garfunk put that on the hook

I Am Dangerous

2010-07-30T22:11:00.008-05:00

I have spent the last two days reading Hyperbole and a Half. I am in love and inspired. I think it's time for a format change. I haven't written in most of a year. Why? Because I take myself way too seriously obviously. Clearly I'm a pretty funny person and completely hilarious things happen around me all the time. So I'm going to write about that. And I'm still going to use photographs. So I'm changing and not changing all at the same time.

I'm going to start with this picture:

It is of my new haircut. It is also of my crazy eyes.

I love my new haircut.

But I also love my crazy eyes. Not because of their awesomeness, which is obvious. But because they show how I feel most of the time. Crazy.

Also, look at this picture:

Who here really thinks that can of bear repellant will really "repel" the 400 pound bear? Yeah, I don't think so either. "Hello. I'm a giant Grizzly Bear. I weigh a million pounds. Your little can is sooooo scary. You have no idea. Really. You have no idea how much I Do Not Care About Your Little Can of Nothing Scary."

Here is a picture of the bear:

He is huge. He doesn't care about your bear "repellant". He is also eating an elk.

Here he is again:

He is taking a breath to tell that raven to eff off.

Here he is after eating that entire elk:

He is so full his leg sticks up in the air.

"Hi, I'm a Grizzly Bear. I weight a million pounds. Especially after eating an entire elk. Eff you, ravens."

And here he is looking all cute like he's not about to eat your face off if you get one foot closer to him:

Don't those claws just say, "Come here and give me a hug"?

If you said "Yes" to that question, let me know. I have the number of a great therapist.

eyes closed

2009-08-24T22:01:00.002-05:00

I close my eyes and see you

standing there.

Hand out, asking.

I close my eyes and see you

standing there.

Black t-shirt.

Jeans.

I close my eyes and see you

standing there.

Do you have a beard?

No, a mask.

I close my eyes and see you

standing there.

Gun pointed at my abdomen.

Hand out, asking.

the wild

2009-08-21T22:25:00.004-05:00

It's interesting when something is left to grow wild. And one goes back years later. Does that something become hideous? Or does that something become beautiful.

I don't think I have ever had this experience. So I really wouldn't know.

This photograph was taken in High Line Park where this did, indeed, happen. But it was taken back from the wild, and it became manicured wild. Does that mean the wild wasn't beautiful enough for the average human. Or did the city merely get a good idea from nature?

"Thanks, Nature. That looks nice, but we'll take it from here," they said.

Nature's pissed.

Nature was doing fine on its own.

Nature liked how things were shaping up down there--how things were coming together on their own.

Or perhaps Nature was trying to make a point.

And Nature always wins.

In the end.

oblivion

2009-07-15T22:08:00.001-05:00

"I've seen them get to be this big," she heard the man standing at the towel stand say, as he held his hand about two feet apart.

"Yes," the other man said. "I have seen one in this area. I believe it may live near here."

She sat on the wall and looked at the two men, at the two foot iguana. Are they talking about you? she thought in the general direction of the iguana. Surely they see the giant lizard so near their feet. But so often one doesn't notice until the think is right there, the iguana gnawing on toes, the mud puddle hiding in the grass. These things creep.

paul blackmon

2009-07-09T10:06:00.003-05:00

This is probably my most personal blog post. Or rather, it is the most revealing, as everything else has been at least partially fiction.

A few years ago my mother went through a phase of writing down the family stories. She wrote down everything she could remember about her childhood and her family’s stories. I was very interesting, and we all tried to convince her to write more and publish. But she decided she was finished and hasn’t written anything since. This is not her story.

This is his story.

My grandfather, Paul Blackmon, grew up during the Great Depression on a small, run down farm in Mississippi. He was a Nazarene preacher, and not always a very nice man, but only in front of the people he loved. I hated him a little, and loved him a lot. Now I only love him a lot, and hardly remember anything else. He died four years ago.

Granddaddy was famous for his tall tales. You never knew what was real and what was fiction. The movie, Big Fish, reminds me of him. It makes me sad.

Everyone’s favorite story was the cat. You don’t have to say any more than “the cat story” at a family gathering and everyone is telling the story all at once and laughing. It was never quite the same, but it was always good. My cousin had the good sense to bring a video camera to a family gathering not long before Granddaddy died and filmed him telling the story. Here is my favorite version of the story (in my own words since I can’t quite remember his):

I grew up on a farm. And as we all know farms have cats. [He would look at me at this point and say] not sweet house cats, Papoose. [He had little nicknames for us all. Mine was Papoose because my parents carried me in a papoose-like contraption on their backs when I was a baby.] There was this one cat that was really mean [sometimes he would say sick, but I think it makes more sense as mean]. One day my daddy told me and Max to take it out in the woods and kill it. We took it out into the woods and found a log. We laid it over the log and hit it in the head with a rock, killing it. We went back to the house.

