Portraits pt. 3

it's meant to be funny
what you don't think you know
hidden inside of
behind the face or underneath
looking out
the composition is undisclosed
beyond four walls

where is the light
shining with little depth
on emotions
two dimensions of unreality
or a truer vision
of inspired candidness
stitched together
for a memory

If you love something Pt. II

A yellow eye with a dilated pupil looked back at me. It was a warm day in early August but already the smell of fall dampness permeated the forest. I thanked the chicken for the eggs that it had given me and stroked it's silky feathers a few more times. Then I placed this hen, this living creature, on the ground in the shade of a tree and walked away. If you love something set it free, but that's not really what was happening. What did I just do and why did it not sit quite right with me?

I remember when I got this chicken, it's quite humorous and worth relating. During the previous summer I had worked part time at the State Park. It was a part time job, the duties were negligible but the interactions with people made it worthwhile. One such friendship knew of my chicken keeping ways and asked me one day, 'are you interested in about twenty free chickens?' I thought about it, perhaps not long enough, and said yes. Now I had to pick up these chickens which presented a problem, I had no idea how to get them from point A to point B. Some ideas were bandied about but in the end the back of my pick-up truck became a rather large chicken cage. A piece of fencing was fastened to a couple two by fours, which was then stretched across the top of the truck bed.

On the day I was meant to pick up the chickens I called my friend to come along, promising a ridiculous experience. He was game. We arrived at a farmhouse about ten miles west of town and I rang the doorbell. After some niceties were exchanged she told us to drive through their yard and park near the fence. Upon parking I immediately noticed that the chickens were running around loose and not in the coop as I had hoped. In addition to the chickens in the barnyard there were also turkeys, guinea hens, pigs, goats, and cattle. Slowly the family filtered out of the back door of their house and a strategy was discussed. Those of you who have seen an adult human chasing chickens realizes the level of folly involved in this endeavor. This foolishness is only made more apparent by doing it with people you just met. Slowly the back of the truck began filling with the clucking of confused chickens. Upon a quick inspection, there were substantially more than twenty chickens and such a motley bunch could only be the result of a child-like indulgence in the many flavors of chicken. The owner of these chickens then asked me if I was interested in some guinea hens, if not, how about a goat? I politely declined, already feeling overwhelmed at the amount of chicken filling the back of my truck.

It feels like it should be against the law to speed down the highway at sixty five miles per hour with the back of your truck full of chickens. Sometimes the comic nature of reality can be too much for me and I giggle uncontrollably. This was one of those times. Upon arriving home the back of the truck was emptied and hosed out. While moving the chickens out of the truck it was determined that there were indeed forty and not twenty. It was clear that that many chickens could not be supported all winter in addition to the current flock so a decision was made to put half in the freezer. But how to choose? There was one group of six chickens that were clearly bred for laying eggs due to their small bodies and unappetizing looking breasts. They were buff colored with small combs and wattles; I never did take the time to identify their breed. These chickens were spared. The life of a chicken is more complex than most people realize, sure they have a limited vocabulary (eight to twelve meaningful terms depending on who you talk to) but a complex social order does exist and a daily routine. For almost a year these chickens were a part of the flock, surviving such ordeals as owl attacks and engaging in those essential activities such as scratching and pecking the ground.

My mother was the first to notice that one of these chickens wasn't acting right. Upon further investigation I saw that it wasn't acting at all. You could walk right up to it in broad daylight and it stood there glassy eyed. Pick it up and it still just starred off into the distance. I moved it into the shade and set a food and water dish in front of it. It pecked at the food but in a kind of sideways way with closed beak that insured no food would enter. A decision was made to quarantine the chicken away from the others. Chicken illnesses are often incomprehensible. It was clear a flock full of listless glass eyed chickens, although child friendly, was not desirable. After several days with no changes in the chickens condition a decision had to be made. Choice one: kill the chicken. Choice two: take the chicken out to the woods and set it free. Both choices clearly have the same result: death. I kill chickens often but I kill to eat. This was different.

I've never killed out of mercy, it doesn't seem right. In retrospect I wish I would have. I condemned that chicken to death even if I didn't do it with a knife. Instead another animal would surely find it in the night, kill it and drag it off to feed. On a certain level this scenario appeals to my sensibilities, 'survival of the fittest'. Chickens are not designed to survive though. Especially a chicken stricken with illness. Was this chickens end more painful due to her natural euthanasia? I think so. On another level it was about keeping hope alive, not admitting to myself the doomed nature of this chicken.

As I walked away I felt my cowardice. I looked back at the chicken, hoping to see it sense the dire nature of it's fate and come following after me in a heart wrenching turnabout. The last minute call from the governor that saves the inmate on death row. The voice of God calling to Abraham telling him to spare Isaac's life. Instead, it continued blankly looking straight ahead. I returned the next day to find my chicken had vanished.

Bridge Jumping

I started messing around with this tonight. I think it's slightly based off Anna and Joe.... I can't wait to go swimming this summer.

Headlights threw their bodies’ shadows onto the pavement. Their bare skin was exposed to the harsh yellow light and each others’ eyes as thet stripped down to their skivvies on the shoulder. It was a forty foot drop from the bridge but in the dark when you looked down it seemed to just go on .

“So what do you think?” He rubbed his hands together and jumped up and down in place. “I don’t know if it looks deep enough.”

“Ok, fuck it I’m going.”

