Visits

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Play Ball!

We were playing softball at the intersection of 28th and Salmon. My dad was there, and my uncle, Ed, and my brother, and my cousin, David. The women were inside the house. They were not interested in baseball. There was not much traffic in those days, not enough to seriously interrupt a game, but whenever a car did appear, my uncle would call out "C-A-R - car!", and we would all move dutifully to the sidewalk. Home base was the corner where my house stood, and the pitcher's mound was the sewer cover at the center of the intersection. From their duplex kitty corner from home base, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson could be seen peering out from behind their curtained window. They did not care for baseball either, perhaps because my brother had once broken the window with an unusually mighty swing of the bat. Bam! Glass shattering. "Roger Maris!" he yelled. But that ball was ruled a foul, on account of the broken window, and had ended the game that day. But now, with my father there, and my uncle, we felt safe from windows and Hendersons, and played through the long afternoon. On the corner to the left of home base was Mr. Mueke's house. Mr. Mucus, we called him. He was very old and German and spoke with a heavy German accent, and we were pretty sure he was an ex Nazi, hiding out in post war Portland. He had two German Shepherds who ran up and down the length of his chainlink fence and we were pretty sure they were ex Nazis too. Around 4 o'clock in the afternoon, a black and white police car showed up. The officer parked on the pitcher's mound and got out. He stood there talking to my dad, kicking the toes of his shoes on the pavement. They nodded and talked, glancing from time to time toward the Henderson's window. It was determined at last that there was no law against playing baseball. "Not that I know of, anyway," the officer said. He climbed the stairs to the Henderson's house to tell them the same, then returned to his car, waved and drove away. Mr. and Mr. Henderson closed their curtains. "Play ball!" my uncle shouted, just loud enough to be sure he'd been heard. Mrs. Mueke watered the flowers in her yard. She smiled from behind the fence. She was unable, my mother once told us, to have children, and we should always take care to be nice. The German Shepherds ran up and down the length of the fence. And the sun dipped low and at last rolled over the top of 27th Avenue, and we were called in for dinner. Game over for the day, but tomorrow seemed already pressing at the horizon. It was always that way when I was ten.

The Tree

Last night, I climbed a tall maple tree. I was asleep at the time, of course, for otherwise I wouldn't have been able to climb it, at my age. Nonetheless, I had climbed this tree many times before, and sat in the crotch of the last thick limbs before the final branches and leaves touched the sky. The tree was the first in a row of four and stood on the northern corner of 28th and Salmon Street. You had to jump for the first low limb and swing your leg over, then stand on that limb and shimmy up the trunk till you reached the next limb. The higher you climbed, the closer the limbs were, but the higher you went, the thinner they became. At last, you found yourself higher than the second story of the house, our house, and you could sit where the last branching of the trunk made a seat and look down over the houses and streets, sidewalks, yards, fences and gardens and lack nothing from the perspective of a robin or a bumblebee. How wonderful it was to climb a tree. How wonderful to reside as long as you wanted in the sky.

Monday, April 25, 2016

The Circle

Interrupted Little Dorritt briefly to gulp down a novel called The Circle, by Dave Eggers - a Brave New World for our time, and quite chilling in its view of the internet age, the datafication of our daily lives, the usurption of ideas by the platitudes of the social networks and, finally, man's long sought enthronement in the place of God. It is a truly creepy narrative in the most telling sense, wherein we can't help, however reluctantly, but recognize ourselves. No monsters, no demons, no aliens - just us. A highly compelling, highly readable classic of modern fiction.

Friday, April 8, 2016

Siyotanka Music

Siyotanka Music
A short story

In the yard, Lila pinned up laundry with her mother. There was a wicker basket on the grass beneath the clotheslines, and both Lila and her mother moved back and forth between the basket and the hanging sheets and shirts and trousers like tired bitter, sullen ghosts.

Ghosts, Lila’s grandfather had once told her, are people who no longer understand living. They are people who do not understand they have died.

The afternoon heat was blistering, unbearable. The air was heavy with the smell of grass baking brown in the yard and of old paint sweating and cracking on the house fronts and of tar bubbling on roads where the sun struck hottest.

“It’s too hot to talk,” Lila’s mother said. “It’s too hot to make sense with you, Lila.”

