For weeks I have read. Read and read and read. Pablo Neruda took twelve hours from me today. He is pretty well known in most circles, Nobel Peace Prize winner, life-long communist, suspected conspirator in Leon Trotsky's assassination attempt, a very well-rounded person. I would read a verse. Roll it over my tongue, picture the audience, screw up my eyes, fake intent, and then move my cursor over to the Google toolbar and type in "Margaret Atwood." Oh Margaret, how I relate so easily to you! A woman in charge.

Neruda's history of political radicalism, fallacious love affairs, and dangerous crusades would slap me in the face with their strange red tentacles just as I began to trust his prose. I found that going back to Atwood would reaffirm my distrust of men. Neruda would always start me off nice and easy, like a professional baseball player showing an 8-year-old how to play catch. "Fleas interest me so much," Neruda wrote in 1945, during the last moments of World War II. Little does the child know that Neruda is not interested in fleas at all. In fact, I'm sure he is quite opposed to fleas. "Passive aggressive" is an interesting term for it, coincidently coined by the United States military during that very same war when psychiatrists noted the behavior of soldiers who displayed passive resistance and reluctant compliance to orders.

Before I sent Neruda back to the shelf, I tried to get to know a few of his friends so as not to feel judgmental. I had two cups of coffee with Federico Garcia Lorca. He was a nervous but handsome man. Took his coffee black and tended to keep one eye on the doorway. He told me of his good friend,Ignacio Sanchez Mejias, who was gored by a bull. Thus began a reluctant comradery, a lifetime of free therapy, and a strange encounter with a surrealist revolutionary.

The Favourite Poet, 1888

by Sir Alma-Tedema

I like Lorca better than Neruda, and Atwood better than all of them. I would invite them all to my party, but would expect that they would leave by 11. Margaret would have left of her own accord by 10. Her poem Boredom has always been a winner for me. Have you ever felt like you have left so much unsaid that you want to violently shake your lover..or former? I find myself doing the opposite and then vowing never to sit in silence again. I can remember moments when I was young and of course stupid, staring forward like an un-hatched queen bee stuck in royal jelly, while old boyfriends would drone on about their infallible skills on the bass guitar, or worse yet, would chastise me for what they viewed as imperfection or weakness. As Atwood put it, "it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details. Myopia." Burning holes with my eyes through the thin air between us, through my shoes, through blank walls, the toneless scream resonated in my own head but was expressed primarily in resentment or endless silence. The act of concentrating strictly on the present, on the details closest to each second and losing a grasp on a situation as a whole is what I get out of Boredom. And this is by no means a personal attack. In fact, it speaks more of my own fears and weaknesses than of your chauvanistic tendencies. :) Promise. And this is not to you (though you think it is for good reason...I'm a very complicated woman), it's to the one before you..and maybe the one before that. I keep a lot pent up, you can't blame me.

A wolf in sheep's clothing

On any given afternoon, I have to make the trek from downtown Lowell to my house, which is just north of the Tyngsboro bridge. It is in this time-frame that I question which brain trust is handling my hard-earned tax dollars. To simply pass by the Franco American School and make a turn on the green arrow would send jolts of serotonin directly to my brain at this point. "Why?" you ask. It would seem like the obvious course of events: following the signals and moving with the understood flow of traffic. Alas, there is an ant in the Jell-O, an unwanted visitor at our motorized picnic. Traffic cops.

Waving flags and halting cars, the Big Blue succeed in interrupting what was once a working system. To give you an idea of the problems that occur when you add these overpaid and over-inflated targets into the mix, I will lay down the course of events as they unfolded last Tuesday on a typical journey home from school.

Intersection of Pawtucket St. and School St: I sit in a line of traffic coming from the downtown area. Three other lines of traffic come to a head making a snow-flake of aggravation. I finally make my way to the front; the bridge is just feet away. A police officer stands in the center of this circus. The group to my left gets the wave. Ten cars trudge through. The group in front of me is then signaled to make their way across. To my right, another wave. Okay, so it's my turn. I've waited patiently, just like the rest. I look hopefully at the cop and he waves along the first line of cars. Yes, the one he already let pass, our friends to the left. I blink and look again. This is not an oversight on his part, he did not simply forget that he had already let this line of cars pass through. No. Two cars from the front of this line-cutting crew is his buddy in a unmarked police car. I have yet to move an inch. They wave to each other and grin as I am now late for work .