Her skin contracted into goose bumps when the terry cloth left her body and the night air whispered around it. She climbed the railing, self conscious of her body on display. She balanced, pushed one shin against the rail and curled her big toe around the top bar for support. She didn’t process the space between the water and her feet, instead she was aware of the water’s blackish purple hue and the motion of the waves beneath. She placed one foot in the air and tensed the other against the rail. As she pushed off she caught his eye . She was going down. The blood rushed through her veins as the lines of his face echoed in her head; she was falling. Before she registered anything else her body hit water hard and it was all over. Dark water was above and below her. Her body bobbed to the surface and air hit her lungs. She pushed the blanket of hair from her eyes. “Wooh!” Her voice cut through the humid night air and reverberated in her head as the waves rhythmically pushed her body, pressing it in one direction then the other. She righted herself in the water and looked up at him. He stood at the edge looking down .

“Wait a sec.” He climbed the rail and, without a pause, let go and turned over in to the water’s surface like someone turns over in bed.

“Fu…” his body’s side hit the lake hard.

“Shit. Are you ok?” Her voice came out in choppy breaths as she swam to his side.

Breathing quick shallow breaths, adjusted himself into the new environment and rubbed his arm. “Dear God.”

“Are you ok?”

“…Yeah”
“You hit hard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone hit that hard before.”

“Yeah? We’ll, if you’re going to do it.” His face pinched in pain as he attempted to swim in the direction of the bank.

On the gritty bank the two of them wrapped themselves in the yellow towels, and sat under the bridge. Light from the moon reflected off the water and illuminated the contours of their faces as they sat in obvious silence and picked at their sand incrusted feet.

She started. “So, what were you going to say before?”

“Nothing”, he said hopefully and went back to playing with the bit of wire he found tangled in the water. “This is a wire-bending jig. I can‘t believe someone just left it here”

She didn’t comment.

“These pegs can be moved, see? Then you bend the wire around them anyway you want. There are all kinds of curves and angles. I could make you a braclet. Want a bracelet?”

She leaned back a laid her fingers across her eyes, cooling them. “Sorry you got hurt. You’re going to be sore tomarrow.”

“I‘m fine. Hey, I got it. A nose ring. Want a nose ring?”

When she opened her eyes she found a curve of wire nearly touching her nose, giving off a gray smell, sharp at one end. She batted it away. “Why are you trying to distract me?

He looked surprised “Well, I just,,,I don’t know.” He started measuring out wire.

“How can you play around with little bits and pieces of wire like you’re completely at ease right now.”

“I‘m not-”

“Yesterday, my housemates warned me.”, she said. “They told me straight out you would hurt me.”

“Oh, did they?” He looked at her and went back to bending wire.

“Why are you acting this way”

“I’m not acting anyway” He adjusted a peg on the jig and turned a right angle.

“I’m sorry.”, She said finally.

“That’s alright.”

“Come on.” She started to stand up.

“I should’ve known.”, he told her. “I didn’t believe you’d come away with me in the first place.”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m already getting pulled. My friends don’t like me with you. I don’t like that.”

“I don’t want to pull on you.”

“But then they’re the only ones pulling, and they’ll win”

“Is that the only way you go anywhere? Being pulled?”

She was silent.

“Alright”, he said. “I’d like you to be with me. It’s important. It’s more important than doing what they say.”

But she went on watching his face.

“Well how am I suppose to do this”, he asked her throwing up his hands. I don’t feel comfortable saying things straight out.”

“You say things straight out.”

“No”, said he mock-solemly. “ I shy. I not talk so good but I give swell presents.”

Then he handed her his wire. A stick figure wearing her triangular towel, looking so straight backed and light hearted that even a tribesman in darkest Africa could tell that someone cared for her.

The Universe Will Provide

If you love something, let it go
give it freedom, the blood of life
let it stand, fall and sense
that calculus reconstructs without edit
the error of humanity
'Abandon hope, those who enter'
the rivers Lethe or Ganga

If it comes back to you, it's yours
Caloo! Caleigh!
the green grass of home
opens shutters, stuffy rooms
unpossess the undesired
rejoice the rehearsal of movement
a pale sea star on a desk

If it doesn't, it never was
a case of mistaken identity
does it matter?
is either outcome preferred?
when you have let it go
nothing is ever yours, but it is

(inspired by a conversation with Anna between Akeley and Motley)

In My Secret Life

Sometimes I read Michelle's diary. When I do this I feel a bit naughty but I also find it very exhilarating. Stolen glimpses into her inner workings. The thrill of being caught doing something I'm clearly not supposed to do. Worrying that this betrayal of trust would horrify her and ultimately undermine our relationship. But I can't stop. Like all good egoists I skip through the diary skimming for the word William. The special way that she makes the W's. I'm like an addict, waiting for her to write more, only so I can consume it. Gorging myself on her thoughts only to hurriedly put them back under the bed as I hear her feet on the wood floor coming back to her room.
I almost feel like I'm involved in a soap opera that exists only within the confines of her mind. One day she is in love with me. The next day? I am scum. Sometimes this is reflected in the amateurish poetry that fills many pages. Some examples:

Roses are Red
Williams a tool
Do I love William?
no, he's a fool


Wonderful
Ironic
Limber
Lovely
Impressive
Awesome
Magnificent

Given our scheduling I only get to read about the ups and downs of her secret life once a month but it is somehow so satisfying to relive the ups and downs of an entire month in one sitting.