What a Mess!

(I. cont'd)

Until he no longer did.

Because that’s what people do.

Her scent, once intoxicatingly beautiful, had disappeared. He had gotten used to it and could no longer sense it. And with the smell, went his love.

And so they took her away, and she lived with them. For a while it was just them and Abigail, but soon there were others. Other girls that, just like Abbey, he had loved intensely and then discarded.

The replaced her with a copy. It was true to her form, a perfect replica. But it was missing a certain light that she had about her. Lineo could tell the difference. The replica wasn’t as easy to talk to as Abigail had been, she didn’t smile as easily. There was a strange distance between him and her, where before, there had been none.
So he went looking for her. It is true that he was no longer in love with her, but he still wanted her around.

But they had taken her. And she was gone.

He soon found another girl. She was easy to talk to, and easy to laugh with, and easy to kiss. So he made her his own. But it was different this time. After Abbey, he needed more. The thrill of connecting to another young woman wasn’t enough. There were lots of girls now, and he needed more.

All were nice. Most laughed easily. Some were even funny. But he needed beauty and mystery and subtlety and adventure. He needed romance.

So he left the new girl, and he found others. Some were attractive, some weren’t. Some were funny, others weren’t. Some were rich, some were clever. One was the daughter of a pair of dentists. One was beaten as a child and always had a look of longing. One had no father and loved her mother as a best friend. One was a champion swimmer, an ice skater, a belly dancer, a lover of cats.

He loved them all, for some things. He loved none of them, for all things.
But he did love that they smelled like summer, that their skin was soft, and their legs, hairless. He loved that they spent so much time getting ready. That they knew about make-up, and perfume, and fashion. That their rooms were always neat, and decorated with pictures of their friends. That they had stuffed animals on their bed and more than one pillow. He loved their knick-knacks, their esoteric jewelry, the colorful devices that held their hair in place.

But mostly, he loved that they loved him. He felt better with them. He loved their adoring eyes and the way they fit, just so, under his arm.

Every now and then, he would see Abbey. They would bring her back, just for a second, and she would appear before him. When he saw her, he’d move towards her, but before he could reach her, she was gone, again.

It was after these visions that he’d remember how things were. He would remember love. But he didn’t really. He couldn’t. No one ever can. He could remember feeling strongly for her. Sharing intimate moments. Doing things he’d feel embarrassed about doing now. And he would say to himself, “that was love. That’s what love is.” But he didn’t really understand, anymore. The emotion was gone. Love was like powerful taste or smell, indescribable (except in the vaguest of terms), different for everyone (yet somehow the same), and truly knowable only by those under its effects.

586.

I.

The first time he fell in love, Lineo was 13. Abbey, russet-haired and something of a tomboy, was, at the time he met her, dating his friend, Gregory. She wasn’t exactly beautiful—not in the conventional way, anyway—but she had a pretty face, and she laughed easily, and that was enough.

Having been raised on a steady diet of Disney movies and fairy tales, Lineo had, from an early age, been brought up to believe that a person’s “true beauty” lay on the inside. By falling in love with Abigail Stintson, he was able to live convince himself that he was a moral and good. And that, like all of the heroes in his stories, he was able to find the diamond in the rough.

A second reason that Lineo may have fallen for Abigail, and not say, Mildred Johnson, who was equally as kind and even homelier than Abigail, is simply that, unlike Mildred Johnson, he could actually talk to Abbey. It shouldn’t be interpreted that Lineo was particularly shy around girls, but he definitely wasn’t outgoing. After elementary school, when the class divided itself into the social haves and have-nots, Lineo found his friends among the computer game players and Monty Python fans. Naturally, there was a female contingent that held the same social status as Lineo and his friends, but, for one reason or another, the two groups didn’t begin to integrate until high school. For this reason, although he had several female acquaintances at school, Lineo had never held an extended conversation with a female (not including his family) until Gregory started dating Abbey.

It should also be noted that part of the appeal of Abigail Stintson was simply the fact that she was Gregory’s girl. She had already proven herself to be of great value to his friend, and therefore she was of great value to him. Another theme that he had unknowingly pulled from the stories of his childhood was that the heroes always got the best girls. Sure, there were always pudgy sisters and devoted handmaidens for the heroes’ trusty sidekicks, but the true gem, without question, went to the heroes. And like every young man, Lineo wanted to be the hero, and being the hero meant getting the girl. Lineo was able to keep this motivation hidden from his subconscious most of the time, so as not to interfere with his carefully constructed heroic self-image, but nevertheless, he did derive a subtle satisfaction from stealing the girl from his friend, thereby proving that he was, in some way, better than Gregory.

