- Adeline, 2006
Monday, 29 June 2009
An Essay, Don Delillo's White Noise
Jack Gladney and the Deconstruction of Rambo;
the undermining of the eighties man in Don Delillo’s White Noise., 2006
Enter the 1980s, and the decade of macho bravado, money and mutually assured destruction. It is the era of Rambo, Ronald Regan and Ricky Roma . It is the decade where men rescue themselves from the sympathetic, emotional, weaklings the previous decades had made them. It is the time to divorce your wife, buy bonds and take control of your environment. Or is that all just a sham? It is into this world that Don Delillo introduces the character of Jack Gladney in the 1985’s White Noise. In addition to numerous interesting themes exploring the culture of the 1980s, Delillo undermines the eighties man with his title character Jack Gladney, and in the process redefines the man of the eighties. Looking at three particular situations within the novel, one can see Delillo’s attempt to redefine the middle aged man of the 1980s. He is uncertain in times of chaos such as the toxic cloud. He is uncomfortable when confronted with the need to protect his family with the use of a gun, and he is uncontrolled when that defence becomes necessary. Delillo is not, however, unsympathetic towards his protagonist and narrator, but is rather defining an alternative to the Rambo who takes action and thinks later. Don Delillo‘s combination of sympathy for Jack Gladney, as well as his humiliation of him produces an archetype for the man of the eighties full of complexity and contradiction running against the stereotype produced on an image and a lie.
A truck carrying chemicals has overturned and there is a black cloud looming over the city, and in a situation where heroes puff their chests, flex their biceps and run straight into danger, Jack Gladney proves to be everything the eighties man is not. Jack is unable to realize the weight of the situation reasoning that “these things happen to poor people who live in exposed areas. Society is set up in such a way that it’s the poor and the uneducated who suffer the main impact of natural and man-made disasters” (Delillo, 114). Aside from the obvious, first world ignorance apparent in the statement, Jack‘s reasoning brings out the core of his character. He is an intellect, and problems that arise are to be looked at intellectually and logically. Jack is not a man of action, but rather a man who uses quite ridiculous reasoning in trying to reassure those around him of the nonthreatening nature of the situation. Thus Jack’s action throughout the toxic cloud incident involves Jack following the orders of his son Heinrich, as well as the radio, while making few decisions of his own. Far from being the hero in the situation Jack reverts to an actor following a script. Ironically, however, it is Jack’s one action, which although simple in its objective, causes Jack to sacrifice his life for his family. With the car running out of fuel, Jack stops at a gas station to fill up, exiting the car, and exposing himself to the toxic gas (127). Although only out of the car for two and half minutes, it becomes clear later in the book that Jack will die from this exposure. Thus, without realizing it, Jack becomes a martyr and hero in this one simple action. The result of this heroic action, however, is something that the family is never able to comprehend, and thus Jack remains, in the eyes of those around him, nothing more than a man driving the car who needs to fill up with gas.
In the void of Jack’s patriarchal heroism, Delillo provides alternatives who become the source of knowledge and inspiration during the toxic cloud ordeal. Heinrich becomes, in the toxic cloud situation, the character relied on for knowledge and action. He listens to the radio, watches the cloud and relates the brevity of the problem to his father. Heinrich realizes the danger eminent relating to his father that the cloud has been labeled “the airborne toxic event.” Heinrich watches Jack carefully, searching his (Jack’s) face for some reassurance against the possibility of danger - a reassurance he would immediately reject as phony (116-117). Heinrich does not respond to Jack’s assurance that being the “head of a department” is reason to believe that they will be safe, and continues to function as his own authority on the matter. Also, it is Heinrich who initiates the evacuation of the family, by running to the front door and relating the news to the family (118-119). In setting Heinrich up as the source, or at least interpreter, of the situation Delillo is taking the authority out of the patriarch of the family in an intense time of crisis. Heinrich asserts his ability to deal with the situation as better than his father’s. Jack, thus, reverts to being an observer and follower as the events unfold. Jack validates his loss of authority while in the car, and Babette suggests to Denise to ask Jack the answer of whether the gas will affect dogs. Jack replies simply, “Ask Heinrich” (124).
In stripping Jack of his patriarchal authority and supplanting it with Heinrich, Delillo undermines the eighties man in a significant way. Jack is content to let the other members of his family develop their own experience out of the matter. Jack does not hurry them under his arm into the car, and explain the situation to them, as he has been proven false in his explanation already. He is content to let his and Babette’s children develop their own authority, as they debate supposed affects on different animals for instance (124). The fact that Jack admits his limitations could be seen as a weak man’s actions in the face of catastrophe, but this suggestion is entirely based on assumptions of what the man’s “job” is in a time of crises. Delillo does not want to set up an eighties man Ronald Regan would be proud of who runs recklessly into danger, but rather to undermine this image with the reality of what that type of careless action produces. Thus, when Jack is forced to make a decision and get fuel, his unnoticed heroism becomes more effective by being unnoticed. The combination of his being exposed by Heinrich as a “phony” and Jack’s exposure to the toxic cloud complete his character as an somewhat clumsy product of his time falling backwards into the eighties hero archetype who risks his life for his family, while not being rewarded for it in any material sense.
If there is an image of Rambo to remember, it is the scene in every movie where there is a series of shots of him strapping various firearms, knives and grenades to as many parts of his body as possible inspiring pride and bravado for all watching. Contrast that image, and countless other eighties action scenes, with the scene of Jack’s father in law giving him a firearm, and one sees Jack again failing to live up to the archetype of the eighties hero. Vernon Dickey offers Jack a firearm to defend himself and his family. Jack, perplexed at the need to own a firearm, tries to convince Vernon that a firearm isn’t needed in the Iron City. Vernon persists and Jack is left with the German gun (253). Jack, in the face of a firearm, is completely out of his element. Jack fears the gun, and questions whether Vernon is “Death’s dark messenger.” Jack is so afraid of the gun that he refuses to give it a name, asking Vernon “why do I need this thing?” The gun is a “thing” to be thrown in with the rest of the things that Jack has accumulated throughout his life. Jack’s character is defined within this exchange as one who has no concept of protecting his family or of understanding his need of a gun as an American. Vernon does not respect Jack’s protestations because Vernon is of a different generation that realizes the need for a gun to be close at all times. Vernon is war savvy and secure, while Jack is confused and passive.
In placing Vernon and Jack in the car in the garage together, Delillo produces a vivid picture of Jack as an eighties man not able to live up to his rightful place in society beside Vernon who knows his role. Jack is typical of a postwar male trying to come to terms with his own masculinity. Vernon lived in the war days and thus has no problem with handling a firearm, while asserting himself as a male able to protect those who ask. Jack’s logic is unable to come to terms with the reality of weapons and protection and thus cannot be considered competent in the world. Jack admits this much while looking at the gun, reflecting: “it occurred to me that this was the ultimate device for determining one’s competence in the world. What does it mean to be a person, beyond his sense of competence and well-being and personal worth, to carry a lethal weapon, to handle it well, be ready and willing to use it?” (254). Jack, when faced with the reality of his own incompetence in the world, cannot accept the responsibility saying to Vernon: “I don‘t want it, Vern. Take it back.” Vernon, knowing the reality of what it means to be a man, finishes the conversation saying: “Be smart for once in your life, it’s not what you want that matters” (254). Vernon understands that the eighties man is a self-centred person only accepting what he wants, and rejecting advice of those older and perhaps wiser. Jack tries again to assert himself as a proud and confident eighties man, but is once again belittled by a family member. As with Heinrich, Vernon sees through the phony exterior Jack displays, and disregards his objections. Now Jack is left with a gun that he may just have to use to redeem the crumbling monument of his patriarchy. Delillo displays Jack at his patriarchal weakest in this exchange, as he comes across as a child with no concept of the realities involved with being a man. A man must be able to protect his family, and although the eighties man is a myth in many ways, Delillo shows that there are some aspects of this myth that Jack must come to terms with.
To regain his place among the heroes of the eighties, Jack Gladney must assert himself when the ultimate threat to his masculinity is met. Jack, now armed with a gun, finds himself in a situation where the indiscretion of his wife must be dealt with in a way that will reclaim his power and title as defender of the weak. Babette admits, in chapter 26, of having an affair of sorts with a man referred to as Mr. Gray. The interaction between the two took place as part of an experiment intent on curing depression by the use of a drug called Dylar, as well as mechanical sex in a motel room furnished with a TV up near the ceiling (193-4). Jack, throughout the description of Babette’s encounter with Mr. Gray, remains deceptively calm. Although he can feel heat rising along the back of his neck, and shows sadness in his eyes, Jack reacts by looking blankly at the ceiling, and changes the subject to the broken radio (195). Jack does not assert himself in this situation, and although he is obsessed with Babette’s indiscretion he avoids confronting the situation as a man should. Jack’s attitude is one of passive aggression where he resorts to asking to try the pills, and meet Mr. Gray, but assures Babette that he won’t harm him. Why would he? Flying in stark contrast to the image of a male whose honour has been damaged, Jack does not seek out the perpetrator in an open fashion, or confront his wife, but resorts to behind the back tactics and internal pain. Jack does not allow the pain to seep outside of his own mind. Though the dialogue is lacking in emotion from either Babette or Jack throughout the whole confession scene, emotion is hinted at through Jack’s internal struggle. Jack cannot come to submit to his own emotions like those eighties heroes mentioned who only exist within their emotions. Those heroes are men of action. They do while others watch and cheer. Those men are not Jack.