Well we all know that a cat has nine lives. A few hours later the cat comes walking up to the house. So the next day Max and I took it back out to the woods and killed it all over again. What do you know, but a few hours later that cat came back.

We did this six or seven more time until we had to end it. So we took that cat back in the woods. We laid it on that log and cut its head off. The head fell on one side and the body fell on the other side of the log. We came back to the house and several hours later the cat didn’t come back. But three or four days later that cat came walking up with its head in its mouth.

It’s gruesome, but I love it. We always sat on the edges of our seats and waited for that last bit like it was candy. No wonder I’m so strange.

Here is the video of the story:

Sometimes the story would be quick and other times the story would be in great detail. My version was quick, but I always preferred the detail.

Another story he told was probably true, but you could never tell:

When he was a kid, they never had any money. One year for Christmas their father saved up enough money to give each kid a dime. My grandfather and one of his brothers walked into town and bought a box of Cracker Jacks each for five cents. After they ate their first boxes they wanted more so they used the rest of their money to buy two more boxes. The prize in my grandfather’s second box was a little book that you scratched off the pages with a penny to make the story show up. But they had spent every last cent on those Cracker Jacks, and no one at home had any money. They went door to door asking people for a penny. Finally an old lady let them borrow a penny, but she made them sit on her front porch to scratch off the book so they could return the penny immediately.

My cousin had the foresight to video that story too:

When he graduated from high school my grandfather knew he wanted to be a Nazarene preacher and went to Trevecca Nazarene College in Nashville, Tennessee. He was working through school as campus maintenance when one day he was sent to work on the furnace in the girls’ dormitory. When he walked in the room, he immediately made fun of the girl who lived there because he couldn’t understand her Yankee accent. As revenge, she cut the buttons off his coat. He demanded that she go out on a date with him and sew his buttons back on. She went on that date but never did sew on those buttons. About a year later they were married on his family’s farm in Mississipi.

I know that story is true—my grandmother doesn’t lie.

My grandparents moved around Mississippi and Alabama, from parsonage to parsonage, throughout my mother’s and aunt’s childhood. While my mother was in college they were moved to Houston, Texas. My mother and aunt followed them soon after because jobs were abundant in Houston. My grandparents retired here.

He loved his grandkids. Even though sometimes he drove us crazy. One time when my parents were selling the house, they were having an open house and were going to look at other houses during the time. I had the worst headache ever, and didn’t know what to do. I went to my grandparents’ house to sleep. My grandfather was learning about email and was a wretched speller. My grandfather was in the back room. My grandmother was in the kitchen. I was between them, in the middle bedroom with the door open.

My grandfather yelled, “How do you spell arthritis?”

“What?” my grandmother yelled back.

“HOW DO YOU SPELL ARTHRITIS?”

“A-R-T-H-R-I-T-I-S.”

“WHAT?”

“A-R-T-H-R-I-T-I-S.”

I wanted to slam the door but couldn’t because I didn’t want to be rude. But I did learn how to spell arthritis.

I told my grandmother about that recently, and she laughed and said, “You should have closed the door.” She doesn’t mince words.

My grandfather died shortly after he turned 80 but not without having a great impact on us all. At his service, my cousin gave the eulogy. Brandon reminded us all what a fascinating man Granddaddy was. I didn’t cry until Brandon listed the grandkids and our nicknames. I could not stop sobbing.

Last summer I was taking a Multicultural Education class in which I had to write a paper about my cultural history and the implications. I was supposed to identify an immigrating ancestor. The task was nearly impossible. My grandmother told me that Granddaddy used to always say that there were three Blackmon brothers that emigrated from Scotland. One settled in Texas. One settled in Mississippi. And one settled in North Carolina. I wrote about it in my paper, but I don’t really believe it. It sounds like the beginning of a Russian fairytale, doesn’t it? But isn’t that a great way to end a story about the man who, I believe, inspired Big Fish?

the muck

2009-07-06T22:20:00.004-05:00

"There's something dead in there," she said, pointing to the manufactured stream.

"I'm not going to take a picture of a floating dead thing. Unless you want dead things in your wedding album," the photographer said and snapped a picture of the bride pointing to the muck. "We should probably go. Don't you need to get married?"

The bride laughed, peered in again, and continued on her way to the ceremony. She lifted her skirt to save it from the pool water, turned to the photographer and grinned. She turned back again and took another step. "I'm getting married," she said.

