Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Migration of Stones
In the dream, she is a young girl with bright eyes and soft hands. She turns and she is an old lady with grey hair and brown weathered skin. She turns and she is a young girl standing alone in the middle of the Mohave Desert. The dry land rolls for miles in every direction. Small clumps of yucca shimmer in the white heat. The air refuses to move. She is alone and she is filled with an incomprehensible sadness. Her parents are gone. Her sadness is deafening. She stands alone against the heat. In the distance, a man approaches on foot. He is far away and it takes him a long time. As he nears, she sees that he carries something in his hand. She cannot make out what it is. He closes in on her. He is a young man; he is an old man. He reminds her of Emilliano Santos de Jesus Parada, but it is not he. He wears an old blue shirt. His face is clear as water. She is not afraid. He carries an old burlap sugar bag. He approaches and stands in front of her. He empties the bag and stones of every variety fall at her feet. White chunks of quartz, black pieces of obsidian, rust colored meteorites. She drops to her knees and frantically tries to collect the stones. When she grabs one, two more appear and skitter away. She is frantic. She gathers a handful and drops them in the bag. Four more appear at her feet and roll away from her. The man in the blue shirt laughs.
“Hurry!” he whispers. “Hurry!”
***
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Patience
In the humid darkness of the trailer, she fumbled for the pack of Chesterfield Kings. She hit the pack against her left forefinger, pulled a cigarette out with her teeth, and inhaled the dry unlit cigarette deep into her chest. This was a ritual she’d learned from watching her father smoke.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Honor
“I want the student who is cheating on this test to stop doing so immediately,” Miss Alvarez echoed across the Spanish classroom.
A Squirrel Story
What's a six-letter word for squirrel?" my wife yelled from the living room as I was outside tending to my traps and snares.
Why People Hate Clowns
(In 1976 I had made the move from Tucson to Phoenix to work with the Arizona Commission on the Arts as a writer in residence. I had gotten a job funded through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act {CETA} that paid me to work on my craft, the only criteria being that I had to use some of my work week working with the community. I did poetry readings, workshops, held classes in a variety of locations, and developed a children’s program of storytelling and performance. For the children’s performance, I created a costumed character, The Miraculous Mr. Smith and his fantastic friend, Frank Frank, the honest fish. Cleaning out my studio recently, I found my costume and with it a plethora of emotions, from the sublime to the nauseating.)
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Married: The Party Spoon
Little He: Can we get some ice cream?
He: Did the fact that we are standing in front of a gelato store have anything to do with that question?
Married: The Green Deck Chair
He: Whatcha doin’?
She: Just enjoying sitting out here on the deck, reading my book, listening to the waves lap at my feet, feeling the cool breeze. Just loving being out here on the lake.
Married: The Dead Guy
She: How come you always park so far away from the store?
He: Easy ingress and egress, my dear.
Married: The Red Paint
He: What’s the matter?
She: I don’t want you to panic, but look at this towel.
Schooled: The Insult
Teacher She: Can this young lady sit in your class until the Dean comes to get her? She and another girl almost got into a fist fight in the middle of my class. I’ll keep the other one in my room.
Me: No problem. Have a seat, young lady.
Married: The Curtains
She: (mumbling softly) I wish someone would hang the new curtain rod in the living room window.
He: What did you say?
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Storytellers
He tried to remember. He pushed his hands deep into the darkness that was memory and tried to grab something, anything, and bring it to the surface. His hands groped in that black space, a blind boy walking in an empty house. He concentrated as hard as he could but the results were always the same.
Married: The Question
She: Can I ask you a question? Do these new jeans make my butt look big?
Me: Yes.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Las Cruces
The Chevy ran fine, but father was broken down in the motel room. In the café next door, I ate dinner with my mother and sister. I pushed quarters into the juke box, played the theme from Bonanza over and over. In two days we’d be in Tucson. My father was dying. He would not eat dinner with us.
Schooled: The Boyfriend
Me: Are you working hard or just being beautiful?
She: I have a new boyfriend!
Me: That's great.
She: Do you want to know his name?
Me: Not particularly.
She: His name is Steven Wachowski.
Me: That's wonderful. Is he Polish?
She: No, he's from New York.
She: I have a new boyfriend!
Me: That's great.
She: Do you want to know his name?
Me: Not particularly.
She: His name is Steven Wachowski.
Me: That's wonderful. Is he Polish?
She: No, he's from New York.
Searching for Sand Rubies
After the Tucson summer rains would fill the arroyos and washes around our house when I was young and the water would disappear as quickly as it came, I would walk along the damp, smooth sand searching for sand rubies. I would collect the small, dark red stones in a white handkerchief and bring them home to show my mother. I would unfold the cloth and lay it flat on the kitchen table. The rubies would glisten and dance against the white material like so many red birds.
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