outside Spooner. Dad works for a laboratory out near there. He once had a patent for building a new kind of detonator. It blows up bombs I guess.
A boy walks through a wooded area playing a clarinet.
Have you ever seen a ghost? I had a cousin that died out here a long time ago. He fell off a dirt bike. Nobody knew why. Somebody said something scared him really bad. After his funeral all my aunts and uncles and everyone was in our cabin talking about what had happened. My uncle was saying something about how fast he was going in his truck and that the speedometer only went to 85. My cousin said we were going much faster. Then he was gone. Everyone saw him say it, but nobody said anything. Everybody just went along like nothing happened.
Sometimes there's a girl in the woods. She doesnt say much. We play together sometimes. She can appear anywhere. She says she knows my father. I didnt bother to ask him. Adults dont like talking about ghosts and their mostly liars anyway.
A boy arrives on the edge of the woods near a cleared prairie. A tank unit rolls off in the distance toward what looks like a very large and somewhat incomplete satellite dish.
Lessons are in a dark little room. Mr. Walden always gives some kind of oppressive lecture on practicing more. It just happens, over and over. I wish he'd just realize that it isn't going to happen. You just squirm around in your seat, scrambling for notes on this stupid, stupid instrument. It's a half hour of torture. Some times he'll extend it to almost forty-five minutes trying to get some passage right. I'm always kind of afraid he's going to do something. He never has. But I'm kind of expecting it. I bet he molests his kids. I bet theyre as stupid as he is.
Tall, rolling hills separate our home from town. You can smell cow pies and sandy roads for miles. Moms a nurse at the Hospital in town, she teaches Sunday School for third graders and every day when we come we have to write a report about something out of the encyclopedia after we finish our homework, even in the summer. We have a cabin in the woods outside Spooner. Dad works for a laboratory out near there. He once had a patent for building a new kind of detonator. It blows up bombs I guess.
A boy walks through a wooded area playing a clarinet.
Have you ever seen a ghost? I had a cousin that died out here a long time ago. He fell off a dirt bike. Nobody knew why. Somebody said something scared him really bad. After his funeral all my aunts and uncles and everyone was in our cabin talking about what had happened. My uncle was saying something about how fast he was going in his truck and that the speedometer only went to 85. My cousin said we were going much faster. Then he was gone. Everyone saw him say it, but nobody said anything. Everybody just went along like nothing happened.
Sometimes there's a girl in the woods. She doesnt say much. We play together sometimes. She can appear anywhere. She says she knows my father. I didnt bother to ask him. Adults dont like talking about ghosts and their mostly liars anyway.
A boy arrives on the edge of the woods near a cleared prairie. A tank unit rolls off in the distance toward what looks like a very large and somewhat incomplete satellite dish.
Wolves deny Evolution, relation to Dogs. (Introducing an Observer)
He walked down the sidewalk, it was an early summer slow blue night. A big hump of dirt lay to his right and he enjoyed his little mountains, and the smell of chlorine from the pools all around. The hum of crickets and water pumps. He could have sworn he heard the sound of children yelling in the distance, playing too late, denying the will of the sunset. There was a long brown wooden fence as tall as a man and a chain rattling off behind it. The barking from the German Shepard startled him, though he half expected it. "I assume you havent eaten in quite a few days," he muttered quietly to the viciously barking dog that had parked itself on the opposite side of the fence. "Youre gonna die you know." He paced around and shook his head trying to think of what to do and before walking away, crouched down on his haunches to see eye to eye with the dog. Each shriek was in close enough proximity to take him off guard every time but he wanted to make sure he felt the weight of it, to take it in, for the sake of fairness.
He walked further down the block, suddenly feeling aimless and wanting of something to do. It was something he hadnt felt in a while and he didnt want to get anxious this early in the game. How early in the game was this exactly anyway? He could still hear the dog barking behind him in the distance.
Before him stood a house with the automatic yard lights on. The front door was locked. He took a little path to the side of the house, opened a little gate and found a set of cement stairs that led to a basement doorway. To his absolute delight there was a key under the doormat. Its the little victories, really. It was dark and musky in the basement. There was a pool table and he felt obligated to turn on every light. He thumbed through a box of records, found something mildly appealing and dropped the flimsy needle to the spinning disc. It was something. He plopped down on an uncomfortable chair with wooden arms and an orange afghan draped over it with a useless little round pillow. He listened to records for a few hours and fell asleep in the chair with the bright yellow basement lights red from the inside of his eyelids.
