ONE
One night, a man and his lover drove home from a bar with a third man,
all with the intention of having wild sex. But the two lovers argued,
and the third man got out at a stop-light.
The first man, unwilling to argue further with his lover, seeing not the point, got upon his bike, drunk, cans of spraypaint in his pockets. It was a sunday night, and he decided, since he was not going to have wild sex, he should better the world.
The next morning, five city blocks full of people, stumbling out in the morning to go to work, found the windshields of their cars painted black, and upon the doors writ, "Don't go to work today."
This is your first story, and it is true. There shall be many more, until the man who tells the story, the man who is the story, goes elsewhere to weave more.
The first man, unwilling to argue further with his lover, seeing not the point, got upon his bike, drunk, cans of spraypaint in his pockets. It was a sunday night, and he decided, since he was not going to have wild sex, he should better the world.
The next morning, five city blocks full of people, stumbling out in the morning to go to work, found the windshields of their cars painted black, and upon the doors writ, "Don't go to work today."
This is your first story, and it is true. There shall be many more, until the man who tells the story, the man who is the story, goes elsewhere to weave more.
TWO
Summer
breakfast on a patio. Overlooking a lake, overlooking a valley,
overlooking a world. Dragonflies dance as they eat waffles with
strawberries picked from a garden, tea (always tea), and then a woman
screams, and the cars stop, and she gets out.
She is trying to run away from him, and he will not let her leave. He says she cheated on him, she only wants to go to school, she has her books with her, see?
The man and his companion stand up from the breakfast, from the waffles with cream and fruit, overlooking the lake, watching. No one does anything for her, because no one does in this city, because everyone else is no-one, but the man is not. She is invited up to hide from him, to get away, and she comes, and is terrified. The police (the-always-slow police, white unlike her) are called, but they arrive after he's threatened her, coerced her back.
But she is found, and they are separated, and he is jailed, and a week later her mother calls to thank the man, and then she calls to thank the man, and she has gone to school again, and the man has always been glad of those waffles, of the dragonflies dancing, of that overlooking world, and the man has always been glad not to be no-one.
She is trying to run away from him, and he will not let her leave. He says she cheated on him, she only wants to go to school, she has her books with her, see?
The man and his companion stand up from the breakfast, from the waffles with cream and fruit, overlooking the lake, watching. No one does anything for her, because no one does in this city, because everyone else is no-one, but the man is not. She is invited up to hide from him, to get away, and she comes, and is terrified. The police (the-always-slow police, white unlike her) are called, but they arrive after he's threatened her, coerced her back.
But she is found, and they are separated, and he is jailed, and a week later her mother calls to thank the man, and then she calls to thank the man, and she has gone to school again, and the man has always been glad of those waffles, of the dragonflies dancing, of that overlooking world, and the man has always been glad not to be no-one.
THREE
13 years in a city means a lot of kindness, a lot of corruption.
Divorced from the means of production, workers have only the
otherwise-owned product of their labor. The bartender does not own the
beer she pours, the cook does not own the food he's made.
But we exchange what is "not ours" anyway; because we have nothing, we are made for everything. A slipped appetizer, unrung groceries--our economy is not theirs, and there could be no talk of earning or deserving. We do not speak of what is owned or what is ours. We speak only of what we share.
Once, a man earned free coffee for a year and a day.
Three gorgeous, curvy baristas pinned behind a counter by the ogling stare of a crotch-rubbing customer, erect constantly at their every moment. A man noticed and disliked, because he has disliked as much as he has loved. Three female baristas watched as that customer became harangued, harrassed, embarrassed and then terrified by another man who could no longer countenance their discomfort.
This is a Bard's tale: for a year and a day, he no longer paid for coffee from the three baristas. It had bemused them, and it had bemused him, to watch the still-turgid man flee before the presence of a man who noticed, a man who disliked because he loved.
But we exchange what is "not ours" anyway; because we have nothing, we are made for everything. A slipped appetizer, unrung groceries--our economy is not theirs, and there could be no talk of earning or deserving. We do not speak of what is owned or what is ours. We speak only of what we share.
Once, a man earned free coffee for a year and a day.
Three gorgeous, curvy baristas pinned behind a counter by the ogling stare of a crotch-rubbing customer, erect constantly at their every moment. A man noticed and disliked, because he has disliked as much as he has loved. Three female baristas watched as that customer became harangued, harrassed, embarrassed and then terrified by another man who could no longer countenance their discomfort.
This is a Bard's tale: for a year and a day, he no longer paid for coffee from the three baristas. It had bemused them, and it had bemused him, to watch the still-turgid man flee before the presence of a man who noticed, a man who disliked because he loved.
(Black Ink, White Paper, Grey Rain)
We think so much of the end of things. Something is born, something lives, and then something dies, but what is remembered so often is its death, its absence, the moment when what was became no longer is.
This is strange. It seems wiser, as a man has lately decided, to consider the ending of a thing as inscribed into its beginni...ng. Perhaps this will remind him to embrace it as it exists, perhaps this will prepare us for when it no longer does.
A man has dreamed, and then made-real a dream. Once, a man told others he would print their words and photographs, and they believed him, and he did. And then he did it again, and again, and once more again, and then no longer.
Four seasons, first autumn, and then winter, and then spring, and finally winter. A man remembers two packed readings at coffee-houses, emails from strangers wanting subscriptions, zine archive requesting missing copies. He remembers printing 250 copies, and remembers when they were all gone. He remembers his friends and their words, his friends and their photos, his friends and their belief. A man remembers the others who helped, who created with him.
And a man remembers that it ended, but he does not think this matters. For a time it was, and it was beautiful.
SEVEN
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