Jack, after much pain and inner turmoil, decides to confront Mr. Gray, use his gun, and embody the male who defends the honour of his wife. A look at Jack‘s plan of confrontation tells everything about his masculinity in the eighties context:
Drive past the scene several times, park some distance from the scene, go back on foot, locate Mr. Gray under his real name or an alias, shoot him three times in the viscera for maximum pain, clear the weapon of prints, place the weapon in the victim’s hand, find a crayon or lipstick tube and scrawl a cryptic suicide note on the full-length mirror, take the victim’s supply of Dylar tablets, slip back to the car, proceed to the expressway entrance, head east toward Blacksmith... (304)
Jack’s plan, which he repeats over and over throughout the interaction with Mr. Gray (whose name turns out to be Willie Mink), shows his character for what it clearly is. Jack keeps repeating the plan, while engaged in the actions described by it, suggesting the idea that he is simply playing out a role of some kind. What role that is, or where he learned it from is never specified, but it seems apparent that it is something from TV. Jack is simply following a script throughout, and not a very convincing script at that. Jack does not plan to shoot Willie Mink in the heart and look at him while he dies, but rather plans to shoot him in a place where it will cause the most pain showing Jack’s sadistic, perhaps even childish, nature. Also is the fact that Jack sees the need to write a suicide note, and thus deflect his blame or part in the killing. Jack is not “man enough” to live up to his actions even if they are justified. Put aside the question of why someone would shoot themselves three times in the most painful place while committing suicide, the idea that Jack cannot take responsibility for killing even if it is in defending the honour of his wife suggests a realization that he is not the eighties man of action. Finally, Jack does not mention, in his plan, confronting Mr. Gray/ Willie Mink in regards to his wife, but does plan to steal his remaining Dylar. In tow with Jack’s obsessive fear of death, Jack’s confrontation with Mr. Gray is as much about getting the experimental drug, which never clearly is proven by anyone in the book to curb the fear of death, as it is with enacting revenge for Gray’s quasi-rape of Babette.
However, if the masculine character of Jack is to be put into its place far away from the macho or the hero, one need only look at the events when Jack does indeed confront Willie Mink for proof. Jack’s language is far from direct with Willie, conducted with a sort of dodgy double talk that never directly brings up Babette. Jack seems the entire time there only for the Dylar. Then, when Jack finally does fire the weapon he hits Willie in the hip far from killing him. When Jack places the gun in Willies alive hand, Willie proceeds to shoot Jack in the wrist (305-12). This situation produces the climax in Delillo’s attempt to undermine the masculine identity of the eighties. Throughout the story Jack’s inability to act as men should has been apparent, but is this action where it is most obvious. One can hardly see Jack’s ex-wives with their security training, fumbling through this situation as Jack does. The ridiculousness of the plan results in an almost comic ending, and far from solves any of the problems within Jack. The “higher plane of energy in which he’s [Jack] had carried out his scheme” is shattered leaving Jack troubled and confused (313). This incident, however, ironically pulls Jack to a higher plane where he’s able to feel compassion for Mink, “seeing him for the first time as a person,” and consequently saves his life by taking Mink to a hospital after going so far as to attempt mouth-to-mouth (313-4). This is the hero that Delillo offers in exchange for the take action “Right Stuff” Rambo of the mid-eighties. The hero who, as with the exposure to the toxic cloud, quietly and calmly saves the life of others with great risk to himself. Jack is not portrayed full of any kind of macho pride, but rather as a man able to act rationally within his own insecurity. An insecurity so intense that when Willie Mink asks who shot him, Jack says that he shot himself, passing himself off as a passerby good enough to save his life (314-15).
The complete picture of the lead up to the incident at the motel, and the implementation of the plan, show Delillo’s picture of the eighties man in his contradictory glory. Jack tries to maintain his manhood by avenging the honour of his wife, but without actually mentioning his wife or confronting Mr. Gray in regards to the indiscretion. In fact, Delillo eliminates the mention of his wife in Jack’s actual plans. Thus the use of the first person narrative becomes extremely important in within Delillo’s development of Jack in this climatic moment. Jack’s monologue provides the reader with only what he is conscious of. The subconscious is eliminated, and thus Jack’s fear of death is implied in the necessity of his getting the Dylar before leaving. The discussion between Murray and Jack goes unmentioned during this altercation, but it is clear the Delillo means for the two to be connected. The conversation in question being found in chapter 34 when Murray suggests,
“In theory, violence is a form of rebirth. The dier passively succumbs. The killer lives on. What a marvelous equation. As a marauding band amasses dead bodies, it gathers strength. Strength accumulates like a favor from the gods.” (290)
Murray’s statement truly reflects the culture described thus far. The killer gathers strength through taking the life of the other. In a perfect description to an intellectual, Murray describes to Jack the intellectual equation that results in the Rambo character of the eighties. Jack sees Murray’s description as a unique way to control death, or perhaps just Jack’s fear of death. However, Jack being the insecure man that he is, needs reassurance when confronting Willie Mink and must take the Dylar as well. In the end, Delillo shows Jack as embracing his humanity by helping the dying Willie Mink, and thus in stripping his male bravado Jack Gladney, although he cannot see it, becomes a hero.
Jack Gladney in Don Delillo’s White Noise provides a telling character intent on undermining the macho man of the eighties, while at the same time defining a different male inhabiting a truer world where heroes do not know their actions to be such, and find themselves insecure not even realizing their heroic nature. Even the name Jack Gladney tells much of his character. Jack is a name that inspires action and adventure, whereas Gladney inspires tea parties and pleasant books. Delillo shows Jack as being a mixture of both. Jack combines the heroic and adventurous with the insecure and foolish. His adventures result in his looking none of the heroic adventurer on the exterior, but his heroism can be noted upon further investigation of the interior. In the popular culture that Jack inhabits he seems to be at odds with the persona he is supposed to portray. This is most clearly described when describing his academic name change to J. A. K. Gladney, which to Babette intimated dignity, significance and prestige. Jack reflects on the name change in a different way reflecting, “I am the false character that follows the name around,” (17). Thus Delillo’s novel, while working on numerous themes and tones, works at undermining the false character that has become the eighties man by undermining his actions, while expanding his insecurities and fears. Delillo follows other authors of the age such as Tom Wolf in his Bonfire of the Vanities, or David Mamet in the aforementioned Glengarry GlenRoss in creating an alternate eighties man who is more human and confused. The eighties man is afraid of death and marriage, and is confused on so many matters that he winds up looking a foolish shell of what he should be. And so while Rambo straps his artillery on to fight the trials of his life head on like a true soldier, Jack Gladney fumbles through his world trying to make sense of the image that is given to him. An image that is built on false bravado and the confused logic of heroes that ignore the subtleties of life and the reality of complex situations.
the undermining of the eighties man in Don Delillo’s White Noise., 2006
Enter the 1980s, and the decade of macho bravado, money and mutually assured destruction. It is the era of Rambo, Ronald Regan and Ricky Roma . It is the decade where men rescue themselves from the sympathetic, emotional, weaklings the previous decades had made them. It is the time to divorce your wife, buy bonds and take control of your environment. Or is that all just a sham? It is into this world that Don Delillo introduces the character of Jack Gladney in the 1985’s White Noise. In addition to numerous interesting themes exploring the culture of the 1980s, Delillo undermines the eighties man with his title character Jack Gladney, and in the process redefines the man of the eighties. Looking at three particular situations within the novel, one can see Delillo’s attempt to redefine the middle aged man of the 1980s. He is uncertain in times of chaos such as the toxic cloud. He is uncomfortable when confronted with the need to protect his family with the use of a gun, and he is uncontrolled when that defence becomes necessary. Delillo is not, however, unsympathetic towards his protagonist and narrator, but is rather defining an alternative to the Rambo who takes action and thinks later. Don Delillo‘s combination of sympathy for Jack Gladney, as well as his humiliation of him produces an archetype for the man of the eighties full of complexity and contradiction running against the stereotype produced on an image and a lie.
A truck carrying chemicals has overturned and there is a black cloud looming over the city, and in a situation where heroes puff their chests, flex their biceps and run straight into danger, Jack Gladney proves to be everything the eighties man is not. Jack is unable to realize the weight of the situation reasoning that “these things happen to poor people who live in exposed areas. Society is set up in such a way that it’s the poor and the uneducated who suffer the main impact of natural and man-made disasters” (Delillo, 114). Aside from the obvious, first world ignorance apparent in the statement, Jack‘s reasoning brings out the core of his character. He is an intellect, and problems that arise are to be looked at intellectually and logically. Jack is not a man of action, but rather a man who uses quite ridiculous reasoning in trying to reassure those around him of the nonthreatening nature of the situation. Thus Jack’s action throughout the toxic cloud incident involves Jack following the orders of his son Heinrich, as well as the radio, while making few decisions of his own. Far from being the hero in the situation Jack reverts to an actor following a script. Ironically, however, it is Jack’s one action, which although simple in its objective, causes Jack to sacrifice his life for his family. With the car running out of fuel, Jack stops at a gas station to fill up, exiting the car, and exposing himself to the toxic gas (127). Although only out of the car for two and half minutes, it becomes clear later in the book that Jack will die from this exposure. Thus, without realizing it, Jack becomes a martyr and hero in this one simple action. The result of this heroic action, however, is something that the family is never able to comprehend, and thus Jack remains, in the eyes of those around him, nothing more than a man driving the car who needs to fill up with gas.