"It's about time," said the photographer and briefly moved her camera away from her eye to smile back at the bride.

soar

2009-07-05T22:38:00.002-05:00

He stood on the rail as he had many times before. He looked out over the churning water. He crossed himself. He looked at the surf and waited for the perfect moment. He crossed himself again, just for good measure. He knew the time was almost right. As he had know many times before. He took a deep breath, and stepped to the edge. The wave crashed against the rocks and he spread his arms and leaped.

She stood by the curb with her camera in hand. She knew he was about to leap. She had just given him 150 pesos for his trouble, thank you very much. "I can't believe I just gave this guy twelve bucks to die," she thought.

But she knew, as well as he did, that he was not going to die. He had done this countless times before and still had survived. Maybe he had come close. That's why he crossed himself. Just in case.

As he leaped, she took shot after shot. She was determined to get her 150 pesos worth.

And at the same time that he was free falling into the shallow abyss, she was insanely jealous. To have that abandon is something she longed for.

But she would have to content herself with the photographer's curse. To never be in the action, but always behind the camera, shooting the action. Never to soar, always with feet planted firmly on the ground.

She would not trade it for the world.

tapping

2009-07-01T21:47:00.003-05:00

She was fairly certain the anticipation was going to kill her. She could feel the oppression of it on her chest. She clutched her camera closer and leaned against the rail for support. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, she peered into the vast whiteness. But her heart was pounding, and she was sure every person on that ferry could hear. Could feel. The pounding.

She could almost see the shore. She wanted to jump up and down like a child, but knew that would be undignified and clutched the camera closer still. She made a whining sound with her nose and tried to play it off by snapping a photo of nothing.

Tried and failed. She knew everyone else knew she had lost her mind, and she was sure she saw them inch away. But the anticipation was oppressive. She tapped the toe of her boot against the rail. Perhaps the slight tapping would move the ferry a little faster. She shifted her weight and snapped a shot of the now visible shore.

Quickly she turned and walked rapidly to the front of the boat. She would be the first on shore.

this photograph was taken from you - 3

2009-06-29T22:05:00.003-05:00

I would not go up those stairs. I took one look. At the stairs. At you. I said, "No way." It wasn't because of you. It was because of the vertigo. But you were sitting on the steps. You were beautiful. And sad. And, I'm sure, a little annoyed that a stranger was taking a photograph from you. But I had to have it. Indeed, I took several photographs from you.

This is but one. There will be more to follow.

I know you saw me. You looked at me and turned away. Perhaps you thought I was merely taking photographs of the steps. The impossibility of the steps. But you also knew I was taking photographs from you.

Did you not say anything because we have a language barrier? We don't. I can read your emotions in any language. As you knew I would not go up those steps--as you felt my fear--I felt your sadness, your aloneness. I'm sure you were relieved when I turned and walked away.

You will probably never see this photograph that I have taken from you, but I hope you somehow know that you are not alone.

rain forever

2009-06-20T22:16:00.003-05:00

The rain was finally falling. It had been threatening for hours now. Needed for months. Or so it seemed. The rain fell. The wind howled. The branches swayed. It seemed like it would never end. Rain forever. Which is worse? No rain ever. Or rain forever?

But rain does end. And so does the drought, eventually. The sun shines. The rain falls. The flowers grow. And life is back to normal. Always.

front door

2009-06-18T22:01:00.003-05:00

I heard the front door open and ran to find out what was going on. You went outside. Into the front yard. I've never been there. It's intriguing and rather scary.

I hope you are okay. You are just standing out there. Holding the black box up to the colorful things and pressing a button. I am worried. Usually when you go out the door you go away in the big box with wheels ,and I can't see you for a while. I can see you now and that worries me. I will sit here until you come back.

You are turning toward the door. You are coming back inside. I turn away. I don't care about you.

this photograph was taken from you - 2

2009-06-15T22:35:00.006-05:00

They looked into the camera and smiled. Each mouth slightly open. Teeth bared. Eyelids crinkled. The truth in happiness. The truth in love and laughter.

But people smile for cameras all the time. And we are smiling at a camera in this one. In one instant two flashes blaze. One, your camera, capturing us as we grin at you. The other, my camera, capturing us as we smirk at you.

I took this photograph from you. Though I am in the photograph. For it wasn't your camera taking the picture, but my camera taking the truth. From you.

the stacks

2009-06-14T21:20:00.003-05:00

She was having it again--that dream that she was trapped in the library. She was wandering that endless maze. The aisles seemed to get narrower as she went. She navigated the twists and turns, but to no avail. The shelves were pressing in, her chest was compressed.

She was certain the books would soon tumble down upon her. Bury her under leather, paper, glue, age.