But he did love her. That much cannot be argued. He loved her in a way more pure and more radiant than he ever loved again. He loved her with the purity of youth and the curiosity of puberty. Love, for Lineo, was exciting and new. It was no longer just a word people sometimes said, it was now a feeling. He loved her because she was she. And he would love her forever.

Because that is how people love.

514.

turnip town

Quiz:

My roommate, Alex, has been invited to two root vegetable parties. The only problem is, he doesn’t remember which invitation is which. In which hand is Alex holding his ticket to turnip town?

Extra Credit:

To which party should Alex take the ticket in his other hand?

Blog:

So, I bought a turnip the other day because I had never, to my knowledge, eaten a turnip and I wanted to know what they tasted like. Well, tonight I found out. They taste pretty much like potatoes. Maybe a little bit more flavorful, a little harder, but still basically a potato. My friend Carolyn told me that turnips are best for roasting, but I chose to disregard that advice and saute instead. I’m not sure how roasting would have turned out, but sauteing was delicious. I added an onion, some mushrooms, a bit of garlic, a can of beans, and I was on my way to a flavor explosion!

I don’t pity turnips. They aren’t the prettiest, or the most lovable. They certainly aren’t famous or exotic, but they have their place. They are the waste-management employees of the vegetable world. Or maybe the ranchers.

I think that potatoes would be the construction workers. Tomatoes would have to be the business men (this designation would be mainly due to the fact that, although I acknowledge their utility, I don’t personally prefer them). Onions would be the teachers.

Of course these vegetables shouldn’t be limited to the professions that I chose for them. No, each should individually be able to choose its own profession. Naturally, the pretty vegetables, the capsicum and eggplant, would probably be more likely to get jobs as actors or models, but it wouldn’t be based solely on their species. I do not, for a second, think that any vegetable should be denied a job a priori as a result of their race. But perhaps I have spent too much time on this.

http://links.zigzo.com/2007/12/10/the-worlds-two-most-beautiful-vegetables/

Here is something I always think about. This excerpt is from Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything:

“In 1907 when a well-known collector named Alanson Bryan realized that he had shot the last three specimens of black mamos, a species of forest bird that had only been discovered the previous decade, he noted that the news filled him with ‘joy.’”

Firstly, I have long since believed that my parents named me after old Alanson. They have never admitted it outwardly, but sometimes they make strange references to it. For example, I remember once, when I was 9 or 10, my next door neighbors asked me to watch their fish while they were going out of town. I was all for it, but when I asked my parents, they thought about it for a while and said, “I guess that’s ok. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like these fish are the last of their kind.” It was the peculiar emphasis that they put on the word “these” that made the incident stick in my mind. The second reference occurred a lot more recently. When I was in Bolivia, working with a puma, my mother wrote me an email that said something like, “ok, son, just try not to kill them all and rejoice in their distinction, just as the man after whom you were named did in 1907.” At the time, I just thought she was in one of her moods. After reading this book, I have begun to think that their maybe more to it.

The second thing is, is it really so wrong to feel joy after eliminating the last known members of a given species? I mean, if there are only a few of them left, it’s not like the species is going to survive anyway, so why not be the last one to get some joy out its members? Also, it’s a distinction that not many people have: Species Eliminator. I could continue in this vein, but I think I’ll end it here.

667

A Vampire Story

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A groan followed by a loud smack, as a white hand pounds the snooze button.

5 more minutes.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I hate winter. There aren’t enough hours in the day. What time is it, even? 4:30? What kind of decent undead is awake at 4:30pm? It’s obscene.

Oh well. At least I can get plenty of things done. Run some errands and whatnot. I need a new black suit. Maybe I’ll try to get one of those.

What else, what else…

I think Pelican’s having a party. Maybe I’ll go to that. I don’t know if I feel like socializing, though. Sometimes parties can be kind of draining—especially skeleton parties. All those bones. It’s like going to an anatomy museum. I’ll call the Deathsails and see if they’re going.

Very slowly, two white hands reach out of the coffin and grasp the sides. The vampire pulls himself to a sitting position and rubs his eyes. He looks around his cellar, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He leans over and carefully raises one skinny leg over the coffin wall and places it firmly on the ground. The other leg soon follows; the vampire is up.