These officers are biting the hand that feeds them. The salary of a police officer in Lowell is between 35,600 and $59,880, all of this money coming from Massachusetts taxes. They may not realize this initially, I am losing 15 minutes of work, 15 taxed minutes of work, which means that they are losing money. Perhaps this is karma, and we are but a caravan of sacrificial lambs. Or better still, sheep, lining up and dumbly waiting for the herders to usher us through traffic. Looks like it's my turn to go, or perhaps theirs.

"The babies are born with claws."

A Contention of Comeliness: An Extremely Biased Approach to the Study of Sloths

Beady eyes, untrustworthy, false smile, misleading nomenclature; the Two-Toed Sloth’s discreditable nature has hovered above the radar for decades...until today, that is. Scientists have been glossing over evidence of the Two-Toed Sloth’s deceptive complexion in an effort to spearhead an assault on the far superior, and highly dignified Three-Toed Sloth.

Sloths at a glance

The Majestic Three-Toed Sloth:


The highly aggressive "Two-Toed" Sloth attacking the elderly (note that this beast has three, count them, three toes)



Exposing the two-toed sloth for its shortcomings is not a result of any personal vendetta that I hold; rather, it is merely an attempt to highlight the supreme excellence of its relative, the accurately titled Three-Toed Sloth. I will admit that I am a vain, shallow, superficial bloke, but I whole-heartedly believe that the inner nature of the beast can be determined by the creature’s outward appearance. i.e.: the three-toed sloth is a clear victor in the concours of charm. Let's take a moment to scrutize the two contenders...

I have always been one to admire a fine vertibrae when i spy one, and the nine vertibrae of the three-toed sloth makes for a much finer chassi than the mere 6 or seven that would be found on the two-toed sloth.

Thee-toed Sloths can act as excellent travel planers as well! Inhabiting tropical areas from Central America to Northern Argentina, the three toed sloth basks in the sunshine of some of the hottest resort locations.

Beautiful climate, lovely beaches (that the sloth can view from the trees), all this and more...if you are traveling with the three-toed sloth. "Where would the two-toed sloth take you?" you ask...

Bogotá. Point and case.

Boo-dah

Kevin Flaherty seems to fit the profile. Kevin, because this young man sitting diagonal from me on the bus reminds me of this slightly self-conscious, pseudo-friendly, football player that I went to high school with, whose name happened to be Kevin. And Flaherty, because, well, the Kevin that I know had a very Irish last name. The subconscious can be a wondrous machine. Seeing this stranger floods me with memories of my youth, i.e.: two to three years ago. The particular recollection that is jogged in my mind, one that has grabbed my attention for the time being, involves Kevin and an old French teacher. Since this is a dull bus ride, I think I can set aside some time to paint you a picture of these particular characters.

Kevin came into this world expected to be an athlete. His older brother Adam was a well known cross-country and track and field star, and his eldest brother Dave was a small town hit on the football field. By the time young Kevin reached high school, he was about 5' 10" and weighed about 200 pounds. His face maintained echoes of middle school in the form of red blemishes spotting his visage. Kevin surrounded himself primarily with other like-minded jocks. Before I continue, let it be known that I have no unreasonable bias against athletes, as I was the captain of the girls' field hockey team myself. Without further personal-narrative interruptions, I will move forth in my description of the Kevin Flaherty that I know, and that you will soon be acquainted with as well.
In all fairness, I would say that Kevin was instinctively a "nice kid," but sometimes, "nice kids" develop a mean-streak meant to deflect any negative attention from themselves. And so the action in this story begins: It was senior year, no wait, scratch that, junior year, during a study hall period when Kevin suddenly enters the old science lab.

[Harsh fluorescent light illuminates two rows of large black lab tables. Bored students file about the room. Indistinct mutterings abound, regarding hunger and homework assignments.
Spotlight: Stage Right. Wood door opens. Kevin enters as a few students look over at the new arrival.]