In the void of Jack’s patriarchal heroism, Delillo provides alternatives who become the source of knowledge and inspiration during the toxic cloud ordeal. Heinrich becomes, in the toxic cloud situation, the character relied on for knowledge and action. He listens to the radio, watches the cloud and relates the brevity of the problem to his father. Heinrich realizes the danger eminent relating to his father that the cloud has been labeled “the airborne toxic event.” Heinrich watches Jack carefully, searching his (Jack’s) face for some reassurance against the possibility of danger - a reassurance he would immediately reject as phony (116-117). Heinrich does not respond to Jack’s assurance that being the “head of a department” is reason to believe that they will be safe, and continues to function as his own authority on the matter. Also, it is Heinrich who initiates the evacuation of the family, by running to the front door and relating the news to the family (118-119). In setting Heinrich up as the source, or at least interpreter, of the situation Delillo is taking the authority out of the patriarch of the family in an intense time of crisis. Heinrich asserts his ability to deal with the situation as better than his father’s. Jack, thus, reverts to being an observer and follower as the events unfold. Jack validates his loss of authority while in the car, and Babette suggests to Denise to ask Jack the answer of whether the gas will affect dogs. Jack replies simply, “Ask Heinrich” (124).
In stripping Jack of his patriarchal authority and supplanting it with Heinrich, Delillo undermines the eighties man in a significant way. Jack is content to let the other members of his family develop their own experience out of the matter. Jack does not hurry them under his arm into the car, and explain the situation to them, as he has been proven false in his explanation already. He is content to let his and Babette’s children develop their own authority, as they debate supposed affects on different animals for instance (124). The fact that Jack admits his limitations could be seen as a weak man’s actions in the face of catastrophe, but this suggestion is entirely based on assumptions of what the man’s “job” is in a time of crises. Delillo does not want to set up an eighties man Ronald Regan would be proud of who runs recklessly into danger, but rather to undermine this image with the reality of what that type of careless action produces. Thus, when Jack is forced to make a decision and get fuel, his unnoticed heroism becomes more effective by being unnoticed. The combination of his being exposed by Heinrich as a “phony” and Jack’s exposure to the toxic cloud complete his character as an somewhat clumsy product of his time falling backwards into the eighties hero archetype who risks his life for his family, while not being rewarded for it in any material sense.
If there is an image of Rambo to remember, it is the scene in every movie where there is a series of shots of him strapping various firearms, knives and grenades to as many parts of his body as possible inspiring pride and bravado for all watching. Contrast that image, and countless other eighties action scenes, with the scene of Jack’s father in law giving him a firearm, and one sees Jack again failing to live up to the archetype of the eighties hero. Vernon Dickey offers Jack a firearm to defend himself and his family. Jack, perplexed at the need to own a firearm, tries to convince Vernon that a firearm isn’t needed in the Iron City. Vernon persists and Jack is left with the German gun (253). Jack, in the face of a firearm, is completely out of his element. Jack fears the gun, and questions whether Vernon is “Death’s dark messenger.” Jack is so afraid of the gun that he refuses to give it a name, asking Vernon “why do I need this thing?” The gun is a “thing” to be thrown in with the rest of the things that Jack has accumulated throughout his life. Jack’s character is defined within this exchange as one who has no concept of protecting his family or of understanding his need of a gun as an American. Vernon does not respect Jack’s protestations because Vernon is of a different generation that realizes the need for a gun to be close at all times. Vernon is war savvy and secure, while Jack is confused and passive.
In placing Vernon and Jack in the car in the garage together, Delillo produces a vivid picture of Jack as an eighties man not able to live up to his rightful place in society beside Vernon who knows his role. Jack is typical of a postwar male trying to come to terms with his own masculinity. Vernon lived in the war days and thus has no problem with handling a firearm, while asserting himself as a male able to protect those who ask. Jack’s logic is unable to come to terms with the reality of weapons and protection and thus cannot be considered competent in the world. Jack admits this much while looking at the gun, reflecting: “it occurred to me that this was the ultimate device for determining one’s competence in the world. What does it mean to be a person, beyond his sense of competence and well-being and personal worth, to carry a lethal weapon, to handle it well, be ready and willing to use it?” (254). Jack, when faced with the reality of his own incompetence in the world, cannot accept the responsibility saying to Vernon: “I don‘t want it, Vern. Take it back.” Vernon, knowing the reality of what it means to be a man, finishes the conversation saying: “Be smart for once in your life, it’s not what you want that matters” (254). Vernon understands that the eighties man is a self-centred person only accepting what he wants, and rejecting advice of those older and perhaps wiser. Jack tries again to assert himself as a proud and confident eighties man, but is once again belittled by a family member. As with Heinrich, Vernon sees through the phony exterior Jack displays, and disregards his objections. Now Jack is left with a gun that he may just have to use to redeem the crumbling monument of his patriarchy. Delillo displays Jack at his patriarchal weakest in this exchange, as he comes across as a child with no concept of the realities involved with being a man. A man must be able to protect his family, and although the eighties man is a myth in many ways, Delillo shows that there are some aspects of this myth that Jack must come to terms with.
To regain his place among the heroes of the eighties, Jack Gladney must assert himself when the ultimate threat to his masculinity is met. Jack, now armed with a gun, finds himself in a situation where the indiscretion of his wife must be dealt with in a way that will reclaim his power and title as defender of the weak. Babette admits, in chapter 26, of having an affair of sorts with a man referred to as Mr. Gray. The interaction between the two took place as part of an experiment intent on curing depression by the use of a drug called Dylar, as well as mechanical sex in a motel room furnished with a TV up near the ceiling (193-4). Jack, throughout the description of Babette’s encounter with Mr. Gray, remains deceptively calm. Although he can feel heat rising along the back of his neck, and shows sadness in his eyes, Jack reacts by looking blankly at the ceiling, and changes the subject to the broken radio (195). Jack does not assert himself in this situation, and although he is obsessed with Babette’s indiscretion he avoids confronting the situation as a man should. Jack’s attitude is one of passive aggression where he resorts to asking to try the pills, and meet Mr. Gray, but assures Babette that he won’t harm him. Why would he? Flying in stark contrast to the image of a male whose honour has been damaged, Jack does not seek out the perpetrator in an open fashion, or confront his wife, but resorts to behind the back tactics and internal pain. Jack does not allow the pain to seep outside of his own mind. Though the dialogue is lacking in emotion from either Babette or Jack throughout the whole confession scene, emotion is hinted at through Jack’s internal struggle. Jack cannot come to submit to his own emotions like those eighties heroes mentioned who only exist within their emotions. Those heroes are men of action. They do while others watch and cheer. Those men are not Jack.
Jack, after much pain and inner turmoil, decides to confront Mr. Gray, use his gun, and embody the male who defends the honour of his wife. A look at Jack‘s plan of confrontation tells everything about his masculinity in the eighties context:
Drive past the scene several times, park some distance from the scene, go back on foot, locate Mr. Gray under his real name or an alias, shoot him three times in the viscera for maximum pain, clear the weapon of prints, place the weapon in the victim’s hand, find a crayon or lipstick tube and scrawl a cryptic suicide note on the full-length mirror, take the victim’s supply of Dylar tablets, slip back to the car, proceed to the expressway entrance, head east toward Blacksmith... (304)
Jack’s plan, which he repeats over and over throughout the interaction with Mr. Gray (whose name turns out to be Willie Mink), shows his character for what it clearly is. Jack keeps repeating the plan, while engaged in the actions described by it, suggesting the idea that he is simply playing out a role of some kind. What role that is, or where he learned it from is never specified, but it seems apparent that it is something from TV. Jack is simply following a script throughout, and not a very convincing script at that. Jack does not plan to shoot Willie Mink in the heart and look at him while he dies, but rather plans to shoot him in a place where it will cause the most pain showing Jack’s sadistic, perhaps even childish, nature. Also is the fact that Jack sees the need to write a suicide note, and thus deflect his blame or part in the killing. Jack is not “man enough” to live up to his actions even if they are justified. Put aside the question of why someone would shoot themselves three times in the most painful place while committing suicide, the idea that Jack cannot take responsibility for killing even if it is in defending the honour of his wife suggests a realization that he is not the eighties man of action. Finally, Jack does not mention, in his plan, confronting Mr. Gray/ Willie Mink in regards to his wife, but does plan to steal his remaining Dylar. In tow with Jack’s obsessive fear of death, Jack’s confrontation with Mr. Gray is as much about getting the experimental drug, which never clearly is proven by anyone in the book to curb the fear of death, as it is with enacting revenge for Gray’s quasi-rape of Babette.
However, if the masculine character of Jack is to be put into its place far away from the macho or the hero, one need only look at the events when Jack does indeed confront Willie Mink for proof. Jack’s language is far from direct with Willie, conducted with a sort of dodgy double talk that never directly brings up Babette. Jack seems the entire time there only for the Dylar. Then, when Jack finally does fire the weapon he hits Willie in the hip far from killing him. When Jack places the gun in Willies alive hand, Willie proceeds to shoot Jack in the wrist (305-12). This situation produces the climax in Delillo’s attempt to undermine the masculine identity of the eighties. Throughout the story Jack’s inability to act as men should has been apparent, but is this action where it is most obvious. One can hardly see Jack’s ex-wives with their security training, fumbling through this situation as Jack does. The ridiculousness of the plan results in an almost comic ending, and far from solves any of the problems within Jack. The “higher plane of energy in which he’s [Jack] had carried out his scheme” is shattered leaving Jack troubled and confused (313). This incident, however, ironically pulls Jack to a higher plane where he’s able to feel compassion for Mink, “seeing him for the first time as a person,” and consequently saves his life by taking Mink to a hospital after going so far as to attempt mouth-to-mouth (313-4). This is the hero that Delillo offers in exchange for the take action “Right Stuff” Rambo of the mid-eighties. The hero who, as with the exposure to the toxic cloud, quietly and calmly saves the life of others with great risk to himself. Jack is not portrayed full of any kind of macho pride, but rather as a man able to act rationally within his own insecurity. An insecurity so intense that when Willie Mink asks who shot him, Jack says that he shot himself, passing himself off as a passerby good enough to save his life (314-15).