He places one hand behind his head and rubs his black hair. It’s getting a little long. He’ll need to cut it, soon. Who knew that hair continues to grow, even after death? It’s one of the last remnants of personal hygiene he still has to attend to.

He walks over to the sink and picks up his toothbrush. As he brushes his teeth, he gazes into the mirror mounted behind the sink and watches the toothbrush flit through the air, seemingly unassisted. Although brushing his teeth isn’t strictly necessary—his teeth won’t rot or decay—he enjoys the ritual. He enjoys polishing is his sharp white incisors as he rids his mouth of the irony taste of last night’s meal.

He spits, and rinses his mouth.

He walks over to his closet and looks inside, staring, without seeing, at his collection of black suits. What to wear?

The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Leroy?” A thin, high voice comes through the line.

“Hello Bea.”

“What’s up? What are you doing?”

“What do you mean ‘What I am doing? It’s like 4:30. I just woke up.”

“I meant later. What are you doing later?”

“Later? I don’t know. I was thinking about trying to go find another suit; all of mine are getting old. Maybe I’ll go to Pelican’s. I don’t really know. Why? What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She pauses. “Hey listen, so last night I was out stalking and I saw this guy enter an alley alone, and I was like, ‘awesome, this’ll be easy, right?’ So I follow him down the alley, I’m sneaking up behind him, doing the whole, ghostly moan thing, you know, like really trying to scare him. He kept looking around, doing that whole, I’mscared-butishouldn’tbe-because-there-isnosuchthing-as-monsters, right? So I’m creeping up behind him and, all of sudden, I trip over a cat. No joke. This cat just jumps below my feet and I totally fall over and land in this puddle of godknowswhat and now my wig is pretty much ruined. I was so pissed. Like, what the fuck, right? You spend so long trying to find the perfect wig and then you find one you love and you have it for like a day and it gets ruined. It’s such shit.”

“Yeah, that sucks. Cats. You can never tell with them.”

“Well, anyway, the point is, I need a new wig, and I was hoping that you could help me with that. It’s not like I can just go walk into a store and buy one…”

“Well…”

“Look. It’s easy for you. You appear to be somewhat human. I look like…well, you know how it with us.”

He did know. It was different for ghilan. Even after they’re raised, their skin continues to rot, their hair falls out. They look, for the most part, positively frightening. The vampire wasn’t even sure why they bothered with the wigs, it wasn’t like they improve their appearance at all and they are always falling off and getting ruined. I guess vanity is just one of those things that stick around, even after death.

“What about Astrixa? Why don’t you ask her?” Astrixa is Bea’s raiser, and hence, her master and caregiver.

“She won’t do it. She thinks wigs are a useless vanity. It was hard enough getting her to get me this one. And then I went and ruined it. She’ll be pissed. Please? It’s not even a big deal for you. It’ll take like 5 minutes, just walk into a store and buy one, or steal one. Easy. Please?”

“Yeah, ok. Fine. I guess. Whatever. You want blond again?”

“Yeah, blond’s good. Awesome. Thank you.”

“Ok. I’ll call you when I’ve got it.”

“Awesome. Thanks, again. I definitely owe you. You’re awesome.”

“It’s fine. I’ll call you later.”

The vampire hangs up the phone.

840.

There were seven men in the beginning. John H. Smith, Samuel A. Johnson, his brother Ned, the Burming twins, Al and Jim, old Dr. Schoating, and me. Then, after Ned lost his leg, both he and his brother quit the organization and took to farming onions in North Dakota or some godforsaken place. Then we were five. Five became four, after Al married creamy-skinned Jennifer Green, who always smelled of wild lavender and wore homemade dresses so totally unflattering to her figure that, when she birthed little Ben, 8 months after the wedding, no one in town had even known she was pregnant.

Four was a good number, though. We felt strong as four. Confident. Powerful.
It wasn’t until Doc. Schoating decided to call it quits, last December, that we started to worry.

“Boys,” he announced, in his gravelly voice, “I’m out.”
That’s how he said it, too, just like that. I’m out. No explanation of his actions. No apologies. Just a simple, I’m out. And then he was out. And we were three.

We kept the name, though, obviously: The Seven Saints.

Oooh, kind of makes you shudder. The Seven Saints. Al came up with the name. He was always good for that kind thing; he had a real artistic flair. If he hadn’t gotten married and thrown his life away on mortgages and raising children and becoming a responsible member of society, he could have really made something of himself.
Oh well, what can you do? He left us dim older brother. That’s worth something, isn’t it?