Immediately, and quite proudly, Kevin approaches a group of students whom I happen to be sitting with, and begins boasting about his encounter with a French teacher in the hallway. According to his tale, Ms. Philipon, a well-aged Canadian linguist, stopped him in the hallway and requested to see a hall-pass. Kevin, meanwhile, is recounting this tale with more gusto than that of Beowulf after the defeat of Grendel. "So," Kevin concludes to a slightly glassy audience, "I just told the old bitch to fuck off." Not to make myself out as a saint, but the entire situation had made me nauseous. In my resolute high school logic, I saw earnest validity in the retribution of callous behavior, probably because I've always felt like a bit of an outcast. Ms. Philipon, was in fact an old bat, but I personally feel that stringency is the true nature of elderly French teachers, and she should not be publicly insulted by young delinquents. Harsh words, but I stand by them. I was always a relatively quiet kid, but something about that story stirred up some fire in my viscera and I meant to show him the error of his ways.

I let Kevin finish his story and then I chewed him out like I had done to no other. Truthfully, I may not have been very eloquent, and perhaps used terms that I had never heard before, except for maybe on late night talk shows and I am quite certain that many of my theories about Kevin’s sly avoidance of evolution had been fictional, to some degree.
But it felt good.
I had never particularly fancied Ms. Philipon, but I couldn't’t help but enjoy her class, or at the very least pretend to enjoy her class after the incident so that the people who witnessed my wrath didn't just think that I was extremely austere and self-righteous.

In ancient Greek mythology, the god, Zeus, was put in place to maintain order in the natural world, and it seems to me that myth is the foundation of religion, with tales of superhuman beings undertaking quests and such to conquer evil and define the very nature of human-kind. Does this imply that there is some correlation between myself and the greatest idol of the mythological age, or perhaps that I may be the chosen leader of a new earth shattering religion? I will leave that for my audience to decide.
The manner in which this segment is progressing leads me to believe that I should end with a lenitive conclusion regarding morality, or better yet, in great contrast to my previous notions, a sensible Chinese proverb: Have a mouth as sharp as a dagger, but a heart as soft as tofu.

Put down that old scribbled sign, young man, and listen up. I'm going to do you the biggest favor of your life. Of the over six-billion humans on this grand semi-aquatic orb, I know you'll understand this message of reason and why I may be forced to take five points from the attendance portion of your grade. This is for your own good. Do you think your future employer will buy some half-baked excuse? A protest march? Oh boy, you've got quite a bit to learn about the real world. Take a seat.

Arnold Rothstein, alias Mr. Big, a fine, upstanding man, once told the world, Look out for Number One. If you don't, no one else will. Let me ask you one question, young man, is little Sally, working in the Nike sweatshop number one? No, that's right son, her punch card reads number 248,000,011. If Ive done my math correctly, you seem to be off somewhere in the ballpark of 288,000,010, and the answer to this equation certainly does not involve a linear mass of young vagrants chanting outside of the buildings at this fine, honest institution. The movement died in the 60s. Quiet boy! The movements are all the same. The memos were sent out, the social and environmental problems rectified, stamped, sealed, and approved by our American government, lord bless it. Don't argue with your elders. There are documents to prove this, and no you cant see them. Its for your own protection. Just imagine what would happen if the terrorists got their hands on them. I think the historians would nod in agreement when I tell you that large packs of rebel-rousers have never once positively impacted this altruistic and already flawless system. It would draw a tear to the eyes of your forefathers if they knew that the ungrateful youths of today were attempting to question the democracy that they fought so hard to put in place. Young Edward Rutledge would turn in his grave, his grave, boy, if he knew that signing that Declaration of Independence would eventually lead to a society of ingrates like yourselves. Defecting from Great Britain is one thing, but questioning America, why, that is just disrespecting the dead. Son, don't try to tell me that you are trying to save lives, it is a commonly accepted truth that war casualties are for the greater good. You've got the devil in you child, and an unpatriotic one at that. What exactly are these other classes teaching you anyways? Too many international professors trying to poison our children with anti-American slander, disguised as cultural understanding, if you ask me. What next? You'll try to tell me that I should just roll over and let some undocumented, uncivilized, extra-terrestrial take away the fine, well paying jobs clearly reserved for American citizens, my brothers and sisters? Well, that is just enough young man. Enough. I don't know what kind of rebel-red, Stalinist scheme you've got up your sleeve son, but it sure as hell wont get you out of missing lecture. Next time, you come to class. You sit quietly, work vigilantly, and then maybe, just maybe, you can become one of the shiny, prized cogs, in this well-oiled machine. You are free to go now; and Ill let you off with just a warning, but next time, I will have to take five points off of your final grade.