She did not want to answer Lila’s questions. But Lila wanted answers. A straight answer might make her mother see straight. Even silence could be an answer, if it grew loud enough.

“He’s not like my father,” Lila said.

“No.”

“He’s not like anyone’s father.”

“He’s not.”

Violet Raven took a white sheet from the top of the basket. A breeze came up, smoldering across the yellow grass, and wrapped her for a moment in the sheet. She waited for the material to fall away on its own. It was too hot to struggle.

“Help me with this,” she said.

Lila took one end of the sheet and walked away from her mother until the fabric pulled tight. They pinned it on the line together. Lila’s mother swayed briefly like a tall stalk of grass. The bags beneath her eyes were shiny with sweat, and the skin there was the color of old pennies. She wiped her brow with her forearm, then frowned at the damp sleeve of her blouse, disheartened.

“Better hang myself on this line, too,” she muttered.

“What do you mean by that?” Lila asked.

Lila’s mother glanced at Lila, shrugged one shoulder, dismissed both her own comment and her daughter’s response.

“Lester will be coming soon,” she said. “We’ll be going out to dinner at the casino tonight.

“Who’s we?” Lila challenged.

“We is we,” Violet said. “You and me and Lester. Who else?”

Lila’s mother returned to the basket, withdrew a pair of long, dark jeans and pinned the jeans on the line. All the laundry hung straight down. The trees by the street looked as flat and lifeless as cardboard scenery in a grade school play. Beyond the street was a grassless lot where  broken down cars cringed and sweltered. There was a Ford and a Chevy and an old humpbacked Dodge. Some of the windows had been shattered. The shards of glass hung  together like puzzle pieces and glowered with the reflection of the fuming sun. The hoods were open like great, gaping beaks, exposing cannibalized engines.

In the shade beneath the front fender of the Dodge, Lila could see Randy Smith. His friends called him ‘Wrench’. He knew how to fix things. He went to Lila’s high school. Randy’s shape in the shade was more suggestion than substance. It made Lila think of an animal in a cave. Not a bear, but something sleek and shrewd – a wolf, perhaps, or a coyote or a fox. His legs were stretched in the sun and they were as long and hard and straight and lovely as red-brown shafts of cedar.

“Help me,” Lila’s mother said again. She looked at Lila, then she glanced across the field.

“There’s that boy,” she said. “That Randy.”

Lila’s mother did not like Randy. He and his friends could be loud and foul, and they worked on their cars late at night. Besides, it was Randy, people said, who had gotten Amanda Choppunish pregnant and caused her to leave school in her senior year. She’d left the Reservation for ten days in the spring, and she came back married to a boy from Pendleton. The boy was not as handsome as Randy. He was short and thick and pimply faced and looked something like a dusty badger.

You looking at him?” Lila’s mother said. There was accusation in her tone of voice. She stared at Lila, waiting for an answer.

“You said it was too hot to talk,” Lila answered.

“Help me, then,” her mother said.

Lila picked up a piece of clothing and went to the line. Again, she and her mother drifted like ghosts, bleakly devoted to the tired day. A second rare breeze hushed down from the hills, and a blouse belonging to Lila swelled out in front of Violet like a maternity gown. Lila breathed in, and the hot air stung her nostrils. She imagined that she could divine, on the breath of the wind, the scent of every person, every building, every house and tavern throughout the town. She could pluck he scents from the wind like petals and thorns from a single rose bush. She could even smell the chalky dirt and rusty ridge rock on the hills to the north, where Amanda Choppunish had lived, and the scent was like sand and gravel and broken glass.

Lila paused by the basket and gazed Into the field. She could see only parts of Randy and had to imagine the rest. That was like everything else in her life. In the dark, Lila thought, you can strike a match, and the glow will afford a jealous moment of guidance. But you will still not know the rest of the world all around. And that’s where the most important things live. In places where people cannot see clearly.

Lila’s mother stood behind her. She touched Lila’s shoulder. Lila jumped.

“That boy is no good,” she said.

“Neither is Lester,” Lila answered automatically.

She could sense the stiffening of her mother’s body.

“You’re defending him!” she accused, cocking her chin sharply toward the field.

“I’m not defending anyone,” Lila answered calmly. “I thought we were talking about Lester.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“I don’t want him here.”