The complete picture of the lead up to the incident at the motel, and the implementation of the plan, show Delillo’s picture of the eighties man in his contradictory glory. Jack tries to maintain his manhood by avenging the honour of his wife, but without actually mentioning his wife or confronting Mr. Gray in regards to the indiscretion. In fact, Delillo eliminates the mention of his wife in Jack’s actual plans. Thus the use of the first person narrative becomes extremely important in within Delillo’s development of Jack in this climatic moment. Jack’s monologue provides the reader with only what he is conscious of. The subconscious is eliminated, and thus Jack’s fear of death is implied in the necessity of his getting the Dylar before leaving. The discussion between Murray and Jack goes unmentioned during this altercation, but it is clear the Delillo means for the two to be connected. The conversation in question being found in chapter 34 when Murray suggests,
“In theory, violence is a form of rebirth. The dier passively succumbs. The killer lives on. What a marvelous equation. As a marauding band amasses dead bodies, it gathers strength. Strength accumulates like a favor from the gods.” (290)
Murray’s statement truly reflects the culture described thus far. The killer gathers strength through taking the life of the other. In a perfect description to an intellectual, Murray describes to Jack the intellectual equation that results in the Rambo character of the eighties. Jack sees Murray’s description as a unique way to control death, or perhaps just Jack’s fear of death. However, Jack being the insecure man that he is, needs reassurance when confronting Willie Mink and must take the Dylar as well. In the end, Delillo shows Jack as embracing his humanity by helping the dying Willie Mink, and thus in stripping his male bravado Jack Gladney, although he cannot see it, becomes a hero.
Jack Gladney in Don Delillo’s White Noise provides a telling character intent on undermining the macho man of the eighties, while at the same time defining a different male inhabiting a truer world where heroes do not know their actions to be such, and find themselves insecure not even realizing their heroic nature. Even the name Jack Gladney tells much of his character. Jack is a name that inspires action and adventure, whereas Gladney inspires tea parties and pleasant books. Delillo shows Jack as being a mixture of both. Jack combines the heroic and adventurous with the insecure and foolish. His adventures result in his looking none of the heroic adventurer on the exterior, but his heroism can be noted upon further investigation of the interior. In the popular culture that Jack inhabits he seems to be at odds with the persona he is supposed to portray. This is most clearly described when describing his academic name change to J. A. K. Gladney, which to Babette intimated dignity, significance and prestige. Jack reflects on the name change in a different way reflecting, “I am the false character that follows the name around,” (17). Thus Delillo’s novel, while working on numerous themes and tones, works at undermining the false character that has become the eighties man by undermining his actions, while expanding his insecurities and fears. Delillo follows other authors of the age such as Tom Wolf in his Bonfire of the Vanities, or David Mamet in the aforementioned Glengarry GlenRoss in creating an alternate eighties man who is more human and confused. The eighties man is afraid of death and marriage, and is confused on so many matters that he winds up looking a foolish shell of what he should be. And so while Rambo straps his artillery on to fight the trials of his life head on like a true soldier, Jack Gladney fumbles through his world trying to make sense of the image that is given to him. An image that is built on false bravado and the confused logic of heroes that ignore the subtleties of life and the reality of complex situations.
Friday, 26 June 2009
A Poem, Army of Loafers Climbing a Cement Staircase
Army of Loafers Climbing a Cement Staircase
Crunk, Krunk, Cronk, Kronk, Crunk, Kronk, Crunk:
Hard soled business shoes smack cement,
Fake brown leather squeezes small feet,
And sore knees squeak with work pain.
Dunk, Dunk, Donk, Donk, Dunk, Donk, Dunk:
Walk instep down dark, damp, block,
Back aches, legs stiff wrists feel numb,
And the salaryman is home at ten.
Plump, Plump, Plomp, Plomp, Plump, Plomp, Plump:
Man falls Weary into sleep,
No food in Stomache time can’t spare,
And the clock cogs stop for salaryman.
Crunk, Krunk, Cronk, Kronk, Crunk, Kronk, Crunk:
Hard soled business shoes smack cement,
Fake brown leather squeezes small feet,
And sore knees squeak with work pain.
Dunk, Dunk, Donk, Donk, Dunk, Donk, Dunk:
Walk instep down dark, damp, block,
Back aches, legs stiff wrists feel numb,
And the salaryman is home at ten.
Plump, Plump, Plomp, Plomp, Plump, Plomp, Plump:
Man falls Weary into sleep,
No food in Stomache time can’t spare,
And the clock cogs stop for salaryman.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
A Poem, Meant to Be Inspirational
Meant to Be Inspirational
We hang out heads and,
torture ourselves by voices telling us of our shortcomings,
and faults and missed opportunities and broken dreams,
but these voices are not rational.
They have no ground upon which they stand;
save the faulty balsa footing of deception and desire for hurt and humiliation.
They do not act or build, but rather
tear down and taunt.
Thus we, who are duped to be tortured,
must look up.
Look up.
It is here where we are home and loved and true.
We hang out heads and,
torture ourselves by voices telling us of our shortcomings,
and faults and missed opportunities and broken dreams,
but these voices are not rational.
They have no ground upon which they stand;
save the faulty balsa footing of deception and desire for hurt and humiliation.
They do not act or build, but rather
tear down and taunt.
Thus we, who are duped to be tortured,
must look up.
Look up.
It is here where we are home and loved and true.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
A Quote, William Thackeray
"Time out of mind, strength and courage have been the theme of bards and romances; and from the story of Troy down to today, poetry has always chosen a soldier for a hero.
I wonder, is it because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military valour so far beyond every other quality for reward and worship?"
- William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair.
I wonder, is it because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military valour so far beyond every other quality for reward and worship?"
- William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair.
Monday, 22 June 2009
A Poem, Onyx Eye Cracks
Onyx Eye Cracks
I.
The onyx glassy centre of an eye fixed on me,
Beautiful, everything and bringing the end and transition
of carefree, free and exchangeable feeling where
face, body and mind can be swapped and met with
A different interpretation of the same Romantic Opera.
II.
Now. Now. Now, oh Now.
Now things have changed.
Now the existential state I am in is compromised.
It is not full.
Broken phone conversations:
“Sorry. One more time? One more time? Sorry. I’m not hearing you.
I can’t hear you. Can’t hear you.”
III.
Here. Here I sit in a void.
Talk, say, speak, and I cannot hear.
Broken line. Broken line.
In the brokenness you sail through,
perhaps not full but imagined,
hoped and formed, imaginary, perfect and unreal
whispering patience though it may not be what i think I am waiting for:
patience.
Conversations with a memory of onyx breaking beneath the all too heavy weight of insecure, irrational and imaginary imagery of lost thoughts from you for me who you have exchanged for a new interpretation of the same Tragic Opera.
IV.
Thoughts based on bubbling tar.
Thoughts, which serve to choke and dirty the true self-image,
which, though marred and soiled with ACTS of life’s lust and pride,
is valid and valuable and vital to some-someone.
One. Onyx eyed one.
All thoughts building upon themselves all made to torture.
Was then or now real?
Then. Then. Then the onyx eye smiled on me.
Now, it scares me.
The memory scares me.
Then, scares me-
-Now and then the same.
Merged in insecurity of hope.
Cracked fist of iron and wax pounding the true onyx eye,
which was real before memory, time and insecurity
formed an inverted trinity bent on hurt.
Only the real can purge.
I.
The onyx glassy centre of an eye fixed on me,
Beautiful, everything and bringing the end and transition
of carefree, free and exchangeable feeling where
face, body and mind can be swapped and met with
A different interpretation of the same Romantic Opera.
II.
Now. Now. Now, oh Now.
Now things have changed.
Now the existential state I am in is compromised.
It is not full.
Broken phone conversations:
“Sorry. One more time? One more time? Sorry. I’m not hearing you.
I can’t hear you. Can’t hear you.”
III.
Here. Here I sit in a void.
Talk, say, speak, and I cannot hear.
Broken line. Broken line.
In the brokenness you sail through,
perhaps not full but imagined,
hoped and formed, imaginary, perfect and unreal
whispering patience though it may not be what i think I am waiting for:
patience.
Conversations with a memory of onyx breaking beneath the all too heavy weight of insecure, irrational and imaginary imagery of lost thoughts from you for me who you have exchanged for a new interpretation of the same Tragic Opera.
IV.
Thoughts based on bubbling tar.
Thoughts, which serve to choke and dirty the true self-image,
which, though marred and soiled with ACTS of life’s lust and pride,
is valid and valuable and vital to some-someone.
One. Onyx eyed one.
All thoughts building upon themselves all made to torture.
Was then or now real?
Then. Then. Then the onyx eye smiled on me.
Now, it scares me.
The memory scares me.
Then, scares me-
-Now and then the same.
Merged in insecurity of hope.
