Pond

There is a field in Ireland where every other year there is an electronic music festival held on the second week of March. For two days, pulsing bass fills the empty expanse of former farm land, dying out just before it can be heard by the locals. The festival started back when such a thing would be called a "rave", but continued on after that scene died out. These days it features lots of different kinds of electronic music, even a few live bands. Brian Eno headlined one year.

The crowd, too, has changed. It is less wild, less frenetic than it once was. Perhaps it actually contains the same people, who have come every other year since the early nineties, and are now older, in a different stage of life.

One thing is certain: there is much more security than there used to be.

Since our high school years, a friend and I had made it a tradition to camp out in the forest behind the field, and then sneak in to the festival when it got dark. Strapped to our legs were prescription drugs borrowed from friends. Not the most powerful stuff, but still enough for the casual party person. We would sell these for a reasonable price, and use the money for food.

This year, however, we were immediately rebuffed by a group of stern looking men in yellow windbreakers. The day before the festival was to start, these men, unarmed but carrying radios, showed up at our camp ground and watched us. They spread out along the edge of the forest, and soon a fence appeared. It was only about twelve feet high, easily climb-able, but was nonetheless much more than we were used to dealing with. There were also the security guards, who numbered about five times those of the past. One in particular took an interest to us, and spent the afternoon staring at us from behind a tree.

In the end it was a simple decision to give up. The camping had been fun enough, and besides that I don't think either of us were too enthusiastic about trying to sell drugs to strangers. The risk of it was more than we could take. Plus we had only heard of a few artists who were playing, and weren't too excited about seeing them. It was tradition that had brought us back, and like any tradition, particularly the ones that come about with such infrequency, it was exciting if only for the sake of posterity. And we were too old for that.

Where we camped we could still hear the music faintly, with the occasional rush of the cheering crowd. With our backs turned to the quiet security guard, who seemed to have stood in the same place for nearly twenty-four hours straight, we took a few bits of medicine and watched the surface of a pond appear from the fog.

Belt

The ostrich died of natural causes. I'm no murderer--in fact I'm a vegetarian (both for health and moral reasons). The average life expectancy of an ostrich is about 50. In Southern California, because of the bad air, it's more like 30.
A friend of mine works at the San Diego Zoo. To protect her identity, I won't tell you what she does there. She owed me a favor, from many years ago. A big favor. When I asked her, she couldn't say no.
The ostrich was 32 when it passed. Older than me. She was born somewhere in Africa, and brought to the San Diego Zoo at the tender age of six. For years she was on display, the subject of thousands of photos, taken from every imaginable angle.
I'm sad to say I never knew her when she was alive. I've lived in San Diego for several years now, and have been to the zoo a few times--wandering trips after work, as the sun was setting--but somehow never made it to the ostriches. If I had seen her, I'm sure there would have been a connection.
When I first laid eyes on her, she was in the trunk of my friend's Honda Civic, resting in peace. It was the middle of the night. My friend was nervous, and didn't offer to help carry the ostrich into my apartment. She stood next to her car and smoked a cigarette, and then another one.
Luckily the ostrich had been cleaned out, because I totally forgot about it until about a month later. I came across the body one morning and couldn't remember what I had planned to do with it. Another month passed before I got a good idea.
With help from a friend (a different friend, not the zoo worker) who knows about sewing, a belt was fashioned from the ostrich's neck. It's certainly the most interesting belt that I own, if also the least practical. It doesn't fit the loops of any of my pants. The only loop it fits through is the one on my bath robe, which is okay because that's all I seem to wear these days.

Underground

Throughout the day there was the occasional sound of doors opening and closing somewhere out in the hall. They were never closed gently.

His memory had lost its adhesiveness, worn out from constant thought. There was only the present moment, and a slippery concept of a past and future that were always distant.

The hallway was dark when they opened the door. His eyes adjusted just in time to see the movement of the door closing.

In the Mud

"Looks like rain"
-Sure does.
"So...maybe we should go some other time."
-Oh, no. No other time. It has to be today.
"Why not? It will be just as good. Better, actually. If we go in the rain, we'll get all muddy."
-I don't mind the mud. Actually, I like it.
"You never liked it before."
-Oh, but I've changed.
"You have?"
-Well, not yet. But I will. I can see it happening.

