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Cracking the Hope

6/25/2016

Promised once upon a time

A sure lie
Sold like no crime.
Fraud insisting
A pollution persisting,
"There are worlds in every hue,
But none
You'll ever belong to.
If ever welcomed
Remain aware,
Consider acceptance
Murder -- beware!
Every kind lovely
Is plotting a stealthy
Stabbing knife
Into the back.
Kindness is camouflage;
Concealed they attack.
The world's a nightmare
Without compare,
But feel no despair
For this is just
The first lesson I'll share."

Told what's best,
And too young
To protest,
Or even dare to test
The limits of illogic
Benefiting ironic
Promises to preserve from pain
Steadily
Driving insane.

These lessons lessening...

Stirring a spoon
In hopes the moon
White and creamy
Will rise soon
Then try
Shooting the sky
And if in need
Offer a breed
Of unreasoned why:
To see if the lunar
Will rain silver.

Cab ride on the Lakeshore Drive
Breathe the glass opaque
And trace a sense of a silhouette
Reminiscent of a reflection
Lingering until
The next rider arrives
Who, disgusted by the view,

Wipes away
Any proof of being.
Nothing left to say...

Closer to zero
Consult the tarot...

Climb from the gutter
Following the mutter,
Remember the trickle,
Whisper, theatrical,
Echoes
In the mind's hollow.
Steered by riddles
No longer feeling brittle
Ready to challenge
The Devil's fiddle.
Outplay the decline
Slick slope slowly killing
Now rising to shine.
How well
The gypsy divined,
"All truths are true
In the eye of the beholder,"
Said
As her own smolder,
"But no soul
Is interchangeable.
Just as
Sets of gears
Can be
Incompatible."

...and though the internet bred
What the gypsy fed
Some questioning
Isn't worth risking
Sight of the flaws
Cracking the hope...

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Scarecrow: She Walks Alone

6/18/2016

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Images are always evocative. No one can see something without it affecting them. It doesn’t really matter how, or how much, seeing something influences you. But for all the beauty, horror, and wonderful weird in the world, dreamlike images are what most people seek. There’s a preference for the unreal, especially, almost paradoxically, when the unreal seems like a reality.

2014 saw the release of a movie entitled A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night. Written and directed by Ana Lily Amirpour, the film has, since then, appeared on several top ten lists. Go to any website dedicated to horror, and you’ll find someone cataloguing it as a must see. I remember reading rave reviews, being intrigued by the trailer, and walking by the poster at my local cinema thinking, "I'll see it tomorrow...tomorrow..." However, it wasn’t until recently I finally got a chance to watch this movie.

On the one hand, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is beautifully shot. There are so few films that are simply a pleasure to look at. This is one of them. Several shots can be frozen, and stand alone, telling stories by themselves. And I enjoyed the surrealism, a distorted world not wholly warped, but not quite the reality we inhabit, though still unsettling familiar – the world we’re unaware we occupy. The aforementioned images and sense of real unreal is accomplished not only thanks to skillful direction, but an excellent cast, particularly the hauntingly beautiful eyes of Sheila Vand, who plays the titular character. Yet, the other hand, which held me back somewhat, is a lack of story. The plot is thin as a frame of toothpicks, and I held that against the movie, perhaps because I wanted to know more. It’s an odd criticism to make that what mysteries the movie aroused should be held against it.

Minimalist storytelling is nothing new, especially in film. Jim Jarmusch has been doing it masterfully for years. When handled skillfully, thin threads offer just enough to guide the audience without cementing anything about the events or the characters therein.

What I’m getting at is I wanted more, and being so desirous I failed to realize I hadn’t been told what to think. A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night doesn’t restrict the interpretation of events or characters. Whatever a viewer chooses to believe, given the bare bones available, is true because there is no contradictory evidence, only contrary speculations. As Vladimir Bartlot might put it, “Nothing is an absolute reality, everything is permitted.” The thing I failed to keep in mind is that this movie is a dream much in the same way David Lynch films are. And dreams can have many meanings.

The movie is intriguing, to say the least, and whether you end up enjoying it or not, I recommend viewing it at least once. The imagery it presents is bound to stir the imagination.

