Hay Mow

A hay mow, in case you weren't aware, is where you store hay.

You pronounce it like "hey now."

I've always had a hay mow where I've lived. Not so much in the last few years; no room in apartments for hay and such. There are many fond memories related to hay mows in my life. I miss my hay mows.

At our house near Oglesby, the hay mow was where I brain-wrote my first play. From what I recall, there was a Princess and possible some sort of "White Knight" figure. The plan was to stack bales of hay into some rudimentary "castle" structure, from where the main action could occur. The whole thing fell apart, of course, without the appropriate strength (I was 4 or 5), and a clear dearth of engineering experience. That, and it was difficult to find actors, given the lack of a script, costumes, and money (or cookies).

Someday, I'll finish writing the damn thing and I'll hire some actors and it'll be made into a really cute indie film.

We're gonna need a lot of hay.

Old smells

The stairwell in my building smelled today. It probably wasn't different than it's ever smelled, but for some reason, today's stairwell aroma reminded me of Mike's old house. So as I carried my load of laundry down to the washers, I did that old "let the memories wash over me" thing. It was pleasing.

Went to S. Broadway today to check out the thrifting. Finally found a pair of second-hand black wingtips. Picked up a nice blazer and some brown pennyloafers, too. The shoes, especially, smell old, but that's probably because they are leather. Ended up a few blocks north for our Winter bar crawl some hours later. There, too, I encountered a smell that took me back, although I have no idea where back is.

Scent is very strongly tied to memory, and for as long as I can remember, I've been a "smeller."

I've created scent profiles for the homes of my friends and family, and compared them to other locations. I'll occasionally walk into a room somewhere and think, "Gods, this smells exactly like Bob and Kathy's house!"

Naturally, all of this leads me to the obvious question: Do I, and my lodgings, possess a certain je ne sais quoi?

Further research will be needed.

Intersections

I went to Sidney’s this morning for coffee in the usual manner. Ordered a “Shot in the Dark,” which is basically their Peruvian blend with espresso. I explained that I had been born in Peru. This elicited some interested hoots from the wonderful coffee-ladies. Naturally, full disclosure necessitated that the truth be explained, and it was.

“Not really. It’s a small town in Illinois.”

But it became interesting again, right.

“Mom’s a soil scientist, dad’s a forester.”

Got my coffee and went my way. As I was crossing 14th Street, sans WALK signal, I was almost creamed by a pickup truck. This is no joke: if the driver hadn’t been paying attention, he would have turned me into a road-pie. It certainly didn’t help that I was wearing the following in brown: shoes, socks, pants, shirt, and tie. It wasn’t so much getting plowed-up by a truck that would have been embarrassing, it would have been that I was spending my time crossing the street thinking about stopping in at Sidney’s for coffee on a weekend. Maybe if the coffee-ladies weren’t so cool, I wouldn’t have almost got crushed.

Moral of the story: I didn’t have an adrenaline rush; no emotional response whatsoever besides humor. There was a mad smirk on my face as I made it across the street, though. Weird.

The Balcony

Scented footsteps lead me to the balcony where she
stands replanting my lavender that the squirrels
dug up to hide winter-food. Smiles, a breath, she
leaves to clean the earth from her nails.

I bring myself down to the chair, the air wants to
carry the last seven weeks of summer with it. I am
accompanied by a text about bees and a chablis.

She returns to un-empty the chair across from me
to read Colbert. It is our favorite time
of day, this stasis. There is all time.

Can’t put a color to the sky I say looking past her
and over the beech tree with birdfeeders. She’ll
agree; even the clouds aren’t quite white.

I’ve run out of wine I say and set down my text to
retreat indoors and fetch a new glass and one for
you too my dear and she nods. Pouring is
impossible when she tilts her head back to laugh at
a particularly outrageous passage. My bees are not
that funny.

Returning with the wine, she sighs and stretches.
The best part of being awake– we can’t tell if the sun
will stay for three hours or thirty minutes but it
certainly smells like the end of a day.

And so we read until the light fails in its duty to
illuminate the page and we fall indoors again;
clockworks keeping time with the heart.

She’ll sing. I’ll ponder. We’ll collide.

Breezes from the balcony now that fill the house
with promise of night. Candles, light houses.

An Ash Wednesday Post

An excerpt from the soon-to-be-released memoirs of Jesus Christ "Just Do It: In Memory of Me":

So Jesus the Christ and the Twelve Apostles (or maybe there were five, or thirty-two; who knows?) are lounging around having dinner after a long day spent trying to convince the people of Israel that it is totally cool to be kind to other folks. Peter turns to Jesus and says, “Hey, Yeshua! What’s the difference between a Pharisee and a bucket of donkey shit?”

Jesus looks at Peter and says, “I don’t know: what?”

Peter says, “The bucket!”

And Jesus the Christ let out a big ‘ol belly laugh and slapped Peter on the back. Oh, he was laughin’ so hard that he was cryin’ and his nose started runnin’. Of course the other apostles couldn’t help but laugh, too. Now this went on for minutes; there would be points of silence where they tried to catch their breath only to blow it out explosively in yet another round of gut-pain-inducing giggles. And when they were all done laughing and had finished drying their eyes, Jesus the Christ looked upon them and said, “You guys are great.”


"Just Do It: In Memory of Me" will be released May 2008 by Harper/Collins. It details the life and times of Jesus (Savior of the World, Who Takes Away the Sins of the World, Happy Are Those Who Are Called To His Supper), his family, his friends, and especially his time in India. Available for pre-order at Amazon.com.

A Sudden Lack of Knowledge to the Heart

Sitting here doing lots of schoolwork; trying to figure out the true character of the Islamic Revolution in Iran. This is not easy.

It came back to me again that I never knew my maternal grandfather. I only barely knew my maternal grandmother; I was too young to even realize what was happening when she passed on.

And even though both my paternal grandparents were still around up to my sophomore year in college, I never made a coordinated effort to sit them down and learn everything that I could. I did it passively, not actively.

So there are for sure two whole datasets and two partial datasets that are completely absent from my processing capacity. I'm not too pleased about this. I suppose I'll have to invent some sort of machine to fix this problem, eh?

Tinker, tinker, tinker.

Distance

I recently received a text late one evening from a friend in Chicago. She mentioned a terrible headache and the fear that accompanied it. We talked about headaches, checklisting the various alternative therapies that could possibly relieve some of the pain. I made a passing remark about driving her to the hospital if she really needed it.

Note: We are 914 miles apart (I Google-mapped it) and I don't have a car out here in Denver.

It brought to mind other times when I've made such offers. When I lived in the suburbs, saying something like that was merely unreasonable. Now it's impossible. I feel strangely disconnected from all those people and places back in Illinois. The nature of my existence is such that I really only recognize the sheer physical distance between me and there, but it is still a very wide gulf. These people are a mere phone call away, and with Facebook and Myspace, I'm never really disconnected.

I talk to friends back at Aurora, and they recount the occasional banal details of college life. I know that people still climb the stairs in Eckhart Hall. I know that they still travel north (the term is "head up Randall") to shop. All of this occurs, as it did before, as it will in the future, without me there.

As Tony Prima would say, "Life goes on without me."

Keep going, life.