“Lila,” her mother began.

“It’s not just me,” Lila pressed. “ Grandfather didn’t like him, either. He would never have let you bring him here.”

Violet Raven’s face froze. Her lips, pressed together, were pale, almost white, as if all the blood had drained from them like pigment from leaves in autumn.

“It’s easy to speak for the dead,” she told Lila. “You can have them say whatever you like.”

“But it’s true,” Lila insisted. She wished above all that her grandfather could speak. She wished he were here to help her.

“What’s true,” her mother said.

It was a statement, not a question.

She turned her back and walked away. This time, Lila pursued.

“You can’t tell me why you’re doing this,” she said, catching the sleeve of her mother’s blouse – repelled as she touched the fabric, so close to touching her skin, yet intent on stopping her, making her see. “You’re only doing it because you’ve nothing better to do. You’re only doing it because it’s convenient.”

Lila’s mother stopped. She turned around and placed her hands on her hips. Then she answered Lila’s question.

“Men are such bastards,” she said. “That’s why I’m marrying Lester, Lila. He’s the only man I’ve known in ten years who isn’t a total bastard.”

Instantly, Lila backed up. If she could move quickly enough, she thought, she could escape her mother’s words. Lila hated those kinds of words. But she did not move any further. Instead, she glared at her mother, trying to keep the hurt from her eyes by making them hard and hot and dry. Lila concentrated with all her spirit, trying not to show anything.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said. She shook her head, and her arms drifted back to her sides, suddenly as limp as the hanging laundry. She was very tired. She had been drinking again last night. It showed on her face. She and Lester had been drinking.

“I’m going in,” Lila said flatly.

“We’re not done here,” her mother answered, nodding toward the basket of laundry. “I’m sorry, but you’re old enough to know,” she said. “You’re fourteen, Lila. You’re old enough to know.”

For a long moment their eyes stayed locked together. Then Lila’s mother broke away and returned to the basket. In the distance, beyond her mother’s bent shoulders, Lila could see Randy walking between the cars in the field. He came into her hard, cold gaze like a long, sleek buck in the cross hairs of a rifle. His legs and arms glowed with a light film of sweat, and the muscles stood out in sculpted curves which Lila could not help but find fascinating in a strange, unwilling, uneasy way. She could not remove her eyes from the boy.

“What do you want me to do?” Violet Raven asked.

Lila’s attention returned to her mother. She had taken some of Lila’s underclothes from the basket.

“Don’t pin mine up there,” Lila said, a note of panic leaping into her voice as she glanced again at the field. “I can fix it myself in my room,”she added.

Her mother laughed. Just a short “ha”. She pinned a pair of Lila’s underwear on the line. Then she pinned up two bras. They hung straight down. Tiny, pink, disturbing.

Quickly, Lila turned and retreated to the house. She went to her room and shut the door tight, then sat in a chair by the window. She glared at her mother until her eyes began to sting, but her mother did not look  even once at the window. It was hotter in the room than it was outside. The close air throbbed with Lila’s thoughts.

In the field, Randy had hoisted himself onto the fender of the Ford. He seemed to be looking directly at Lila. His legs were swinging slowly and his bare heels thumped on the metal, producing a hollow, rhythmless drumbeat, like something knocking, unseen, in a fitful breeze. There was a radio propped on the fender, too. The music was tinny, almost tuneless, strange in the distance. One strain of melody chased the next in the wide open space. It made you want to listen. It made you want to get up and get close and make the song whole and clear in your mind.

Like Siyotanka music, Lila thought.

That was something her grandfather told her about. In her lifetime he had told her many stories, and Lila remembered every one because she had loved him very much. Stories travel on the wind, he’d said. Like pollen in spring. All a person needs to do is listen.

A Siyotanka is a flute made of cedar. It is used only for one sort of music. Love music. It is shaped and painted like a bird, with a wide open beak at the end, and the sound it makes is strange and mournful, like the moaning of a ghost – sad, fearful, hopeful, yearning. No woman, it was said, could resist the music. A man would play, and the woman of his choice would rise and walk. Her head would fight back, saying, “ Stop, go slow,” but her feet would say “Faster, faster.” In the end, the music always prevailed. The flute did all the talking.

That was Siyotanka music.