He woke up in the morning shocked at the complete silence and the strange surroundings. He stood up and walked over to the round drain gate in the cement floor and tried to aim his piss in the hole without it getting everywhere and thought he'd try to take a look upstairs. There was the front door. The white carpet was well groomed, a recliner faced the TV and the remotes were still lined up perfectly. There were more stairs and a little girls room on the left where he took a moment to sit on the bed. The sun left a little mark on the white doily dressing over a window bench. He tilted his head to crack his neck and stared blankly at the mirror over the desk with all kinds of gaudy little girl things glued to it before grabbing his hat and deciding it was his time to make an exit. He stood on the landing and there were two closed doors left he hadnt checked yet. Choosing the door at his left, he leaned to the wall parallel with the master room and gave the door a slow push near the hinges. Their faces were cold and white, dutifully tucked in like little soldiers. There wasnt a whole lot to say, really. He pulled the door shut and made his way down the stairs.
The kitchen was dark but clean. He opened the refrigerator door and opened a jar of pickles pulling out a long one. Chewing on it he spied some pork chops under plastic wrap and grabbed the whole plate. Leaving out the front door it was a very bright, hot day. He crossed into the street to walk the pavement on the other side with his cowboy hat cocked down and made his way down the side walk with the wrapped plate on his forearm like a school book. He stopped at a tall brown fence and made a high pitched whistle which was answered by a weak whine on the other side. He took a bite of pork chop. "You know youre gonna die you stupid dog." He tossed the pork chop over the fence and slid the plate to drop on the other side.
"I'll be back," he smiled, and shaking his head made on a little further down the road.
Outside the elementary school is a young girl selling candy. "Make an offering for the coming of the Autarch?" I decline. Round red candies rolled up in a red wrapper. "Your body is an instrument."
He walked further down the block, suddenly feeling aimless and wanting of something to do. It was something he hadnt felt in a while and he didnt want to get anxious this early in the game. How early in the game was this exactly anyway? He could still hear the dog barking behind him in the distance.
Before him stood a house with the automatic yard lights on. The front door was locked. He took a little path to the side of the house, opened a little gate and found a set of cement stairs that led to a basement doorway. To his absolute delight there was a key under the doormat. Its the little victories, really. It was dark and musky in the basement. There was a pool table and he felt obligated to turn on every light. He thumbed through a box of records, found something mildly appealing and dropped the flimsy needle to the spinning disc. It was something. He plopped down on an uncomfortable chair with wooden arms and an orange afghan draped over it with a useless little round pillow. He listened to records for a few hours and fell asleep in the chair with the bright yellow basement lights red from the inside of his eyelids.
He woke up in the morning shocked at the complete silence and the strange surroundings. He stood up and walked over to the round drain gate in the cement floor and tried to aim his piss in the hole without it getting everywhere and thought he'd try to take a look upstairs. There was the front door. The white carpet was well groomed, a recliner faced the TV and the remotes were still lined up perfectly. There were more stairs and a little girls room on the left where he took a moment to sit on the bed. The sun left a little mark on the white doily dressing over a window bench. He tilted his head to crack his neck and stared blankly at the mirror over the desk with all kinds of gaudy little girl things glued to it before grabbing his hat and deciding it was his time to make an exit. He stood on the landing and there were two closed doors left he hadnt checked yet. Choosing the door at his left, he leaned to the wall parallel with the master room and gave the door a slow push near the hinges. Their faces were cold and white, dutifully tucked in like little soldiers. There wasnt a whole lot to say, really. He pulled the door shut and made his way down the stairs.
The kitchen was dark but clean. He opened the refrigerator door and opened a jar of pickles pulling out a long one. Chewing on it he spied some pork chops under plastic wrap and grabbed the whole plate. Leaving out the front door it was a very bright, hot day. He crossed into the street to walk the pavement on the other side with his cowboy hat cocked down and made his way down the side walk with the wrapped plate on his forearm like a school book. He stopped at a tall brown fence and made a high pitched whistle which was answered by a weak whine on the other side. He took a bite of pork chop. "You know youre gonna die you stupid dog." He tossed the pork chop over the fence and slid the plate to drop on the other side.
"I'll be back," he smiled, and shaking his head made on a little further down the road.
Outside the elementary school is a young girl selling candy. "Make an offering for the coming of the Autarch?" I decline. Round red candies rolled up in a red wrapper. "Your body is an instrument."
A lot of insincere talk
COLOR BARS.
Violet.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
Orange.
Red.
"This is a church. You might think this is kind of funny. Im actually rather fond of religious fanatics. I cant help but think of myself as one. A man standing in the street asked me before I was about to make a left turn on my way to Taco Bell if I was a Christian. I couldnt tell him no for some reason. I should have screamed it in face. He noticed my hesitation and told me, 'Dont you be doubting.' I had the green arrow, during which I replied, 'Doubt and God cant exist in the same place.' I wonder if he knew what I meant. I knew what I meant, disingenuous as it might have been. Like a church marquee I had read a week earlier that said, God speaks in Silence. I understood it at once. Like a reflection of sun on a tablecloth. But its something that can be taken both ways. God doesnt say anything. Fair enough. Nothing to disagree with there. No one, least of all me, wants to bring God back from the dead. But after peeling back so many layers of nothing, how do we get around talking about Something? There are so many different names for the same thing. The more you try to be specific, the more untrue it all becomes. So then what do you say? How do you speak the truth?"
