The only question

We wake. We always do so long as we live. Questions, that must be given answers, barrage us from our first moments of arousal till we return once more to the passivity of slumber. Most of these answers are mindlessly handled, done away without effort. There is really only one question that demands our full attention, one worthwhile question a day. The trouble is that this question is never the same as the day before, or it is and we just can't remember that it is. Or, a worse fate yet, the only true question of the day gets buried beneath the mindless questions, caught in the back log of day to day life, this is the worst thing that can happen. Once a person's true question is stuck beneath all that is mindless and day to day it loses it's color, it can not be differentiated from the other questions. Sooner than one expects that true idea seems nothing more than a fanciful dream or whimsical pondering amongst it's remedial daily brothers and sisters. It's absence does not go unnoticed entirely though. We start to search for something, not knowing what it is exactly. We've lost something, we know, but just can't remember what that something is. As though a favorite book has gone missing from the shelf and there is now only an empty space that holds a vague memory of being cherished. So we start looking forward to that cyclical slumber in which we can enjoy our dream, that was once a question, without shame or embarrassment.

On Relearning.

Yesterday, my mother and I went hiking. The sun was high, as were our spirits, and we set out with unnecessary gusto, almost gambolling up the steep portion of tarmac that separates our house from the trail. A minute disaster soon struck. My mother, flushed and doleful, halted our progress and briefly fulminated against the futility of exercise. I paraphrase her sentiment: the trouble, she said, is that one never gets fit, for as soon as one is fit, one must stay fit--one never gets anything. The sufferings of Sisyphus were manifest. After this moment of frustration and doubt, we trooped on and, an hour later, successfully attained the piny, rock-patched summit. Below us spread the city and the sea, behazed with dwindling fog. Fitness seemed beside the point.

Our sole surviving house cat, Cherry, was ostracized from the house in January; my mother sealed the cat door, swept the house, brushed the couch, gave her bedclothes a good tumble in the washing machine, and welcomed in a life free of fur-clung clothing, drool-bedewed pillows, midnight meowings, and the hithering and thithering of our feline's suspect noctambulations. For a time, Cherry relentlessly sought ingress. A paw would squeeze itself beneath the door; a bang would startle us to the window; the chimney would omit an ominous rattle. And then one day Cherry's siege ceased. We decided that the door could once again be left open. Cherry paced about the doormat, stationed herself abreast of the threshold, sniffed at the phantom portal, and beat a puzzled retreat. For weeks no attempt to enter the house was made. The other day, however, Cherry magically appeared on the couch's armrest. We hissed her from the house. This seems to have been a big breakthrough for our cat; she now knows to enter when we are not watching, and we make a point of closing the door when we sally forth.

My point is this: everything is relearning. Whether tackling the scree-plagued perpendiculars of the National Forest hills in a losing attempt to maintain cardiovascular wellness or puzzling over the penetrability of air-made barricades, one must attempt and reattempt countless times in order to make progress; and progress, it would seem, is also a constant relearning: a stepping stone to a stepping stone.

When the going gets tough...

Be kind, rewind. Rewind the life you live like a lacy pattern. Pull out a corner thread and watch the whole thing disappear. Pull until you're left with nothing but a pile of string and knots and then you will have found the ground. This complex equation we're living within isn't expanding upon what we are already have, it's complicating it. When you've found the ground start digging, because honestly, who thought all the answers were in the sky? Get dirt beneath your fingernails and smell that sweet scent of living, breathing earth. Dig your toes in. Bury yourself. Count one minnesota two minnesota three and watch a new world grow up around you, and over you. Be apart of that new world in a way you have never been of this one. Let the earth feed off of you for a change. It's always take take take when it should be give give give. It's always work work work when it should be live live live.

The Ones Who Killed The Bear

The bear showed up on the fifth of May, a Saturday, and the first warm day of the year. The townsfolk were all gathered on the valley floor, at the lake, celebrating the approach of summer. Their children splashed in the green water, while they drank cheap beer and congratulated each other as only secretly competitive neighbors can. Their community was called Bear Valley and they were proud of it; they felt clever for avoiding city life. They slept with their doors unlocked, picked up hitchhikers, and sent their children to the bus stop alone. There were few sightings of the creatures for which the valley had been named, perpetuating the townsfolk’s belief that this carefree little place belonged to them. And yet, somewhere on Bear Mountain, an older presence stirred. Waking after three long months of hibernation, the bear was hungry.

While the townsfolk drank their beer, the bear ambled from his cave toward the nearest neighborhood. He smelled food and found a surplus of it, discarded carelessly in the townsfolk’s trash. The townsfolk argued local politics, while the bear feasted on their leftover dinners. Digging through used napkins and plastic wrapping, the bear uncovered secrets the townsfolk thought they had thrown away.

When the townsfolk arrived home, they found their lives strewn across their lawns. The town doctor’s trash was littered with used gambling stubs that blew through the air like fallen leaves. The sheriff’s garbage was peppered with what suspiciously resembled marijuana roaches. The principle of the elementary school had recently discarded a large selection of Playboys, which now lay torn and scattered across his yard, glossy and incriminating in the afternoon sun. The baker had been cooking more than just baked goods. The school nurse had used more than her share of complementary condoms.