It certainly stirred mine.

Lyrics for She Walks Alone:

She seems such a kind soul
That’s why nobody knows
Until her fangs show
How well her evil flows

In a city wicked to the bone
Bad’s the only name it’s known
She walks alone

Black cloak flutter
On a skateboard fly
She’s one with the night
A star in the sky
She treats the lonely like a mirror
One that reflects
But doesn’t tear

In a city wicked to the bone
Bad’s the only name it’s known
She walks alone

Whispers to the wicked
Tonight you die
Never worries
a reason why
Cuz the innocent know the terror
Of when she plays the nightmare

In a city wicked to the bone
Bad’s the only name it’s known
She walks alone

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Blood on the rainbow: a reaction to the Orlando Shooting

6/14/2016

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Homosexual. Gay. Sissy. Fairy. Queer. Queen. Pervert. Faggot… victim... brother... sister... friend... family...

Society applies any number of words to homosexuals. Unfortunately, the worst terms come the most easily. Terms like strong, enduring, persistent, unflappable, those fall by the wayside. Even in the face of adversity homosexuals are relegated by many into a group in need of outside acknowledgement, as if these people are part of a world outside the world in need of the permission of others to be considered human. Just think about how often in conversation mentioning someone being homosexual immediately elicits a phrase such as, “there’s nothing wrong with that;” or, “I’m okay with that.” And sure, there may be other reasons why such statements are made, yet the need for whatever reason says something about the social perception of gay people. Feeling compelled to point out that you're okay with a particular group suggests that there is a prevailing animosity towards them: they are regarded in the context of their vilification more often than their humanity; some feel a need to point out they're okay with a person being homosexual because it's socially permissible to openly despise them. That's a shameful fact.

Those who died in the Orlando mass murder are human beings killed by a person trying to inflict what can be called the assassin’s veto: an attempt to silence a life style or opinion through violence. All that matters when it comes to what occurred is that people have died. However it can, and will be, politicized is irrelevant. 50 people died. That is a fact. It cannot be changed, though the hope exists that it may change us.

Decent people want to do the best now. They want to slap phrases alongside hashtags; they want to scream at politicians’ Twitter feeds; they want to act like they have some control over the chaos. The truth is we have no idea how to protect ourselves from this nightmare.

The government has acknowledged this as a domestic terrorist attack. The ideology behind why is only semi-relevant; it only matters as far as historical documentation for the sake of specificity. This mass killing only matters in one regard: 50 people were murdered for being who they are.

There are those who have tried (and are still trying) to snuff out homosexuals around the world, but now those people have a choice to make. That path now means siding with terrorists who seek to kill innocent people for simply living their lives. As such, in a strange sad way, this may be a great moment in the history of gay rights. Either you think it is okay to kill people for being gay, or you don’t. It’s that simple, yet it gets even simpler. If you think it's wrong to kill people, period, then you have to stand in support of the LGBT community... unless you don't think they're people.

May those who have died rest in pride. They did not deserve this. No one does, but for now they are the ones to be mourned because they are the victims. Yet, though there is blood on the rainbow it's still flying.

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Silence Becomes Permission -- Court Protects Rapist -- Silver Threads (Maybe) Brighten the Future

6/9/2016

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Back in high school, we got called down to the gymnasium for an assembly. The gymnasium also doubled as an auditorium, and we watched as a woman in her twenties took the stage. She started to talk about a date she went on in college. It was obvious, to me, from the way she talked, her body language, the growing tremor in her voice, her speech was building to an exceedingly uncomfortable point. She did her best to keep moving the story forward, though she took a roundabout way, still not able to go directly to the tragic conclusion: she was raped. Her story is not mine to tell, so I won’t go into the details. What I will say is that throughout her brave retelling the two young men in front of me, both seniors, would not stop saying things like “oh my god she is so hot I want to fuck her.” Piggish as this behavior was, what really got under my skin was after she recounted her assault, stating outright she had been raped, one of the young men said to the other, “Who wouldn’t rape her? She’s hot.” To which his companion chuckled and said, “I would.”

