Exercise_Transition between times

Television usually stayed turn on for the simple and solitary reason that the voices were good company. There was something fascinating about conversing with characters from TV shows, wondering about what had happened in the news since the filming of old television shows that might have been life-changing, world-changing. The history that lay in between Lucy Ricardo and Ethan was a substantial realization. That Lucy in that moment in time never knew about Reagan, Bush, 9-11, Putin, Ahmadinejad. The life stories she knew of were severely limited. A smile crept upon Ethan's face as he sat on his couch, taking a second to watch the crazy antics from the show. She was so naive, he thought. They all were.

But you're wrong, boy Ethan, his mother thought as she looked at her small son on the stairs. The world is much nicer and easier today than it was when your grandparents were children. Ethan's large, teary eyes and quivering lip remained motionless. His mother's crossed arms didn't move either. She could see her boy's fingers interlace with each other timidly: a telltale sign that he knew he'd been bad. Very bad. Smudges of dirt were on his face and streaked the arms and legs of him, the typical southern boy in the summer time. Loretta couldn't help but stifle a laugh; despite his bad behavior. Her boy was rather eloquent at the ripe old age of nine. His declaration that life wasn't fair, upon being grounded for the foolish act of stealing from the neighbor due to the bad influence of bad friends had come off like a Shakespearean soliloquy: "I can't imagine my life outside of this world, outside of playing with my friends! You want to kill me, Mom! You're giving me the most horrible life! No one has it tougher than me!"

Mother and son stared each other down, with the occasional sniffle from the formerly crying boy interrupting the dark tension in the room.



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Beyond String Theory

I can sit here on my bed and look across the room. There's a mirror there and I can see myself and my surroundings. Obviously. And then there are some moments when I try to listen really hard, to see if I can hear the other room next to me, so close and so infinite in the space that embodies my own room that I wonder if I'm hearing what I want to hear and that I'm actually on the other side as well.

I like to use my senses to time travel, to explore my memories and the associations sense experience brings to me. But what if the memories, fantasies, visions, hopes and ideas that I have in my head are not just things that my mind's eye sees, but are the ways in which I can explore that second room? Perhaps it's a way for me to see that alternate reality so close and still so impossible for me to reach. It could be matter in my mind, a glimpse of what is in another time and place, and in that case, that which my imagination can conjure is actual a form of reality.

Fantastic.




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French Books

I really had no desire to walk into that store, but the desire inside of me to be a good wife and to give a few seconds of my own life for the sake of what he wanted to do helped me to grasp his hand and walk right in. Immediately I felt as though I were in Harry Potter, this little second-hand bookstore on Melrose. There were shelves and shelves of books, in the middle of the aisles, towering to the ceiling as though there were a breeze inside, wobbling back and forth like a Dr. Seuss caricature. I love the smell of old books. The woodsy, musky air may seem suffocating, but it reminds me of the days of my youth, holding my parents' hands, walking towards that red brick building that looked like and old schoolhouse and descending into the basement to breathe in a world of different universes and possibilities. And as an adult, I was able to find the gateway to the same universe in a location far from home. As he looked for those books, I wandered down the aisles, looking at the different paperbacks and worn out hardback covers, feeling the crisp and sometimes oily paper under my fingers and then I looked up. Up, up, and up, there they were. Books that I couldn't even find at Barnes and Noble at The Grove, there were French novels as old as the hills just waiting for me to embrace them and bring them home with me. I climbed the rickity old ladder (in hindsight, I probably shouldn't have) and reached beyond my natural ability to pick one, then another, then another, opening each one to scan for that familiar language that would remind me of the different world of French that explained in a different way and a different light how we might live our lives. It's a beautiful thing.




K

A Memory of My Dad

I love the smell of burning leaves and bonfires. When I left this morning and yesterday morning as well, there was a cool crispness in the air that reminded me of autumn back home. I remember those mornings well: a bit of dryness with after tones of nuts and dried foliage, the smell of my dad's soap as he got his coffee ready for work in the morning while I made breakfast and took care of the cat. We were always the only two in the family awake that early in the morning and it was our cherished routine to keep with our routine. Flexibility in time or any sort of mistake in timing - whether due to unforeseen circumstances or lack of judgment - created a quiet irritability as we struggled to make up for lost minutes. "You look beautiful, honey," my dad would say to the teenage me, prompting a grateful smile. He'd continue: "But how do I look?" with a touch of Irish pompousness mixed with a slight note of humor that only early birds would ever pick up. Crisp, iron collar, black leather jacket, dark pants with dark shoes, he always dressed well and took pride in his appearance. "You look great, Padre," I would reply. And then we could go and start the day.




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