She was startled by a rap on the table to her left. She looked up. Had she fallen asleep while studying again? Yes. And no. The aisles were narrow. This was a maze. She was irrevocably, continually lost. In the stacks.

vertigo

2009-06-07T22:17:00.005-05:00

She stood on the edge of the precipice and felt it again. Vertigo. That uncontrollable urge to fall. She had heard or read that somewhere, but she could never remember where. She supposed it didn't matter anymore.

She had also read somewhere that the word "vertigo" is an incorrect term for a fear of heights, which is actually "acrophobia." But she didn't fear heights. She felt an uncontrollable urge to fall. This urge made her dizzy, hence "vertigo."

Again she stood on the edge of the precipice. She knew that she could just close her eyes and let herself go. That was what she feared the most, that knowledge.

She knew she should tell someone about this urge. Maybe then they would stop taking her to the edges of precipices, or at least not let her get so close. But how do you tell someone that you don't want to fall, but know you could quite easily and are finding that urge less and less controllable? You just don't. That's the kind of thing you keep to yourself. You don't want them to worry. Though you know that perhaps they should.

These were the things that wandered through her mind as she stood on that edge. These things and the urge to fall of course.

As usual, she turned and walked away, but the customary fear bit at her stomach: would she be able to turn away at the next precipice?

beyond the bridge

2009-06-05T22:46:00.003-05:00

She sat on the edge of the water and looked out. At the bridge. Beyond the bridge. She knew life would never be the same.

But would it be worse? Probably not. They say things work out for the best. They say when one door closes another opens. They say a lot of things. Who are They anyway. They clearly know nothing about anything. If They knew something, They would know that this wasn't for the best. They would know that doors are slamming shut and the rest are sealed.

She gazed again, beyond the bridge. Still, this would get better soon. And They are usually right, in the end. She looked to her left and noticed a small pink flower fighting for survival next to her bench.

She smiled and gazed again beyond the bridge. They say when one door closes... "A flower takes its place," she said aloud, to no one in particular. To the bridge.

this photograph was taken from you - 1

2009-06-04T22:13:00.006-05:00

This photograph was taken of you.

No.

This photograph was taken from you.

I took this photograph from you.

I did not steal it from your hands, but rather from your soul.

You do not know me. And I do not know you.

But I took this photograph.

From you.

You look happy. You are laughing. But we know better, don't we?

Perhaps if I had lifted my camera in the next moment or even the one before, you would have been pensive.

You would have been angry.

You would have been crying.

This is your moment.

Stolen.

Your stolen moment.

Mine.

My stolen moment.

From you.

the punch

2009-06-03T22:03:00.003-05:00

And out of nowhere the fist collided with the face.

Out of nowhere. Out of left field. What do these things mean? And is a punch usually unexpected? Isn't a punch generally preceded by an incident?

But this punch was different. This punch was out of left field. Both literally and figuratively as the fist-owner was indeed sitting on his left, and the punch was wholly unexpected. He turned in expectation of an unexpected argument. The girl grinned. "Merely a love tap," she said and returned her attention to her drink.

He rubbed his jaw in confusion. The evening progressed into night. He kept his eyes on her. She kept her hand in a fist.

Sad Clown

2009-06-02T22:48:00.007-05:00

You think I'm not sad, but you're wrong. Can't you see this tear? But really you shouldn't crave my sadness. Do you know how I really feel? Proud. I'm proud that you made it--even through all the pain and sorrow. Through the close calls and near misses. I'm proud of what you have become and look forward to seeing how you grow. Forget my sadness. You can have my pride.

Enough mushiness. I'm turning the music on. Go back to dancing your sad little dance.

Is this it?

2009-06-01T21:14:00.008-05:00

As she placed the final flower in her hair she considered how she got to this moment. Her list was nearly complete. Graduate from high school—check. Go to college—check. Graduate from college with a boyfriend—check. Get married— Have a baby— In that order. Is this really what life is all about? What would she be missing?

She turned back to the mirror. Flower in one hand, hairpin in the other. Is? Perfectly curled tendril. This? Flower placed. It? Pin secured.

She took another look. Perfect hair with perfect flowers. Perfect white dress buttoned up the back. Professional makeup and dainty silver sandals. She heard the voices, felt the expectations. Is this it?

Her hand reached for the doorknob, her heels clicked down the hall. She turned once more and glanced behind her. Is this it?

he drowned in hopelessness

2009-05-31T22:03:00.000-05:00

He stood on the embankment and wondered if it was all worth it. The destruction, the endless sorrow and pain. He watched her from afar. As she appeared over the ridge and made her way toward him, his heart rose. She glanced his way and continued walking. He drowned in hopelessness.