To this day I regret not following through with my desire to take the pen out of my pocket, and stab them both in the neck… yet that statement, bold as it may seem, is meaningless because I said nothing. I did nothing. I said nothing. Sometimes I wonder what became of those two.

Normally I try not to hit the headlines for topics. It feels like click-baiting, and often there are others who can say what needs be said better than I can. For instance, I recently became aware of the years of sexual, mental, and physical abuse suffered by performers at Chicago’s Profiles Theatre, a once proud part of the storefront theatre community is now shown to have been the hunting grounds of a despicable vermin, who’s greatest acting role seems to have been masquerading as a human being; however, I can’t tell that story any better than this article from The Reader. So why put my two cents in, especially when everyone else is clamoring to shout the same thing? In other words, if enough people are carrying the torch, why should another set of hands join the effort?

The answer: because sometimes every voice is needed even if the sound and fury amount to one. Yes, the largest amount of people should gather in support of a cause they believe in, but that doesn’t mean everyone gathered needs to speak. Sometimes the cacophony drowns out the most eloquent voices. Yet, there are instances which require everyone to take a clear and definitive stand. Not because every voice is technically necessary, but because the despicable nature of events should cause such a visceral reaction in a person that there is no other choice except to decry whatever vileness has occurred, a vitriolic word vomit spewed at the grotesque.

The indefensible rape committed by Brock Turner is one such instance. In a way, it is sadly a perfect storm of events. Not only does the case demonstrate the nightmarish realities of rape culture, from Brock’s offensively light sentence, the "reasoning" for the lesser sentence, and then the despicable letter by his father, in essence excusing his son’s atrocious actions, but oddly enough it shows some thin silver threads at the edge of the cloud. Brock got caught because two people saw him assaulting the victim, and they took action. As such he was caught, and convicted, a tragically uncommon occurrence in most rapes. In addition, though she has said little, what the survivor has put forth is a powerful statement (which I defy anyone to read without tears):

"At the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened."

Her voice, perhaps, then inspiring an excellent response to Dan Turner's ridiculous letter. Above all else, there is no debating what happened: Brock Turner raped someone, he is a rapist; so all conversations about the event orbit that point.

Where we go from here is another matter entirely.

I’m drawn back to my earlier recollection. I can imagine this young woman bravely stepping to a podium somewhere in the future, and recounting her story to an audience. I wonder if they’ll listen with empathy, or if there will be another pair of chortling pigs making rape jokes. If you’re sitting behind them say something. The time to speak out isn’t just when the crowd is gathered, and it feels safe. If you want your voice to say something that matters, it will never matter more than in that moment.

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Why I Quit: Security Guard

6/4/2016

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“Incoming!”

We ran for cover. Most of us made it. Teddy… grenades are unforgiving. But there’s no time for tears.

“On the left! On the left!”

“There’s too many.”

What was it Shakespeare said? Something like: “The fire-eyed maid of smoky war all hot and bleeding will we offer them.”

“Where are they coming from?”

“Cover me.”

“I’m hit. I’m fucking dying!”

Poor kid, first time in gets dropped right in the shit.

“Where’s our backup?”

“They’re coming. Keep firing.”

“What’s that sound?”

“That’s my phone. Hang on a sec.”

“We’re in the middle of an alien invasion. You can’t answer your phone.”

“Can and will.”

Hit mute so I don’t hear the other gamers litany of rape-related insults. Or god forbid the person on the phone hears them. A bit of chitchat before I hear the gold I’m anxious for. Hang up smiling, and jump back to the game.

“Hey, guys. I got a job.”

“Fuck you. Nobody cares. What the hell is that?!”

#

The company wanted clean cut, professional looking people, preferably with any type of military background, but they settled for me. There’s a certain victory in soothing such desperation. Not as glamorous as being the best, but I’ll take a tarnished crown. After miraculously passing a drug test, I cut my hair, shaved my beard, and donned my uniform.