And the name, of course. You can’t forget the name.

So he we are, John, Jim, and me: The Seven Saints.

Ok, so the “seven” part is clear, you say, patting yourself on the back, grinning with every one of your smug little teeth. There used to be seven men. That’s easy enough. But your smile falters. “What about ‘saints,’?” you ask. You still haven’t said anything about what makes you saints.

And now I smile. And I motion for you to sit down. And I look at your chubby little legs. I fear that they may not be able to support you throughout the duration of my story, and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. No, I certainly wouldn’t want that.

I pull out a dictionary:

saint (sānt) noun
1. A person officially recognized, especially by canonization, as being entitled to public veneration and capable of interceding for people on earth.
2. A person who has died and gone to heaven.

January 19, 19___, was a Wednesday. It was Sunny. Ask Jim, he’ll tell you. He remembers.

When he was 10 years old, he was hit in the head with a baseball. It damaged his brain. It took away the piece that allowed him to read emotions. He is no more moved by watching his own mother crying than he would be watching a baseball game. Tears mean nothing to him. Neither does laughter. Or anger. He can no longer understand people, you know?

But he’s good with dates. And the weather. He can remember the day of the week and the weather for every date since his accident. Every single rainy Monday, cloudy Friday and sunny Sunday. Every single one. He’s always right, too. We’ve tested him. Wouldn’t you?

The Midas of the Kitchen

Wayne once told me that the author Graham Greene made a point to write no less than 500 words every day of his life. Rain or shine, in sickness and in health, every day he determinedly sat by his little typewriter, trying to put into words life as he experienced it. He was so devoted to this goal that, on the night of his wedding, he made his new bride lie in bed, and wait patiently, while he finished his 500 words before he came to bed and consummated their union. By setting this concrete goal, the author was able to produce such a large body of work that, eventually he wrote something worthwhile, and was published. He practiced a lot, and eventually, he became perfect…well, better than average, anyway. Let’s just say, “good enough.” Sounds pretty good, right? 500 words is manageable.

Later, Joe told me that he took a writing class in which he was made to document his life by taking a picture every day and captioning it. I liked this idea, too. Thus far, the only parts of my life documented in picture-form are the very early year--when my parents took rolls upon rolls of film of their first born--and the parts during which my friends were present with their cameras and decided to take pictures.

So here’s my idea: I’m going to try to take a picture every day and caption it with a 500 word paragraph…well, I don’t know about every day. Let’s just say frequently. Frequently is better. The reasons for this decision are 3-fold:

1. I want to practice writing. As a graduate student in math, my writing skills are becoming woefully unpolished and juvenile, as you can probably tell. (haha, “becoming.” Did you catch that?)

2. Basically all new discoveries about life, scientific and otherwise, come from observing some phenomenon and looking for patterns. Hopefully, by documenting my life in this way, I might be able to look over it and come to some new understanding of myself.

3. To alleviate boredom, and keep my away from my debilitating addiction to Stumble!-ing.

353. Wow. 500 is a lot, hey?

360. Ok, so this picture is of my room. When I first moved in here, in mid-August, the first thing I did was buy some shelves so that I could have some way of displaying my books. As a temporary solution, I stashed all of my books in boxes and cabinets—just to get them out of the way until I mounted the shelves. 5 months later, I finally hung them. Aren’t they just the end? They are white and there are three of them. Only the bottom two are visible because they are the only two with anything on them. I would have hung them sooner, but it was such a pain In the ass to find studs in this wall, you really have no idea. I eventually resorted to watching a video by the “home repair Goddess” on Youtube. She suggested (rightly) that, because studs are generally spaced 16 inches apart, I find studs by measuring multiples of 16 inches from the nearest corner. Her idea was totally helpful, but it involved actually getting a tape-measure, which delayed the project a bit. I finally did it, though. And they look great. Really really great.

Also pictured are some a little necklace or something made of small blue and white cloth bags filled wild lavender hand made by the hard working indigenous peoples of Mexico, delivered to me by my friend Carolyn, who studies them. The indigenous Mexican people, not the necklaces. She also gave me that poster of the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe, which I originally thought was also from Mexico, but turned out to be from Arizona.

Actually, upon further inspection of the picture, all 3 shelves are visible. I’m sorry I misled you earlier, noble reader.

650.