marinating in my own juices

Have you ever looked back upon your writing, only wanting to immediately set fire to it and start anew? As I scan through through the various pages of streaming thought that I have compiled over the years, I have to fight the immediate urge to do just that. Self control, please take the upper hand. Each passing word wants to be erased, but fortunately, or unfortunately, ink has oozed and dried, and there is nothing to be done, except slather more onto the page in hopes of jotting down some brilliant something that will cancel out all of the unintelligible nonsense. One can not conveniently erase what has been said in the real-time flow of verbiage that makes up everyday life, so why should one rely on an ever ready supply of white out in recorded thought? I shall stay strong and not bow down to the mighty back-space key.

I am currently trying to break into the rap industry...but so far i have only hashed out a few lines of prose...

Mad biddies they be hatin'in the 413
Mad dome, fresh chrome, favors like a decree
straight demands from they majesty
pointin guns, spinnin puns
i just want my degree

Straight up hussie lovin'
aint no bun in dis oven
take a trip down the stairs
now them playas payin fares
different city, pass me fitty
tadpole killin don't come cheap




Needs a lot of work, but definitely has the possiblity to go double platinum. Refer to top paragraph and recognise back-space restraint.


Other important matters:

There was a lucky penny on the stairs leading up from the Park Street T-stop. After passing it on the stairs, I thought about turning back and picking it up. But, the nature of a lucky penny is that it must be spotted and picked up in the same moment. Turning back would be a waste of fortune, as it loses all magical qualities in afterthought. The penny was clearly meant for another traveler on the stairs that day who may need the luck more than I. That sounded very Christian and was not intended to be regarded in such a manner, as we all know that Jesus Christ and lucky pennies are different beasts entirely.

That, my friends, is what goes through my head in any given half an hour. So, the next time you see me, remind me that my ADD assesment at MHS is scheduled for Tuesday, April 24, at 11:10. It is in everyone's best interest.

FIXED LENS

[Dimmed lighting, stage left, soft focus, close up on lead. A cracked oil effect allows for light beam visibility. Eyes flutter open. A telephone rings. ]

Arianne: I’m sorry but it is too late to go out. Can’t you wait for tomorrow morning? It's too late. Yes, fine, but I am still very tired from last night. Your keys are in the lobby, I’ll leave them your name.
[Arianne picks up her pen and worn diary from the nightstand and begins to lose herself in thought. Fade to flashback]

A dark car parks about a block away from a green sign that reads, “Rue de Perle.” Two men and one young woman, Arianne, walk side by side towards a huddle of people lining the curb in front of the club. They face a long line after a short ride.

[End of flashback. Hasty French script is oozing onto a yellowed but blank page in Arianne’s diary. Writing comes into focus halfway down page]

I remember his first words to me, "I can't stop stretching. What is what, they say. No, no one says that. The ibuprofen's wearing off and my back is hurting. Got any good stuff?" David never made too much sense, but I liked him regardless. I passed him some aspirin.
"You're the best dealer in town." I long to write a book composed solely of David’s offhand remarks.

[Flashback continued inside of dark club. Accelerated motion, Backlighting]

A girl walks on stage. Pleather outerwear, a face only a mother could love. The clothes come off and the boars in the crowd gawk. “Me donner un baiser, give me a kiss, give me a kiss,” the crowd yells. The motherly-love notion is brushed under a cheap shag carpet by this hour. Three more self-searching college-age girls walked along the stage before the first Japanese Pop band begins to demean themselves. Eroticized croons are forced from a mouth seeking approval and crumpled notes. The lead's vacant stare and plastered smile look like remnants of a whole scattered somewhere across the ocean.

