Trivial Pursuits

It's about 8:00 in the evening as I write this, sitting on the couch in my living room. Quiet here, except for the drunk monkey stompings of the neighbor kids upstairs. At least, I think it is the kids. It may actually be drunk monkeys. Stranger things, my friends...

It is quieter than usual, though. The radio is silent because the streaming audio kept cutting out, I finally closed the window on my laptop screen. Maybe I should by an actual radio receiver, instead of relying so heavily on the internet. Fookin' internet, Thief of Time and Purpose...

Does it depress you to eat food prepared almost entirely in the microwave? It does me, sometimes. Not tonight, though. I'm a little proud of myself. Tonight, I heated everything up in the microwave, but aside from the can of corn I had, the rest of my homey little meal was fixed from scratch by lil' ol' me. I had some leftover rice (with herbs and garlic) and a container of homemade bolognese sauce from the freezer. This weekend I planned ahead, and made extra of most things. Something immensely satisfying about having really good food ready in a few moments, and know that it wasn't ultra-processed glop-in-a-box...

Did I mention that it's quiet, tonight? That makes me tired, and sleepy...

The refrigerator is humming again, I know I've written about that before. This time? It doesn't sound so lonely. I think I know why. I saw a ghost today, and he followed me home...

It was music that did it. I was trolling through my iTunes today for aural relief of work-induced monotony, and in the middle of  "Fire" by Jimi Hendrix I looked over and my brother was there, smiling at me and playing some bad-ass air guitar with that ridiculous musical grimace on his face. He grimaced a lot when he played, he knew it, but couldn't help himself. We made fun of it, but somehow I knew he wouldn't have been the same player if he hadn't, and anyway I couldn't play guitar worth a good goddamn. I can grimace musically with the best of 'em, anyway, so that's what I did sitting there with the ghost of my brother...

Later, when I left work, he was in the car when I got in, and I wasn't surprised. I reckoned he was going to come back for an encore. I looked over at him as I started the car, he grinned and we took off into traffic. On the ride home, we made up lyrics to the songs on the radio, shared some inside jokes and made fun of the other drivers. Arriving home, we reminisced and laughed like bastards when "Anarchy In The U.K." by the Sex Pistols came on the radio. We played that cassette so much when we were teenagers that the metal film flaked away and the labels rubbed away to nothing. The ghost watched quietly as I finished making dinner, and I sat down to eat, catching up on e-mails...

I only teared up once, when I stood up to put the dishes in the machine. My brother's ghost put his hand on my shoulder as if to say goodbye, and when I turned to say it he was already gone. Across the room, his picture looked over at me, the little silver urn that holds a fraction of what he was, gleaming in front of the photo. I'm not sure, but I think I saw something wispy, like a bit of fog or smoke, swirl around the top. My brother, he just looked on and grinned...

Ghosts. The fodder of a million nightmares, or welcome salve for a broken heart? I know what I think, how about you?

Into the Maw of Winter

Henry David stifled a whimper, muscles tensing as he struggled to keep his bowels from ejecting what little contents they contained. He was not a clean man by inclination and circumstance, but pride ran a nose length ahead of fear. The mountain man had never messed himself in any fight, and he was not going to start now.

For being so cold, the hinges made no noise as the rough-hewn door swung into the dank cabin. Henry dimly recalled having slathered some grease on them not so long ago. The grease had come courtesy of an old male bear Henry had stumbled across at the bottom of a ravine, hurt and barely moving. The bear had snarled at Henry halfheartedly, waving a bloody paw at him, and Henry had seen the other front paw appeared to be broken. Henry had used a precious cartridge from his rifle to put the beast out of its misery. He couldn't bring himself to eat the bear, but the fat and hide was too valuable to waste.

Images of the bear flickered rapidly across Henry's mind and faded, as he drew in a sharp breath. His knife he held in front of himself like a cross before a vampire. The expected assault did not come, and the door bounced gently on its hinges in the icy breeze wafting through the door, bringing with it the scent of minerals and animal scat. The snow was piled up in a ring in front of the door, an accidental igloo. In the shallow snow immediately outside the entrance, Henry could see tracks. Big tracks. He gulped.

Two quiet strides brought him to the door. There was a thin sliver of sunlight beaming through a gap in the snow-shrouded pines up the slope from the cabin. It shone on the tracks like God's lantern, as if He did not want Henry to miss them. The mountain man swallowed hard and squinted: Cougar spoor, he grunted softly, and a big 'un. Damnation, what am I to do?