Cracked fist of iron and wax pounding the true onyx eye,
which was real before memory, time and insecurity
formed an inverted trinity bent on hurt.
Only the real can purge.
A Poem, Keith Moon!
Keith Moon!
Roll, Roll, Roll, Kick, Hit, Hit, Hit,
And the H filled hip cat bouncing on a stool cracks
With the kick of a horse.
Thu Dump Thu Dump pa Donka Donk
Ride Ride Ride and then Ride Ride Ride
Kieth!
Kick it for me again and again,
But,
be quick young man…
be quick…
be quick…
The beast with the H crest chest is coming quick,
And he cares not for the starry eyed stares or scarred scared stars,
And their smooth as silk songs and siren screams.
Help! Help! Help! Help John Help!
I’m leaving too soon!
I’m leaving and I’m not finished…
The Drum beats are faster now
still faster,
And the control of the skeleton is clunking.
Clunking.
Clunk, clunk, clunk.
John save him please!
He cannot pass it to you!
The stick switch swap to smoothly snapping fingers is ending.
Oh… Oh… Oh… Sad, sad, sad,
Sad all those who are chased.
And it is not to be.
The H crest chest beast cannot be beat,
And talent inspiring to all who rattle sticks and kick cows’ hides
Lies on a tile floor near a toilet,
And the coda finishes with a flourish, the siren screams,
And the maestro is missing.
Roll, Roll, Roll, Kick, Hit, Hit, Hit,
And the H filled hip cat bouncing on a stool cracks
With the kick of a horse.
Thu Dump Thu Dump pa Donka Donk
Ride Ride Ride and then Ride Ride Ride
Kieth!
Kick it for me again and again,
But,
be quick young man…
be quick…
be quick…
The beast with the H crest chest is coming quick,
And he cares not for the starry eyed stares or scarred scared stars,
And their smooth as silk songs and siren screams.
Help! Help! Help! Help John Help!
I’m leaving too soon!
I’m leaving and I’m not finished…
The Drum beats are faster now
still faster,
And the control of the skeleton is clunking.
Clunking.
Clunk, clunk, clunk.
John save him please!
He cannot pass it to you!
The stick switch swap to smoothly snapping fingers is ending.
Oh… Oh… Oh… Sad, sad, sad,
Sad all those who are chased.
And it is not to be.
The H crest chest beast cannot be beat,
And talent inspiring to all who rattle sticks and kick cows’ hides
Lies on a tile floor near a toilet,
And the coda finishes with a flourish, the siren screams,
And the maestro is missing.
A Quote, Kurt Vonnegut
"You know, I think the main purpose of the army, navy, and marine corps is to get poor Americans into clean, pressed, unpatched clothes, so rich Americans can stand to look at them."
Elliot Rosewater
- Kurt Vonnegut, "God Bless You Mr. Rosewater."
Elliot Rosewater
- Kurt Vonnegut, "God Bless You Mr. Rosewater."
Sunday, 21 June 2009
A Poem, Untitled
Slide, slide, slide away dark self.
Become light young life that was.
Cry and crumble bitter rope that is pulling you.
Shake it off.
Become light young life that was.
Cry and crumble bitter rope that is pulling you.
Shake it off.
A Poem, Untitled
Slick, silver lines criss-crossing the sky
blocking the orange and red of the cosmic sky.
Making he, with eyes too small,
confused and stuck to the stony ground .
Unable to get beyond the grey suits causing a blurred landscape,
so that the violet dress seems nearly invisible,
and his dream of colour and the explosions of the sky triggering cycles and circles not seen
by he who is suffocated by slick silver lines and grey suits.
blocking the orange and red of the cosmic sky.
Making he, with eyes too small,
confused and stuck to the stony ground .
Unable to get beyond the grey suits causing a blurred landscape,
so that the violet dress seems nearly invisible,
and his dream of colour and the explosions of the sky triggering cycles and circles not seen
by he who is suffocated by slick silver lines and grey suits.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
A Quote, Ryszard Kapuscinski
"An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man's defeat - time annihilates him."
- Ryszard Kapuscinski, The Shadow of the Sun
(talking about the Western society's concept of time as opposed to Africa's)
- Ryszard Kapuscinski, The Shadow of the Sun
(talking about the Western society's concept of time as opposed to Africa's)
Thursday, 18 June 2009
A Poem, Power Trapped in Flames
Power Trapped in Flames
Bearded, blazing eyed, fire eating tyrant
Watches the swirling comets of flames circling around him,
Until he finds the pace…
Then he raises his palm,
And snatches the fire
Turning it into gold, and laying it at his sandled feet.
“Now I have it,” he thought,
“Now, I will pile and pile until I have a castle of gold that no one can rival.
Then I can rest from the knowledge that the stars have stopped spinning around me,
And now they are gold.
Now I am secure.”
Bearded, blazing eyed, fire eating tyrant
Watches the swirling comets of flames circling around him,
Until he finds the pace…
Then he raises his palm,
And snatches the fire
Turning it into gold, and laying it at his sandled feet.
“Now I have it,” he thought,
“Now, I will pile and pile until I have a castle of gold that no one can rival.
Then I can rest from the knowledge that the stars have stopped spinning around me,
And now they are gold.
Now I am secure.”
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
A Poem, The Watch Fixer
The Watch Fixer
Humming traffic, a plus ten breeze, radio on, and a cup of Oolong,
And the watch fixer drives silently in an electric car
To learn foreign languages from people on island time.
Aging mother upstairs unnoticed,
And she dines alone,
As her Rolexed arm ticks.
Hovering over the miniscule cogs of a ten thousand dollar accessory,
She carefully places a tiny screw in place,
And looks from behind magnifying glassed eyes
At stopped time on a work bench.
A sigh.
Quiet, with only the ticking of fixed watches,
The watch fixer eats healthy food and does yoga,
While the world fails to notice her for good or bad
Regardless of her Rolexed wrist,
And eyes that can see the gears of time in their most intricate, detailed form.
Taking her glasses off on a humid day,
The watch fixer looks out a wood framed window
At a crack in a bonsai tree branch.
The sundial at the centre of the city shades noon,
And a millionaire glances at his Rolex,
Realizing he is late,
As his time piece says ten and has for some time.
Tum tee dum de
Tick tock clock,
And the knock knock
On the door,
Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.
Humming traffic, a plus ten breeze, radio on, and a cup of Oolong,
And the watch fixer drives silently in an electric car
To learn foreign languages from people on island time.
Aging mother upstairs unnoticed,
And she dines alone,
As her Rolexed arm ticks.
Hovering over the miniscule cogs of a ten thousand dollar accessory,
She carefully places a tiny screw in place,
And looks from behind magnifying glassed eyes
At stopped time on a work bench.
A sigh.
Quiet, with only the ticking of fixed watches,
The watch fixer eats healthy food and does yoga,
While the world fails to notice her for good or bad
Regardless of her Rolexed wrist,
And eyes that can see the gears of time in their most intricate, detailed form.
Taking her glasses off on a humid day,
The watch fixer looks out a wood framed window
At a crack in a bonsai tree branch.
The sundial at the centre of the city shades noon,
And a millionaire glances at his Rolex,
Realizing he is late,
As his time piece says ten and has for some time.
Tum tee dum de
Tick tock clock,
And the knock knock
On the door,
Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.
A Poem, Crazy on a Train
Crazy on a Train
One of the crazies of the city
Rambles rhetoric on the elevated train,
As it rumbles passed a cemetery.
The seat beside him
Remains vacant for the most part.
The soliloquy continues regardless of the view –
“I know what’s been happening around St Luke’s hospital.
You don’t know how humans are?” –
Another stands and rants,
While a young man reads
A book on globalization.
“Ohio. This side of the road.”
The train rattles
Passed the baseball stadium,
As crazy #1 looks at a penny.
One of the crazies of the city
Rambles rhetoric on the elevated train,
As it rumbles passed a cemetery.
The seat beside him
Remains vacant for the most part.
The soliloquy continues regardless of the view –
“I know what’s been happening around St Luke’s hospital.
You don’t know how humans are?” –
Another stands and rants,
While a young man reads
A book on globalization.
“Ohio. This side of the road.”
The train rattles
Passed the baseball stadium,
As crazy #1 looks at a penny.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
A Poem, On a Sill
On a Sill
A jaunt on a sill,
Overlooking an
Underground station;
So much time to kill.
Unemployed, useless,
Unskilled labour waits
For plants or mills;
I.Q. regardless.
Ten an hour to start
At eighteen was a
Princely fortune to
Those strong but not smart.
The blood and sweat stains
Wait for a machine
To break so they can
Feel work in their veins.
A jaunt on a sill,
Overlooking an
Underground station;
So much time to kill.
Unemployed, useless,
Unskilled labour waits
For plants or mills;
I.Q. regardless.
Ten an hour to start
At eighteen was a
Princely fortune to
Those strong but not smart.
The blood and sweat stains
Wait for a machine
To break so they can
Feel work in their veins.
A Poem, A Busker
A Busker
The ragged, dirty jeans,
Six other people wore,
Bangle from his hip
Bones, inked, and scraped – by
Rough cement and kicks
From cops checking his
Pulse on their beat –
As he accompanies
His tired voice with guitar,
Strapped across his chest
Bone, inked, and bruised – by
Stone curbs and tussles
From bums throwing down
For turf on stoops –
And his song is heard by
Every passerby.