Lila’s view was disrupted by a red truck on the road. Lester had arrived. Lila’s mother dropped the laundry and met him in the driveway. He parked there as if he lived in the house. They kissed and then came Inside together. Lila could hear them talking and laughing, sitting together on stools in the kitchen. Outside, the radio still whined and wailed, and Randy’s feet drummed on the metal. From the highway above the town came a persistent humming of hydraulic machinery. Men were making something in the hills.

Lila got up and removed her blouse and put on a new one, dry and crisp.

“Lila?” her mother called from the kitchen.

She sat on the bed and pulled on her sandals. Then she went to the mirror and tugged a brush through her short, damp mop of hair.

“Come on, we’re going,” her mother called. Lester said something, too. There were footsteps at the front of the house, and laughter again, and music from the field.

Lila picked up her purse and opened the door. She walked quietly through the hallway to the back of the house and stepped out the door into the long, brittle grass. Then she moved swiftly to the gate in the fence. Grasshoppers flew up about her ankles.

Stop, feet, stop. Run, feet, run.






Thursday, March 10, 2016

Book Review

The other day I purchased a book called The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt. I did so after becoming aware of the storm it had set off between the general society of readers (the book has been wildly popular and won the Pulitzer Prize) and the 'guardians of true literature', as represented by those literary critics associated with The NY Times Book Review, the Paris Review, and other august and unimpeachable sources. Popular reviews received the novel with enthusiastic admiration, calling it a rare literary gem in an otherwise drab and redundant market - something that comes along only once in a very long while. The folks in the ivory towers said it was inept, embarrassing and juvenile.

Interesting.

Naturally, having been a literature major at university, I wanted to see for myself.

And so far, though only 100 pages into a 700 page story, I can say this much: I find the prose to be more than competent - in fact, often startling in its excellence, the sort of thing that inspires reluctant envy in wannabe writers. This author has brought a sharp intelligence to her narrative without being intellectually intrusive, and without disturbing the fabric and atmosphere of the story into which she has placed us. It does seem, as some reviews have noted, Dickensian in its completeness, in the fabrication of a world that seems, as long as we are reading, and even when we have left off reading, as real as the world we live in. Tartt has addressed real events, such as the death of a loved one, with an empathetic exactitude that is almost painful,  bringing to us in ringing words what we ourselves have felt but been unable to express. Most importantly, perhaps, Tartt has written a story, something that brings us along, something that we take part in as it unfolds; and this, in my view, is where writing becomes literature. One cannot help but feel, sometimes, that the 'literary establishment' would just as soon remove the story from the work of fiction - how embarrassing, after all, to tell something so common as a story about common people. Thank heavens Ms. Tartt's book is not 'literary' in this sense!

And so, based on 100 pages, my reaction is extremely positive. And I suppose I'll have more to say 600 pages from now.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Transport, Mister?

Upon exiting the airport terminal in Bali, or getting anywhere near the exit, one is immediately assaulted an army of taxi drivers. Each member in this army is equally unwilling to take no for an answer.

"Transport! Transport!"

You explain that a friend is coming to pick you up, but it doesn't matter.

"Where you live? Renon? I know Renon."

"Yes, but my friend will take me."

"No friend. I get you there quick."

One shoulders through multiple interviews as the drivers queue up, though each has surely heard what was said to the driver only seconds before.

"Transport, mister?"

Good grief.

KL

The first thing one notes upon stepping off a  flight from Bali to Kuala Lumpur is that he has suddenly reentered the modern world. Four lane freeways rush into the city, spilling their travelers into a neat and orderly street grid criss-crossing beneath the towering skyscrapers. Here is an actual plan for traffic flow, quite unlike the whimsical chaos of Bali roads, which seem to have been shaken well and tossed down rather than planned and arranged. At the sides of these streets are something they call "sidewalks", an ingenious invention which allows for the separation of pedestrians and motor vehicles. These two modes of conveyance intersect with things called "crosswalks". Astounding.

The second thing one notices is that there are very few motorbikes on the road. Gone is the buzzing and darting swarm which, in Bali, flutters along between, beside, behind and before the cars. Why there are so very few motorbikes, I do not know. Are cars cheaper? Are they merely more practical, given the more practical roads? Beats me.