[Close-up of Diary, a hand is slightly out of focus as it scribbles away in the book]

I know that this is art, film, emotion. Nauseating truths can’t help but to trickle into my skull. Is this what it takes to make a living, are these people real? I saw the crowd in black and white, faces flickering past my lens. Jean Luc Godard directed “Vivre sa Vivre” in 1962, thirty five years prior to my current reality. “Godard,” my professor would dramatically start, “Godard is quoted as saying that every film has a beginning, middle and end, but not necessarily in that order.” I don’t know why this is coming to mind so vividly as this was an uninspired, inartistic, club. The beautiful Danish-born actress and Godard’s ex-wife, Anna Karina, had played this role, the role of the merchandised woman. I had understood the concept of the film; in fact it was one of my favorites. A woman in trouble, forced into prostitution in an effort to regain control of her life meets a tragic end at the hands of her pimp. Yes, yes, I’ve gone over this one in class countless times. There is the plot laid out before me, condensed into less than a sentence, but there is more, so much more. I see these women on stage and my camera mimics Godard’s direction. Long shots, medium shots, never a close-up, never a point of forced reflection. That is life. We are not force-fed the meaning, not in the tangible world. We are thrown images, I take these images, everyday, and I digest them; I give them what little meaning I can based on my small earthly experience. This is the fallen woman, this is the tragic heroine. But are we not all in this position? Do I not cover myself with makeup in an effort to captivate my fellow man and lure him in? I surely don’t do this for my health.

[Club]
The heat is visible on the crowd’s collective brow. Jack and Dave are distracted by a set of dark-haired twins.
[Abrupt cut, close-up on Arianne holding her pen with one hand and her head with the other, very perceptibly trying to straighten out her thoughts. Pan to diary entry]

I need to leave my head and finally sleep more than an hour at a time, I need to shake myself away from the over-analysis. The fact of the matter is, I had given up on my friends. Later, I snuck outside to smoke a cigarette in an effort to avoid the gaze of poorly aged men looking for some off-stage action. I don't know why I even went that night. Taking responsibility for Jack's lack of bestial success is not really my dish anymore.

[Club, Halo Lighting, Arianne’s back is to the camera]

Arianne walks up the gaudy dark mahogany stairs to find her friend sitting against a wall. She looks him up and down and asks him, “Too much to drink or not enough? This place is filthy. I feel itchy; my tights have started to unravel. The cement floor makes for a poor camp.”

[Diary, Arianne’s hand flows across the page, medium shot followed by a close-up of the writing]
The stench of carnal masculinity was just too much for my stomach. I was about to open my mouth to voice my discontent as my friend looked up and smiled. I barely know him anymore. I read the ad for this show on a telephone pole three weeks ago: Burlesque. Jack's been down about his ex-girlfriend, and as his closest friend, I figured that I may as well supply him with some sort of distraction. Luckily, Dave looked to be about as amused as myself during this particular performance. I had always liked him better anyways.

I left with no intention of stepping back into the club. Truly, I had had enough. The pizza place around the corner closed a half an hour ago during Luscious Linda's last set of hoola-hoop expositions. If I remember correctly, it was one of the biggest disappointments of the night.
[Outside of club, streetlamp lighting]

The three friends stand equidistant from each other on a curb. Jack is unable to drive in his stupor, so Arianne attempts to steer his manual back to the center of the city without stalling. They pass three cops in town who are keeping an eye on the local bars. Girls in cut-off denim skirts litter the sidewalks. A young looking blonde waves at the car as it stands still under a stoplight. The road out of town is darker and quieter. Arianne clumsily stuffs an old Lemonheads tape into the deck. There are only two titles visible: “Rudderless” and “Mrs. Robinson.”
[Scene cuts in 5 second intervals to Arianne falling asleep over her diary and the car’s passengers humming along to the tape while staring vacantly out of their respective windows. The song plays as a singular soundtrack, without acknowledging the cross-cuts]

Ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a
ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a ship without a
rudder's like a ship without a rudder's like a ship without a rudder.

[Fade to Black]
THE END