The ragged, dirty jeans,
Six other people wore,
Bangle from his hip
Bones, inked, and scraped – by
Rough cement and kicks
From cops checking his
Pulse on their beat –
As he accompanies
His tired voice with guitar,
Strapped across his chest
Bone, inked, and bruised – by
Stone curbs and tussles
From bums throwing down
For turf on stoops –
And his song is heard by
Every passerby.
A Portrait, Motohiro, A Good Boy
Motohiro, A Good Boy.
Motohiro, good boy, sits by his games while a phone rings.
The vibrations take him back to when he was three.
Though now 18, he can remember it all,
And the days of recklessness,
And the headstrong fights of a boy and his father.
The strictness he could never understand, and the phone rings on.
The breaking point he stared at when his books flew through the air
Onto the street below.
The pain. The hurt. The anger. The fight. The fight that continued and continued.
He just didn’t understand the wrath of his father.
Was it wrath?
…and the phone rings on.
“Dear boy. Dear boy. Do not be angry with your father,”
His mother said over and over.
Oh he understood little then. Young men understand little of their mother’s wisdom when they are angry.
He understood so little.
Immaturity too strong, overwhelming the calming advice of a mother,
And the phone rings on.
The restricted time of games,
The restricted time of joy,
The constant reminder of work,
The constant reminder of obedience,
And the phone rings on.
“Dear boy, don’t be angry,”
And the phone rings on.
Quarrel and quarrel and the boy, now 12, looks in his father’s angry eyes,
But is it anger in his eyes?
Is that anger Motohiro sees, or something greater?
The loud voice may speak a wiser language that a 12 year old cannot understand.
A pity perhaps? A pain? A sorrow? A disease?
…and the phone rings on sending vibrations through an 18 year old body about to realize the truth of a man he battled for 15 confusing years because although there was battle, there was also peace.
There was the lightness of peace in a youth privileged to eat and sleep in comfort.
There was the peace of security and rest after the demands were met.
The demands? Did his father demand anything extreme of Motohiro?
Study, yes; work, yes; don’t fritter time away on the useless pleasures of your friends, yes; honour mother, yes; be strong, yes; be wise, yes; be patient, yes; read good books, yes; learn your culture, yes; don’t go to the water when the mountain is where wisdom is found, yes; follow the eagle not the sea gull, yes; help the weak, yes; avoid power, yes; honour the good, yes; and on and on and on and on, and Motohiro brooded.
…but were these the ravings of a tyrant?
The fight went on.
Mothers rarely stop the fights between brother and brother, father and son, father and brother or father and himself. Rarely.
Simple men and that battles in their souls.
The battles of ego.
The battles of regret.
The battles of men and men with never an end, but for Motohiro the battle would end and the phone rang on.
Six years later and I’m sitting in a classroom while a young man talks of his father.
He talks of the days of quarrelling.
He talks of the immaturity in his heart.
He talks of motherly wisdom unheeded.
He talks of a secret.
He tells of a mother not wanting her son growing up in melancholy.
He tells of strict rules, and flying books.
He tells of a model he cannot live up to.
And he tells of a phone call when he was eighteen,
And the death of a father dying after fifteen years of battling a disease inside of him.
Motohiro. A good boy.
Motohiro, good boy, sits by his games while a phone rings.
The vibrations take him back to when he was three.
Though now 18, he can remember it all,
And the days of recklessness,
And the headstrong fights of a boy and his father.
The strictness he could never understand, and the phone rings on.
The breaking point he stared at when his books flew through the air
Onto the street below.
The pain. The hurt. The anger. The fight. The fight that continued and continued.
He just didn’t understand the wrath of his father.
Was it wrath?
…and the phone rings on.
“Dear boy. Dear boy. Do not be angry with your father,”
His mother said over and over.
Oh he understood little then. Young men understand little of their mother’s wisdom when they are angry.
He understood so little.
Immaturity too strong, overwhelming the calming advice of a mother,
And the phone rings on.
The restricted time of games,
The restricted time of joy,
The constant reminder of work,
The constant reminder of obedience,
And the phone rings on.
“Dear boy, don’t be angry,”
And the phone rings on.
Quarrel and quarrel and the boy, now 12, looks in his father’s angry eyes,
But is it anger in his eyes?
Is that anger Motohiro sees, or something greater?
The loud voice may speak a wiser language that a 12 year old cannot understand.
A pity perhaps? A pain? A sorrow? A disease?
…and the phone rings on sending vibrations through an 18 year old body about to realize the truth of a man he battled for 15 confusing years because although there was battle, there was also peace.
There was the lightness of peace in a youth privileged to eat and sleep in comfort.
There was the peace of security and rest after the demands were met.
The demands? Did his father demand anything extreme of Motohiro?
Study, yes; work, yes; don’t fritter time away on the useless pleasures of your friends, yes; honour mother, yes; be strong, yes; be wise, yes; be patient, yes; read good books, yes; learn your culture, yes; don’t go to the water when the mountain is where wisdom is found, yes; follow the eagle not the sea gull, yes; help the weak, yes; avoid power, yes; honour the good, yes; and on and on and on and on, and Motohiro brooded.
…but were these the ravings of a tyrant?
The fight went on.
Mothers rarely stop the fights between brother and brother, father and son, father and brother or father and himself. Rarely.
Simple men and that battles in their souls.
The battles of ego.
The battles of regret.
The battles of men and men with never an end, but for Motohiro the battle would end and the phone rang on.
Six years later and I’m sitting in a classroom while a young man talks of his father.
He talks of the days of quarrelling.
He talks of the immaturity in his heart.
He talks of motherly wisdom unheeded.
He talks of a secret.
He tells of a mother not wanting her son growing up in melancholy.
He tells of strict rules, and flying books.
He tells of a model he cannot live up to.
And he tells of a phone call when he was eighteen,
And the death of a father dying after fifteen years of battling a disease inside of him.
Motohiro. A good boy.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Four Haikus - Yellows, Controlled Burn, Red-Winged Blackbird, Buffalo Farm
Yellows
Yellows on the plain
Roll over mounds silently
A duck pond is still.
Controlled Burn
Charcoal invades wheat
Ashes floating passed hawk’s watch
Harvest is later.
Red-Winged Blackbird
Fluttering wings cut
The marshy air is disturbed
Mom’s favourite bird.
Buffalo Farm
Symbols of the past
Stand stoically, tough, bored.
We used to be chased.
* Published in The Prairie Journal Issue Number 53
Available for order at http://prairiejournal.org/
Yellows on the plain
Roll over mounds silently
A duck pond is still.
Controlled Burn
Charcoal invades wheat
Ashes floating passed hawk’s watch
Harvest is later.
Red-Winged Blackbird
Fluttering wings cut
The marshy air is disturbed
Mom’s favourite bird.
Buffalo Farm
Symbols of the past
Stand stoically, tough, bored.
We used to be chased.
* Published in The Prairie Journal Issue Number 53
Available for order at http://prairiejournal.org/
A Story, The Silent Cafe
The Silent Cafe
The workday ended, the watch fixer, the engineer and the accountant meet in their regular spot, at their regular hour, on their regular night. The work of the week complete, more or less, they promptly and precisely arrive at 8:42pm on the street to the back of the main street tastefully away from the bustle of people. The three chair table awaits them with water poured, and they take their places as per normal.
The watch fixer faces the back wall with the clock, naturally, so as not to be noticed by the casual patrons who may enter (although that is always unlikely). She has no need to look into the faces of inquisitive people with all their complications and emotions. No thank you. The clock will do just fine. Plus, it was a nice simple clock with big gears and a plain black and white face that could calm the most calculating of souls.
The engineer faces the juke box that he always thinks of investing in, but never does because, really, what if they don’t like the song he picks and laugh at him. There is always the chance that they will laugh at him. They never had laughed at him of course, and if he remained silent, and took few risks it just might stay that way. He liked the juke box with its dolphin decals and pink and blue colours. It reminded him of the days on the ocean liner where he saw the flying fish while sitting alone on the deck. Flying fish that he always hoped he would tell someone of. There were four burnt out bulbs on the juke box. “They should really replace those,” he thought, but never told anyone.
The accountant faces the window and looks at the garden in between the two apartment buildings, as it reminds him of that trip he took all those years ago. He always planned to go back, but, really, can you go back? Best not to risk it. The cost of gasoline and airfare and hotels and souvenirs being what they are, it seemed always better to stay home and look at the garden across the street. Within his head, the accountant always could justify doing nothing rather than doing something, as the risks and dangers were lower. “They do look lovely though,” he thought.
The waiter came back, and left knowing that the three would require more time even though their orders would be the same as every week. The three then sat. Murmured at times trite small talk neither meaningful nor personal. Thoughts swirled in the threes’ heads that, if today were indeed that day, may come out and be expressed in the company of friends. If today was that day that is.
The watch fixer looking at the clock and thinking of her mother at home in her upstairs room. Her mother who rarely spoke to her, and who walked around in a sort of haze cleaning and attending to the plethora of pointless duties a mother raised in a duty frantic world does. Her mother, who told her when she was young of the importance of soft words, and of the dangers of the World; her mother, who the watch fixer walked with during the festival seasons through the trees, but who embodied a sort of contagious loneliness and regret that dragged at the gears of the watch fixers being. The watch fixer thought of her mother, and glanced at the glass of water in front of the accountant.
“So she does love him,” the engineer thought. “I saw the look she had when she glanced his way,” he thought. The engineer, who always fancied the day that he would speak to the watch fixer about non-work related things, and investigate the possibility of maybe, in some way, perhaps, being able to see her. However, he had always thought that she fancied the accountant. Always had a feeling that she looked at him with a sort of wistfulness that those who fancy others look. He always had a feeling. Now he saw it again, and he was all but sure that she liked the accountant better, and confirmed the reality that he, the engineer, would always be alone and living in his company dormitory, smoking and watching shallow action movies on his laptop with headphones, so as not to disturb his neighbour. He always had a feeling.