Henry felt the hand holding the knife begin to ache and quiver. The cold was brutal, it felt as if his fingers were freezing around the handle. His bowels were shaky, shivering made it worse and he had to fight off the urge to urinate. Henry thought for moment that if freezing wasn't so bad he might be tempted to piss on his hands for the sake of warming them up, but the idea seemed so absurd he quickly shrugged it off. Instead, he risked a quick look outside the door by sticking his head out, moving it rapidly from side to side. It was all blurry gray, the shadows not much different from the sunny spots in the hazy breath of winter. He saw nothing moving except for some branches in the wind. Satisfied, he stepped back quickly. As he did so, there was a muffled thump at the rear of the cabin. Henry whipped around, slashing air with the knife.

Wan light was shining through the rough hole that served as a window at the rear of the cabin. A cloud of fine snow and dirt drifted slowly through the viscous air, settling toward the floor. Henry felt a spike of fear lance through him as he saw the snout of a cougar poking its way into the cabin. It was enormous, the largest cougar muzzle Henry had ever seen. The spike turned red-hot when Henry realized that with a little pushing and shoving, the cougar could probably get all the way through the opening. To his further chagrin, that was exactly what the beast was trying to do. 

The snout inched into the room, and stopped. The nostrils flared, drawing in a deep sniff. It must have smelled Henry, because the lips drew back in a snarl. With a loud growling grunt, the cougar surged downward, the wood of the roof beginning to crack and snap. Henry felt too weak to move. The combination of beauty and graceful violence was mesmerizing. His feet felt as if they were taking root. The cougar pushed harder and oozed into the cabin, furred molasses poured from a cold porcelain jug. Hunger incarnate, the golden brown eyes fixed on Henry, intent on the feast.

A blast of icy wind shot through the open door, spraying Henry with a fine powder of snow. It was so strong that it tore through the room and kicked up a cloud of ashes from the hearth. The cougar was close enough that the embers and dust landed on its face. The beast coughed and snarled, blinking its eyes furiously while trying to advance toward Henry, who was beginning to back up to the open door. The startling cold galvanized Henry David and he awoke from his trance. He did the only thing he could think to do: he turned and took off running through the door.

The cougar howled and coughed, Henry running like a man possessed, awkwardly up the slope of snow and heading for the treeline. That devil won't slow for long, Henry thought, and I ain't no saint nor Jesus, neither. The trees seemed another country, reached by a long, hard trek. Henry redoubled his efforts, breathing raggedly in the thin icy air.

Behind him, Hunger bared its fangs, shook its head and sprang through the door, implacable and ferocious. Henry David risked a glance over his shoulder and choked on a sob. Shitfire, I'm in a world o' trouble...

Last Plane Out

The scientist sat in the watery azure glow seeping through the frosty panes of the window, listening to the fading drone of the floatplane. Out on the lake, a few straggling geese hooted and honked, party guests who were too drunk to notice it was time to go. The scientist marveled at their seeming indifference to the impending closing in of the water under a shroud of ice. A nervous shudder rippled through his tired, cold frame.

The last winter had damn near driven him insane. He shook his head, chuckling to himself at the thought it was possible he was insane, but had not acknowledged it. The chuckle trailed off in silence. No, no, he mumbled, insane I am not. I know exactly what I am doing. Even if it hurts.

In the crystalline air of the cabin, the scientist rubbed his face in his hands. The floatplane was gone completely now, judging by the lack of engine noise. That the machine sounds could not be heard provoked a hot stab of melancholy in his head. Tears started but would not come. The scientist resolved he would not break down, even though the effort cost him dearly. All I need,  he told the stuffed owl on the shelf over his work table, is to survive this winter and my research is done. Done. Then all I want to know is home.

He leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. Silently, he considered that it was no longer the knowledge that he wanted. He knew enough, enough to last a lifetime, and the objects of his attention no longer held it. They bored him at best, drove him to anxious exhaustion at worst. He was through with that old life of capture and tag, track and survey, describe and categorize. He knew it mattered on some level, which is why he would finish the project this year, but it no longer mattered to him. At least, it did not matter in ways that meant something to him.

This season the scientist had foregone the usual scientific journals and minutiae he had packed in on all his previous sojourns up in the frozen wilds. He smiled, feeling relieved that he would no longer spend the short days and deep black frigid nights hunched over the table gorging on trivia by the light of a camp lantern. He was bone-weary of all that. This season would be different.