A moving image of a small child pasting black and white real estate photographs from a newspaper onto a piece of poster board. Theres a church on the corner of the little paper block and big block letters that say, GOD SPEAKS IN SILENCE. He looks thoughtfully into the camera and shrugs, with not a whole lot to say.
Violet.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
Orange.
Red.
"This is a church. You might think this is kind of funny. Im actually rather fond of religious fanatics. I cant help but think of myself as one. A man standing in the street asked me before I was about to make a left turn on my way to Taco Bell if I was a Christian. I couldnt tell him no for some reason. I should have screamed it in face. He noticed my hesitation and told me, 'Dont you be doubting.' I had the green arrow, during which I replied, 'Doubt and God cant exist in the same place.' I wonder if he knew what I meant. I knew what I meant, disingenuous as it might have been. Like a church marquee I had read a week earlier that said, God speaks in Silence. I understood it at once. Like a reflection of sun on a tablecloth. But its something that can be taken both ways. God doesnt say anything. Fair enough. Nothing to disagree with there. No one, least of all me, wants to bring God back from the dead. But after peeling back so many layers of nothing, how do we get around talking about Something? There are so many different names for the same thing. The more you try to be specific, the more untrue it all becomes. So then what do you say? How do you speak the truth?"
A moving image of a small child pasting black and white real estate photographs from a newspaper onto a piece of poster board. Theres a church on the corner of the little paper block and big block letters that say, GOD SPEAKS IN SILENCE. He looks thoughtfully into the camera and shrugs, with not a whole lot to say.
Children in Devils Lake, ND discover Abandoned Theatre
"It is actually much safer these days in the towns, most of the real maniacs left for the country as soon as possible."
She didnt want to hear things like this. A grimace passed over her face and I could feel the despair come down all over her.
"Dont you think about that. Dont you think about that now, fear and God cant exist in the same place." I kissed her on the mouth, my hands framed around her dirty face. I shot Teddy a look for him to be cool, and to be kind, for the last time. He fumbled around inside himself trying to find something genuine to hang on to, and chose silence.
"Heather works at a bar, in Devils Lake, North Dakota. That bar that serves burgers and root beer and nobody asks you what song you want to hear on the jukebox. A mile down the road at the gas station, Jakes standing around wondering what it would be like to smoke cigarettes. At home theres a dog barking at the TV every time a cat goes walks by singing a song."
"Thats funny," she says, smiling. "I heard somewhere. I guess I just took it as true, without thinking about it. I guess I heard dogs couldnt see the images on TV." The flicker of fire-light reflected on the pool of blood running from her leg. "My dad would always leave the TV on for the dogs to keep them company when he left for work. I always thought that it must drive them crazy to hear all that laughter and not know where it was coming from. People just staring at black boxes. How would they ever know that?" She gets real weak and her head dips a little. I part back her hair from her face and it doesnt feel dirty at all. Just delicate and alive. "How do they know if a dog is really color blind?"
And she meant it so much it didnt seem silly or futile. I folded her arms in and took the comb from her back pocket. As we were running away I remembered the ocean as it peeled back and, playing with it, I claimed a perfect sea shell from the sand and placed it in my wallet, where it cracked in half, but was never lost.
COLOR BARS.
She didnt want to hear things like this. A grimace passed over her face and I could feel the despair come down all over her.
"Dont you think about that. Dont you think about that now, fear and God cant exist in the same place." I kissed her on the mouth, my hands framed around her dirty face. I shot Teddy a look for him to be cool, and to be kind, for the last time. He fumbled around inside himself trying to find something genuine to hang on to, and chose silence.
"Heather works at a bar, in Devils Lake, North Dakota. That bar that serves burgers and root beer and nobody asks you what song you want to hear on the jukebox. A mile down the road at the gas station, Jakes standing around wondering what it would be like to smoke cigarettes. At home theres a dog barking at the TV every time a cat goes walks by singing a song."
"Thats funny," she says, smiling. "I heard somewhere. I guess I just took it as true, without thinking about it. I guess I heard dogs couldnt see the images on TV." The flicker of fire-light reflected on the pool of blood running from her leg. "My dad would always leave the TV on for the dogs to keep them company when he left for work. I always thought that it must drive them crazy to hear all that laughter and not know where it was coming from. People just staring at black boxes. How would they ever know that?" She gets real weak and her head dips a little. I part back her hair from her face and it doesnt feel dirty at all. Just delicate and alive. "How do they know if a dog is really color blind?"
And she meant it so much it didnt seem silly or futile. I folded her arms in and took the comb from her back pocket. As we were running away I remembered the ocean as it peeled back and, playing with it, I claimed a perfect sea shell from the sand and placed it in my wallet, where it cracked in half, but was never lost.
COLOR BARS.
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