“What if she were to die,” she thought and a sense of relief passed over her face. “If she was to die then I could walk alone,” the watch fixer thought, and almost smiled. She glanced at the accountant’s long finger nails and his white soft marshmallow hands and almost smiled at the thought of his weakness. She looked at the clock ticking smoothly and almost smiled. She felt full of inspiration at how strong she would be without her mother. “I could walk alone,” she thought over and over. She glanced at her water, and almost looked up to the faces of her companions, but thought better of it, as she did not want to lose the joy in her heart at the thought of the weight that would be lifted if only her mother were to die.
The accountant looking out the window was elsewhere. At one time he had taken a trip to London with a friend. It was an exchange of sorts where he was to learn the culture and history of London by touring the famous museums, and attend the famous theatres that boasted the best of Western History, or so he was told. He understood little, however, and spent the time trying with all his might to avoid catching glimpses of his friend and she stared with interest at the portraits of old white men in military dress and formal robes. He wished he could talk to her, but knew that he had little to offer of interest in the face of such interesting exhibits. Rather, he stood silently hoping that she would look at him. Thus it went, on and on, as they toured the libraries, museums, theatres, cafes, restaurants, parks, buildings and churches. She talked of the beauty and interest of the city, and in the end she stayed. She found a flower shop to work at, and a small one roomed flat to live in, and he left. He thought of her, and drank his water knowing that he wouldn’t go to her, but rather e-mail her an update about his work that week.
The server came back and took the predictable orders of the three. Two green teas, a coffee, a veggie plate, some fried potatoes, and a glass of milk. The server sighed, said thank you, and left promptly lest he absorb some of the intense empty sadness that seemed to ruminate from the three head table in the corner of the café.
The engineer thought of playing a song again on the jukebox, thought better of it, and left to smoke a cigarette outside.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he thought, as he knew that it would leave the door open for relations to be built between the other two, but he needed his smoke. He needed it to fill his stomach so as to avoid the loneliness that he knew was there, but could talk to no-one of. So he left, and smoked outside staring blankly at the passersby on the street.
“All these people walking by, but saying nothing, as they walk to their families or friends or coworkers who comfort them in moments of trial,” he thought as he exhaled his thirteenth cigarette of the day. The loneliness was so overwhelming that he almost was forced to take a knee, but he stood strong.
“They will never talk to me, and I can never talk to them,” he thought, “because what would I say to those who have everything, when I have nothing to offer. No one wants to hear of the flying fish of the Indian Ocean, and even if they did they wouldn’t want to hear it from me in all my ineloquence.” He inhaled with the force of Aeolus and watched a child pick up a stick off the ground and use it as a sword. Swinging it through the air, as he held his Father’s hand, the small boy made the engineer think that it was time to talk to the watch fixer, and start his life on a path away from the dormitory room and the shallow action movies, and towards the sea where he would find peace.
The watch fixer shifted uncomfortably, as the engineer got up to smoke and glanced at the window noticing how unclean the window was. Trying to focus through the window, the watch fixer thought she saw a coworker pass by with his son, and she quickly looked down at her green tea.
“What if he was to see me here,” she thought, “and with his son to boot. How horrible it would be to have others talking about me at the shop with all their assumptions and suppositions circling the rooms.” She sat focused on the green tea, and tried not to think of the looks on others faces as they discussed her strange liaison with these two men who were in no way related to her. The brief inspiring feeling of her mother’s death were wiped clean, and replaced with a shakiness that was nearly visible if not for the watch fixer’s stoic focus. Staring at the tea, and tightening the gears inside of her the watch fixer quelled the urge to pound her fist into the table, and slowly exhaled.
The accountant, oblivious to all the tensions in the world outside of his own shallow soul, calmly ate his fried potatoes and sipped at his milk. He would have to finish the accounts by the end of next week for his newest client, who owned a very successful company that made machine parts that were exported to foreign countries to be made into engines for tractors and other heavy machinery. It was an interesting account and whenever he worked on it he couldn’t help but think of robots. Robots that could be controlled by people, and that could do the jobs that people didn’t want to do anymore. Like accounts. They could do his accounts while he picked flowers, or cooked fine French food for his family that he could impart his wisdom on, and love. Happily he thought of these things as he ate his fried potatoes, and a faintly visible smile crept from the side of his mouth.
“So it’s mutual,” the engineer thought as he returned to his place at the table glimpsing the mocking smirk on the face of the accountant. Deflated and embarrassed he sat down. Glumly he drank his coffee and fidgeted with his cell phone, so as to avoid looking at the others or, worse yet, the others looking at him. He would go home tonight after renting a movie, put his headphones on, and drift away into his laptop. Things would never change, but he would meet them next week, and next week he would say something. Next week he would tell both of them of the flying fish, and she would want to enter his world. She would want him, and he would begin his journey to the sea.
“She will never die, and I will never walk alone,” the watch fixer thought as she finished the last cucumber on her veggie plate. With a focus that betrayed no emotion she sat and finished her green tea avoiding the eyes of the others. She would go home, and listen to her mother shuffling around like a ghost on patrol. She would stare out the window at the neighbours’ gardens and imagine the mounds of dirt covering her mother, freeing her to walk alone down the streets of her town. She would imagine driving to the mountains, and wind on her face and all else in between, and cringe at the images every time she caught her mother in her peripheral vision. She looked at the clock on the wall one last time, and got up to leave.
Watching the watch fixer get up to leave and bowing politely, the accountant sipped on the last of his green tea with a feeling of relief. The images in his mind circled and circled getting bigger and bigger until he felt himself king. King of a land full of flowers where he was interesting. Interesting in a way that she would notice, and in which he would inspire himself into doing things he never thought possible. Yes, he would be interesting he thought as he eagerly sipped his green tea and looked out the window at the passers by. The accountant would go home to his parents’ basement suite and read a mystery novel, and tomorrow he would go to work. He would work on the machinery parts maker’s accounts with energy and passion, and at night he would account for his life. Perhaps he wouldn’t return next week. Perhaps he would find the will to leave this town, and go to London. Or Paris. Perhaps he would have to cook a meal for ten at a dinner party hosted by him. Perhaps he would be giving a talk on the history of the West. Perhaps he would be elsewhere.
Perhaps.
The workday ended, the watch fixer, the engineer and the accountant meet in their regular spot, at their regular hour, on their regular night. The work of the week complete, more or less, they promptly and precisely arrive at 8:42pm on the street to the back of the main street tastefully away from the bustle of people. The three chair table awaits them with water poured, and they take their places as per normal.
The watch fixer faces the back wall with the clock, naturally, so as not to be noticed by the casual patrons who may enter (although that is always unlikely). She has no need to look into the faces of inquisitive people with all their complications and emotions. No thank you. The clock will do just fine. Plus, it was a nice simple clock with big gears and a plain black and white face that could calm the most calculating of souls.
The engineer faces the juke box that he always thinks of investing in, but never does because, really, what if they don’t like the song he picks and laugh at him. There is always the chance that they will laugh at him. They never had laughed at him of course, and if he remained silent, and took few risks it just might stay that way. He liked the juke box with its dolphin decals and pink and blue colours. It reminded him of the days on the ocean liner where he saw the flying fish while sitting alone on the deck. Flying fish that he always hoped he would tell someone of. There were four burnt out bulbs on the juke box. “They should really replace those,” he thought, but never told anyone.
The accountant faces the window and looks at the garden in between the two apartment buildings, as it reminds him of that trip he took all those years ago. He always planned to go back, but, really, can you go back? Best not to risk it. The cost of gasoline and airfare and hotels and souvenirs being what they are, it seemed always better to stay home and look at the garden across the street. Within his head, the accountant always could justify doing nothing rather than doing something, as the risks and dangers were lower. “They do look lovely though,” he thought.
The waiter came back, and left knowing that the three would require more time even though their orders would be the same as every week. The three then sat. Murmured at times trite small talk neither meaningful nor personal. Thoughts swirled in the threes’ heads that, if today were indeed that day, may come out and be expressed in the company of friends. If today was that day that is.
The watch fixer looking at the clock and thinking of her mother at home in her upstairs room. Her mother who rarely spoke to her, and who walked around in a sort of haze cleaning and attending to the plethora of pointless duties a mother raised in a duty frantic world does. Her mother, who told her when she was young of the importance of soft words, and of the dangers of the World; her mother, who the watch fixer walked with during the festival seasons through the trees, but who embodied a sort of contagious loneliness and regret that dragged at the gears of the watch fixers being. The watch fixer thought of her mother, and glanced at the glass of water in front of the accountant.
“So she does love him,” the engineer thought. “I saw the look she had when she glanced his way,” he thought. The engineer, who always fancied the day that he would speak to the watch fixer about non-work related things, and investigate the possibility of maybe, in some way, perhaps, being able to see her. However, he had always thought that she fancied the accountant. Always had a feeling that she looked at him with a sort of wistfulness that those who fancy others look. He always had a feeling. Now he saw it again, and he was all but sure that she liked the accountant better, and confirmed the reality that he, the engineer, would always be alone and living in his company dormitory, smoking and watching shallow action movies on his laptop with headphones, so as not to disturb his neighbour. He always had a feeling.