The light outside was nearly gone. The portions of sky not obscured by advancing feathers of snow clouds, were turning purple-black as the sun faded away. The scientist fired up the camp lantern and rested his eyes on the objects laying on the worktable. There was a worn hardback dictionary, a pile of books and a photograph of a young couple. The one concession to the digital age was a music player, which lay on top of the books. The scientist had made sure he would be able to recharge the player. He felt a flutter of panic at the thought of no music to hear, in the middle of a long blue winter.

The dictionary was nearly eighty years old. The scientist had acquired it years ago, from a secondhand bookshop. He knew full well it was outmoded, but enjoyed perusing the contents all the more. The books were his, hand selected by the scientist with the objective of having none that related to his field of study. In fact, there were no scientific volumes at all. The books ranged from old to positively antique, thick and heavy. Some had been with the scientist since his undergraduate days, and the familiarity gave him comfort like faithful dogs.

The photograph was truly antique, a blurry sepia tone image on a thin metal plate. The scientist had been given the picture by a friend, and he had been told it reminded her of himself. Not really the young man grinning into the camera, he thought, but of someone he could have been. The scientist guessed was they were husband and wife, judging by their closeness and familiarity of pose. The man's right arm was around the young lady's shoulder and they both carried soft smiles on their faces. The scientist smiled back at them, faces full of quiet promise. He felt more so that he not only could have been that young man, but that perhaps he should have been. The thought made him still like a gyroscope, spinning rapidly about its true axis.

The scientist turned the plate slowly in his hands while gazing out the window. The lake was invisible in the darkness, but his mind's eye pictured the greasy looking water slowly skinning over with ice. Winter was here, and he knew in his bones it would be a long one. The plate flipped out of his hand to land face up with a tinny clank as it hit the table. He felt a curious warmth radiating from the picture and into his heart.

Winter may be here, he told himself, but spring will come again, oh yes it will. The unknown lovers told him so.

Wet Shoe Wisdom

The weather finally agreed to let us out
so we hied ourselves to the swinging bridge
A favorite place of ours, crossing the river
Which was now swollen, high and fast

Rain, rain and meltwater cascading downhill
spurting joyously from the rocks to anoint
our pathways as we skipped (yes, skipped)
across the road and onto the planks

In our elated rush our boots were left behind
sneakers it was for us, but not to worry
There was surprisingly little mud and we grinned
As the slush oozed from beneath our feet

It was on the trail to the tunnel under the tracks
that I began to wince and gasp at her exuberance
She was running, running on the small bergs of ice
Spining the pavement like a subterranean dinosaur

The adult in me kept calling warnings, go slow, be careful
Visions of a stumble into a heart-stopping arc to the ground
I want her blood to remain in her veins, my heart in chest
But she laughs that silver bell laugh and says "Dad-dee...!"

The tunnel under the tracks, stone settling, disgorging stream
As we turn down the trail, she chirps, a happy little bird
"I wanna go through! Careful, daddy, its wet, and drippy!"
Again my heart twitches as my grown up cautions again

She navigates the tunnel, over the swollen stream on the end
That megawatt smile as she declares she is a big girl
and has no need of my help, "I can do it!", and she refuses my hand
I sigh, and send up a weary small prayer to keep her standing

It was the third trip through the tunnel, that enlightenment came
She took the path I hoped and warned that she wouldn't
But she is my progeny, after all, and hard skulls sometimes need
Hard lessons to teach; my cautions then for the sake of form

The rock I said not to take, across the stream bed I warned against
She windmilled and flailed, I gasped, knew the lesson at hand
This hard-headed angel says "I can do it!" and she does it:
Her left foot landing square in a cold pool up over her ankle

She squeals and hops, frantic and stumbling, and I bite my tongue
Hurrying up behind to pick her up from the slick rock bed
"I'm sorry, daddy, I'm sorry" the mantra of the moment
catches me off guard and struggling not to laugh 

My angel stands up and brushes her palms together, exhaling relief,
Those rose window eyes look up at me, serious as a saint
Adult heart contracts in advance of the deluge of tears anticipated,
The mouth of a cherub breaks into a crooked smile, she says,

"Daddy, my foot is wet. And cold."

This heavenly creature and I tilt our heads back and laugh, echoes
from the mossy brick melds into the chuckling of the stream
She turns, skipping away over wet stone as if nothing had happened
While I ponder the wisdom of a mind learning everything afresh.