Always Run From the Police

Although they were poor, the six of them packed into that tiny apartment along the polluted river, none of the children ever went without proper running shoes. Trainers, as they called them.
"Lace your shoes tight," he told his four boys. "But not too tight. A good snug fit is all you need."

A healthy fear of law enforcement was in their blood. Somewhere in the past, a few rungs below them on the family tree, someone had received an especially brutal assault at the hands of a police officer, back when unpainted batons still hung loosely from waistbands and could be wielded with generous discretion. These days, of course, the police all carried guns, making the age old wisdom, perhaps initially misguided, seem now to be a matter of deathly importance.

"Always run from the police," he told them. "They might catch you, they might not. But always run."

___

Behind him he saw only the glare of their plastic helmets. He did not see their furrowed brows, nor hear their strained grunts--his mind filled these in. They were only a few paces back.

One kilometer later he was stopped by a rubber bullet, shot from a police car that had pulled in front of him. Officers swarmed.

In the back of the police car, with a fresh bruise stretching across his forehead, he determined that he must have at least one child.

I will buy him a motorcycle.

Don't Let Him In

Although she could not see him, she knew exactly how he looked just then. His eyes were squinted, his nose scrunched up tight. It was the expression he took on when he was angry. Over the years she had only really seen him angry a few times. This was the first time it was directed at her.

"Let me in."
No.
He pounded on the door, first with his fist, and then a moment later, his elbow.
"Listen, do you realize what this looks like right now? Do you realize what we're doing?"
...
"You can't keep this up forever." He kicked at the door. A moment later it was silent. He was sulking.

She stepped back into the living room and sat down on the couch, her head in her hands. The night could only get worse from here. Was he mad enough to break a window in his own house?

The Great Fake

The only people who remained were small children, the sick, and the elderly. The rest met at eight o'clock in the morning in front of city hall, boarding buses charted for Reno. Nearly the entire town fit on six buses, with extra spaces allotted for a few of the more obese citizens (one of whom is a dear friend of mine.) The holiday would last for four days. In the meantime city business would be suspended. In houses and apartments, fish were given slow release food packets, DVRs recorded TV shows, and silence settled in.

Thirty minutes into the ride I tapped the bus driver on the shoulder. I apologized, told him I was feeling sick, and apologized again. He pulled over the bus and I got off. The walk home would take several hours; it would be well into the afternoon before I arrived. Back in our row, my sister was asleep, having taken a heavy dosage of medication shortly before departure. She would wake in Reno, surprised and alone. Around the same time I would be in her bedroom, rummaging through her belongings.

Security

And behind it all, behind the knocking on your temples that seems to have found a home in your head, there are hands at work, knobs being turned, levers in motion. Somewhere the light is dimming, and somewhere else it is becoming frighteningly bright.

"Sir, you can't come in here any more. I don't want to call the police, I just don't want to see you here."

Junction

What's Going On

Dear Caroline,
Sorry about the lapse since the last letter. I suppose it was around Christmas when I last wrote. Christmas went well. I got several gift cards to Best Buy, which I combined to buy a new television for the bedroom--a real HD one, in time for the switch (which didn't actually happen until the other day). Joan said was "too realistic", and made it feel like there were "other people" in the bedroom with us. So around the middle of January I moved it to the den. I can see what she meant about it seeming real. Sometimes I feel like the newsman is standing right there talking to me. But I don't mind, really.

For Valentine's, Joan and I stayed home and cooked a nice meal. The economy had us worried, and who needs a fancy dinner anyway? Who are we supposed to be impressing, right? I can't remember what we cooked, but it was good enough.

For President's day, we went to a barbecue at one of my co-workers' house. We found out when we got there that it was a vegetarian thing. And we'd brought turkey burgers! Oh, that could have been bad. Luckily, the grocery store was right down the street. We threw the burgers away somewhere and showed up with beer.

Easter snuck up on us this year. We didn't know about it until Joan read about it online. I think we went out to the movies or something.

Hey, did you see Star Trek? I thought it was pretty good.

Joan was really mad about the Prop 8 thing. Started crying and everything. She wanted to go to the big protest downtown, but I convinced her to stay home. She hates big crowds--I know she wouldn't have had a good time.

We're doing good, though. Thinking about re-doing the kitchen.
Maybe Formica?

Take care!