“What if she were to die,” she thought and a sense of relief passed over her face. “If she was to die then I could walk alone,” the watch fixer thought, and almost smiled. She glanced at the accountant’s long finger nails and his white soft marshmallow hands and almost smiled at the thought of his weakness. She looked at the clock ticking smoothly and almost smiled. She felt full of inspiration at how strong she would be without her mother. “I could walk alone,” she thought over and over. She glanced at her water, and almost looked up to the faces of her companions, but thought better of it, as she did not want to lose the joy in her heart at the thought of the weight that would be lifted if only her mother were to die.
The accountant looking out the window was elsewhere. At one time he had taken a trip to London with a friend. It was an exchange of sorts where he was to learn the culture and history of London by touring the famous museums, and attend the famous theatres that boasted the best of Western History, or so he was told. He understood little, however, and spent the time trying with all his might to avoid catching glimpses of his friend and she stared with interest at the portraits of old white men in military dress and formal robes. He wished he could talk to her, but knew that he had little to offer of interest in the face of such interesting exhibits. Rather, he stood silently hoping that she would look at him. Thus it went, on and on, as they toured the libraries, museums, theatres, cafes, restaurants, parks, buildings and churches. She talked of the beauty and interest of the city, and in the end she stayed. She found a flower shop to work at, and a small one roomed flat to live in, and he left. He thought of her, and drank his water knowing that he wouldn’t go to her, but rather e-mail her an update about his work that week.
The server came back and took the predictable orders of the three. Two green teas, a coffee, a veggie plate, some fried potatoes, and a glass of milk. The server sighed, said thank you, and left promptly lest he absorb some of the intense empty sadness that seemed to ruminate from the three head table in the corner of the café.
The engineer thought of playing a song again on the jukebox, thought better of it, and left to smoke a cigarette outside.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he thought, as he knew that it would leave the door open for relations to be built between the other two, but he needed his smoke. He needed it to fill his stomach so as to avoid the loneliness that he knew was there, but could talk to no-one of. So he left, and smoked outside staring blankly at the passersby on the street.
“All these people walking by, but saying nothing, as they walk to their families or friends or coworkers who comfort them in moments of trial,” he thought as he exhaled his thirteenth cigarette of the day. The loneliness was so overwhelming that he almost was forced to take a knee, but he stood strong.
“They will never talk to me, and I can never talk to them,” he thought, “because what would I say to those who have everything, when I have nothing to offer. No one wants to hear of the flying fish of the Indian Ocean, and even if they did they wouldn’t want to hear it from me in all my ineloquence.” He inhaled with the force of Aeolus and watched a child pick up a stick off the ground and use it as a sword. Swinging it through the air, as he held his Father’s hand, the small boy made the engineer think that it was time to talk to the watch fixer, and start his life on a path away from the dormitory room and the shallow action movies, and towards the sea where he would find peace.
The watch fixer shifted uncomfortably, as the engineer got up to smoke and glanced at the window noticing how unclean the window was. Trying to focus through the window, the watch fixer thought she saw a coworker pass by with his son, and she quickly looked down at her green tea.
“What if he was to see me here,” she thought, “and with his son to boot. How horrible it would be to have others talking about me at the shop with all their assumptions and suppositions circling the rooms.” She sat focused on the green tea, and tried not to think of the looks on others faces as they discussed her strange liaison with these two men who were in no way related to her. The brief inspiring feeling of her mother’s death were wiped clean, and replaced with a shakiness that was nearly visible if not for the watch fixer’s stoic focus. Staring at the tea, and tightening the gears inside of her the watch fixer quelled the urge to pound her fist into the table, and slowly exhaled.
The accountant, oblivious to all the tensions in the world outside of his own shallow soul, calmly ate his fried potatoes and sipped at his milk. He would have to finish the accounts by the end of next week for his newest client, who owned a very successful company that made machine parts that were exported to foreign countries to be made into engines for tractors and other heavy machinery. It was an interesting account and whenever he worked on it he couldn’t help but think of robots. Robots that could be controlled by people, and that could do the jobs that people didn’t want to do anymore. Like accounts. They could do his accounts while he picked flowers, or cooked fine French food for his family that he could impart his wisdom on, and love. Happily he thought of these things as he ate his fried potatoes, and a faintly visible smile crept from the side of his mouth.
“So it’s mutual,” the engineer thought as he returned to his place at the table glimpsing the mocking smirk on the face of the accountant. Deflated and embarrassed he sat down. Glumly he drank his coffee and fidgeted with his cell phone, so as to avoid looking at the others or, worse yet, the others looking at him. He would go home tonight after renting a movie, put his headphones on, and drift away into his laptop. Things would never change, but he would meet them next week, and next week he would say something. Next week he would tell both of them of the flying fish, and she would want to enter his world. She would want him, and he would begin his journey to the sea.
“She will never die, and I will never walk alone,” the watch fixer thought as she finished the last cucumber on her veggie plate. With a focus that betrayed no emotion she sat and finished her green tea avoiding the eyes of the others. She would go home, and listen to her mother shuffling around like a ghost on patrol. She would stare out the window at the neighbours’ gardens and imagine the mounds of dirt covering her mother, freeing her to walk alone down the streets of her town. She would imagine driving to the mountains, and wind on her face and all else in between, and cringe at the images every time she caught her mother in her peripheral vision. She looked at the clock on the wall one last time, and got up to leave.
Watching the watch fixer get up to leave and bowing politely, the accountant sipped on the last of his green tea with a feeling of relief. The images in his mind circled and circled getting bigger and bigger until he felt himself king. King of a land full of flowers where he was interesting. Interesting in a way that she would notice, and in which he would inspire himself into doing things he never thought possible. Yes, he would be interesting he thought as he eagerly sipped his green tea and looked out the window at the passers by. The accountant would go home to his parents’ basement suite and read a mystery novel, and tomorrow he would go to work. He would work on the machinery parts maker’s accounts with energy and passion, and at night he would account for his life. Perhaps he wouldn’t return next week. Perhaps he would find the will to leave this town, and go to London. Or Paris. Perhaps he would have to cook a meal for ten at a dinner party hosted by him. Perhaps he would be giving a talk on the history of the West. Perhaps he would be elsewhere.
Perhaps.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
A Poem, A One Armed Man Returns
A One Armed Man Returns
He returned,
The one armed man,
Sun-tanned and sanded
From furlough of the government that
Gave him a shave, a flag, a gun, and a line
To blind conscience,
And make him a soiled Spartan.
Now he has returned,
The one armed man,
To concrete streets, flowered sheets,
Lack of pleats, and handicapped seats.
Wandering, now, in a shopping mall
Renting trash films with a hand in a pocket,
Straining to find life.
He returned,
The one armed man,
Sun-tanned and sanded
From furlough of the government that
Gave him a shave, a flag, a gun, and a line
To blind conscience,
And make him a soiled Spartan.
Now he has returned,
The one armed man,
To concrete streets, flowered sheets,
Lack of pleats, and handicapped seats.
Wandering, now, in a shopping mall
Renting trash films with a hand in a pocket,
Straining to find life.
A Poem, The Liar
The Liar
I felt the need.
I had to lie.
They were talking,
And I needed in.
The face in the rain water puddle
Told me I had to join in.
Told, whispered, threatened,
Mocked, jeered, and baited
Me to continue.
They don’t know his face.
They could never feel his locked gaze,
And cold smirk.
They get away with it,
But I answer to him.
The face in the puddle
That returns when the pool is filled
Telling, whispering, threatening, mocking, jeering and baiting.
…and so I lied again.
I felt the need.
I had to lie.
They were talking,
And I needed in.
The face in the rain water puddle
Told me I had to join in.
Told, whispered, threatened,
Mocked, jeered, and baited
Me to continue.
They don’t know his face.
They could never feel his locked gaze,
And cold smirk.
They get away with it,
But I answer to him.
The face in the puddle
That returns when the pool is filled
Telling, whispering, threatening, mocking, jeering and baiting.
…and so I lied again.
A Poem, Coyote
Coyote
Coyote stalking in the dusk,
Trotting ess shaped lines,
around boulders, through canyons,
And riverbeds of the past.
Snapping at a snail or lizard,
The Coyote’s eyes glow in the peripheral
Of my forward looking vision;
Blurred image.
-creeping past-
She nips on occasion’
the tender parts,
And pulls the mind to harmful memories
And regretted actions.
The Coyote’s trail is not straight,
And her hunt is never over,
And her eyes are always moving, focused, scanning,
Over the terrain.
-torturing past-
Coyote stalking in the dusk,
Trotting ess shaped lines,
around boulders, through canyons,
And riverbeds of the past.
Snapping at a snail or lizard,
The Coyote’s eyes glow in the peripheral
Of my forward looking vision;
Blurred image.
-creeping past-
She nips on occasion’
the tender parts,
And pulls the mind to harmful memories
And regretted actions.
The Coyote’s trail is not straight,
And her hunt is never over,
And her eyes are always moving, focused, scanning,
Over the terrain.
-torturing past-
A Poem, The Blind Man on the Lake
The Blind Man on the
The blind man in the
Shack by the lake died
Yesterday morning.
The cookie cutter
Subdivision thought:
Possibilities.
“If we plowed the house,
And flattened the land
We could see more lake.”
The blind man had none
To claim the land now;
A lakeshore palace?
He was alone save
A nephew in
And a mix breed dog.
“We must see the lake,
And I’m sure he would
Want us to see that
Which he only sensed.”
The blind man was laid
In front of his shack
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