My marching orders sent me to a gated community in Buffalo Grove. The sign out front read Paradise Circle, and the gate honestly didn’t look able to stop a loud fart. Stuffed into a coffin sized booth, I spent most of my shift waving to residents and opening the gate, doing my best to smile while an uncomfortable stool seemed to slide further and further up my ass. The job could’ve been done by a machine, but it’s my experience people prefer flesh and blood servants. Yelling at tech just doesn’t provide the same sense of superiority as bitching out human beings. That said, I got some reading done, the pay kept my bills from rising against me, and so I settled in.

Part of the job required driving around in this off-white sedan to check the streets. Playing the part of living home monitor, I idled through Paradise Circle keeping a vigilant eye out for burglars, fires, and whatever myriad worries plague homeowners. Then back to the coffin-booth to lodge the peg in my ass, lean into the ground, and turn a few more pages.

Honk, honk. Wave to Mr. Marquette, open the gate, and back to the book. Phone rings; noise complaint. Some teenagers are throwing a party over on Fiesta Boulevard, so off I go to tell them: “Hey, here’s the deal. I come first, but this keeps up the real cops get called, and nobody wants that. Ergo, this is what can happen: you keep it down, and next time you party I’ll buy you the booze… good stuff not this shit beer you idiots got cuz you have no taste. Alright?” And silence reigns once more. Contented by success, I return to my one man rampart to keep watch over the feudal lords.

When I get back, however, I notice the gate is wide open.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I speed through the neighborhood keeping an eye out for anything unusual. Fortunately, it isn’t long before I spot a guy stumbling down the street in a pink and purple toga. The tiny crown aslant on his head is eye catching as well, though not as much as the drooping pair of wings he has. They look like a dragonfly’s. Every time he passed under the light of a streetlamp, the wings shimmer like the rainbow in an oil slick.

Pulling up alongside him, I cruise with my window rolled down until he notices me. His eyes have heavy bags. The lines in his face suggest a permanent scowl, though some wrinkles hint he might’ve been inclined to routine grins once upon a time.

Waving a bottle of vodka at me he says, “No concern yaself rent-a-cop.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.” He takes a swig from the bottle. Coughing, he drools a bit when he continues, “Ain’t no problem yours. Ain’t no problem like this motherfucka – lemme tell you. I say it, I mean it.”

“Coo cool. I’d pay less attention to you if I could get some of that vodka.”

He stops walking. I stop the patrol car. Swaying in place, an eyebrow cocked high as he can, he holds up the bottle:

“This bottle?”

“That bottle.”

“You want summa dis?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How ‘bout you suck my dicks al at once?”

“You want me to suck your dicks?”

He grins, “Hey, if ya offering.” Pulling up the toga he flashes what can only be described as an echidna penis at me.

My curiosity definitely peaked I ask, “What’s the plan this evening? Where you headed?”

Laughing, hands lost in the folds of his toga, he glares down the road. He opens his mouth, gets cut off by a gag, but shakes it off before flying into the sky. Once I got over him flying away, it wasn’t hard to follow the glittering shower of gold sparkles trailing after him.

I find him on Pilgrim Pass. He’s banging on a door with his fist, and shouting at the top of his lungs:

“Bill! Bill Stevenson! You get out here Bill.”

The lights in the house come on. I get out of the car. The front door opens. A thirty something man and his wife stand there in their pajamas. I’m too far away to hear what they say at first, however, it seems like they’re oddly familiar with the drunk screaming at them.

Approaching the scene I’m more interested in how it’s going to play out instead of how to resolve the situation.

Bill Stevenson says, “For the last time, you are not welcome here. Get off my property.”

Bill sounds like someone more used to fighting over the phone than face to face, able to batter customer service reps, but not pierce skin. His words don’t even phase the drunk.

The winged drunk sez, “Ya whan-me gone? I’m not gonna. I’m comin’ in dis house, and I am takin’ ya kidz teeth. Pig fucker.”

This statement inspired me to chime in, “What is going on here?”

Bill’s wife, not exactly hiding behind her husband so much as blocked from full participation by him, peers up over his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here. Please remove this individual from our property.”

“Ima individ-u-all bitch.” The drunk chugs vodka. Swallowing hard he glares at Bill, slow blinks, smirks, then pukes.

Looking at me Bill points at him, “Do your job.”