The townsfolk were shocked. Only the neighborhood shut-in had an explanation of what had happened, and she shared her story with relish, basking in the sudden attention. The bear was big, she said, and would grow larger with food. When he stood to open the trashcans, he was taller than most men, and he crushed several of the cans under his weight. He noticed her once, she said, and he stared at her across her yard, curious and simply unafraid. Afterward, she ran back into her house, bolted the door, and began researching Black Bears on the internet.

“They can weigh up to 900 pounds,” she informed them. “They can run up to 30 MPH.”

Panic consumed them. Not only were their secret lives exposed now for the first time, but they had been revealed by a creature they knew nothing about. Without knowledge, the townsfolk resorted quickly to fear, which suited them well. They scurried around their lawns, trying in vain to clean up their mistakes, denying responsibility at the same time. At sunset, they locked their doors, and peered anxiously out their windows, suspicious of the bear or of each other, they didn’t know.

On Monday, two joggers thought they saw the bear lumbering towards them through the dawn, which sent them into hysterics. Though the “bear” turned out to be a neighborhood dog, jogging was suddenly deemed “no longer safe.” By Tuesday, rumors that the bear had ruthlessly chased two joggers had spread all over town. The townsfolk rushed to their local Kmart, and by Wednesday, every can of bear mace was gone.

Thursday arrived with a surprise. In the night, a fearful wife had assailed her husband with mace as he tried to soundlessly enter their home. She said she had mistaken him for the bear, but her reasons for his late return were unclear, so naturally, the entire town whispered the word “affair.” This somehow spurred a rumor that the bear could open doors, which left the townsfolk confused and terrified.

That evening, the bear was spotted by a couple who were barbequing steak. They were on their deck, enjoying their wine, when the bear appeared on their lawn. They dropped their glasses and rushed inside, alerting the police immediately. Cowering behind their windows, they watched as the bear consumed their meal. When the cops arrived, the couple told them they’d barely escaped a brutal attack.

“The bear was unprovoked,” they said. “We were only grilling steak.”

The next day, the townsfolk raced back to Kmart, this time in search of weapons. Men who’d never hunted a day in their life drove home with shotguns in their laps. Children were given high-pitched whistles. Everyone was encouraged to stay indoors. The Bear Valley police issued an official curfew, ignoring the fact the bear had only been seen in daylight. The townsfolk ordered bear traps and purchased bear repellant in bulk. They brought their pets in at night and walked their children to the bus stop. No one considered such precautions extreme, nor did they expect what would come from them.

That Sunday, the youth group at the church was broken up following the shrill sound of a whistle. Though questioned, the frightened children wouldn’t explain except to say they had not seen the bear. The priest in charge refused to comment and no one knew what to do next.

By Monday, school was cancelled. Though the bear had been unseen all weekend, the fear surrounding him had grown. Though the townsfolk had learned much about each other, they focused only on the bear, certain that he was the root of all their troubles. They longed for the times before the bear’s arrival, before they were scared, back when they could still trust one another. Now, they padlocked their trashcans, suspected their priest, and feared their own backyards. The townsfolk considered each change a product of the bear’s coming and they resolved to see the end of him, once and for all.

That evening, the bear returned. Still hungry, he ventured deeper into the neighborhood. With the townsfolk driving home from work, the bear tore into a henhouse, aspiring for a meal of chicken. When the birds reacted with aggression, the bear lost interest, following his nose to a nearby patch of recently unearthed dirt. Digging down, the bear found more than he’d bargained for.

A shot rang out, loud and clear in the approaching night. The shut-in held a rifle in her surprisingly steady hands, gun smoke curling out the end of the barrel. The bear looked confused as he fell to the ground, the look in his eyes anything but peaceful. The townsfolk surrounded them in an instant. Their anticipated happiness tasted bitter as they observed the fallen bear, as massive now as he had been in their dreams, only far less frightening. The shut-in lowered her rifle slowly. The sheriff approached the bear. A gasp arose from the crowd just as the sheriff tripped, right where the bear had bear had been digging. Protruding from the dirt, grotesque and pale, was a human hand. Utterly silent, the townsfolk stared between the fallen bear and each other, suddenly uncertain which was worse.

Welcome home.

Space is bizarre isn't it? I'm so glad that I have this medium through which I can move comfortably, and even better, this little bit of it belongs to me. I just bought a box to live in for the month. A box with windows and a view a fence that looks like the sky. It's connected to a living room and to a kitchen but it's so much more. I can go in and out of this space and it'll hold for me, hold me, or things I care about. I can create worlds inside of it and I can make plans to come back to it when I leave. I can relax in the box that I've bought, because I know that no one is going to try and take it away from me today. I don't own this chair, but I'm free to use it as much as I want. I have a door, which is amazing not because that means I can close it but because I can open it to the world. I have housemates, and they have me. I have a space, and you are welcome to share it with me.

When you want a friend.

Everyone has been there. A dear friend who could be just a little more intimate, hopefully. Suddenly every hug and random brushing become a possible sign, but it's not really clear. To make a move or not to make a move? Oh bother. If only the weren't such a wonderful friend.

Somewhere between the hookah and me.

I don't remember how I got to the couch last night. All I do remember is that I had to take my shoes off to get there. Then, apparently, I proceeded to crawl across the floor from chair I'd started on to the couch that would be my bed. Bless that red, velvety couch.

I wish I could say that there was a novelty factor to not remembering what I did last night but, sadly, I spend a lot of time not remembering so it was really just another episode, another memory lost to the unorganized archives.

So what can I do? What else can someone do. Try their damnedest to recreate the frickin' thing :).