I nod. Placing a hand on the doubled over drunk, “Come on buddy. Let’s...” – the vodka bottle hits me in the temple.

“Haiya!” The drunk dances in the puke puddle, “Now tuh get dat kidz teeth. Teeth!”

“Maureen call the police – the real police.” I hear Bill say, and am tempted to help the drunk get their kid’s teeth. The bottle blow staggered me a second, but it only takes that long to get focused again. Bill is standing in the doorway like a boulder in silk. The drunk is glaring at him, wings occasionally fluttering angrily, all the while swaying as if standing on the ocean. Faintly I can hear Maureen on the phone calling the cops.

I hold up my hands, “Okay, everybody calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you what is going on,” Bill says, “This person has been harassing my family for years.”

The drunk spits at him. It doesn’t go far, mostly just glops down his chin. Shaking his head the drunk says, “You deny my existence. I’m standing right here, and you deny it.”

Bill folds his arms across his chest, “We don’t deny your existence. You’re standing right here. My wife and I just don’t believe in what you do.”

“Oh! my religion is fucking stupid now.” The drunks looks at me as if I have any better understanding of the situation and will now agree with him.

“That is not what I said,” Bill insists, “But as long as we’re on the subject, again, what are the teeth for?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Bill. I haven’t collected enough… to find out. Maybe you lemme get ya kidz teeth I can find out, come back tell ya. Sound good?” And the drunk starts walking towards the front door.

Grabbing him by the wrist I say, “Hold on there.”

He swings the bottle at me, but this time I’m expecting it. Ducking the attack I kick his legs out from under him. He falls to the ground like a wet pile of laundry. Turning him over I secure him with a zip tie which isn’t easy given how his wings keep slapping me in the face.

All the while he shouts, “Ya fuckin’ with my faith and my money, muthafucka… I know people. I know bunnies. You gonna get fucked you up.”

Once he’s plastic shackled, I pull him to his feet, and dump him in the backseat of the patrol car. Then I head back to check on the Stevensons. Maureen peers out from behind her husband.

She says, “The police are on their way.”

I nod, “Then I’ll wait here for them. They can take, uh…” – pointing with my thumb.

Bill informs me, “He’s a tooth fairy.”

Maureen adds, “We let our son do the whole tooth fairy thing once, and now they won’t leave us alone.”

“I see.”

Bill says, “We don’t believe in it. What’s the point really?”

Glancing over my shoulder I see the tooth fairy banging his head against the window. Not hard – the frustrated thumping of defeat. I can’t help wondering if he was always like this, or if once upon a time he used to be of a sunnier disposition. Imagine what it’s like to have people telling you that you don’t matter, indirectly or otherwise, kindly or blunt; and being expected to smile politely when they do. Eventually, that would make anyone mean.

The cops arrive. I hand over the tooth fairy. They roll their eyes. Apparently they arrest two or three a week for similar disturbances. The tooth fairies aren’t always drunk, some are high, and some are just desperate, breaking into kids’ rooms with pliers, fueled by the fear they’re letting their gods down. I don’t pretend to understand their faith, but it isn’t any stranger than most others – deities limbed to the point of being arachnids, ceremonies that sound like cannibal feasts, denying decent people alcohol, et cetera, et cetera; madness ad infinitum. A whole way of life is dying off, and no one even pretends to care. Like I said, that’s bound to turn anyone mean eventually.

A few days go by. I’ve stopped thinking about the tooth fairy. I’m sitting in my tiny booth when I catch a sound like a low flow hose pouring on the roof. Liquid trickles down one window pane. I duck out of the booth. Looking up I see the drunk tooth fairy hovering above, peeing on it.

Twirling in the air, laughing madly, spraying piss all over he shouts, “How ya like me now?”

I’m tempted to laugh too until I see the bunnies coming, knives in their mouths. I get in the patrol car, and just drive. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, I quit.

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Cracking the Hope

Scarecrow: She Walks Alone

Blood on the rainbow: a reaction to the Orlando Shooting

Silence Becomes Permission -- Court Protects Rapist -- Silver Threads (Maybe) Brighten the Future

Why I Quit: Security Guard

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