Water Wings

This was written for when the VHS pool was dedicated to Mark Wagner in his honor. I think I wrote it May 2009. Anyway, it's for Wags, my high school swim coach, and anyone who swam for him.



we swam for you
that's what brings us here today
we swam for you

we got in the water
on any winter’s day
and we swam for you

we ran the halls
worked the weights
we did wheelbarrows, crabwalks
along the deck
all the way to the end
we did crunches,
and pushups with the tops of our feet down, hands faced in

and we swam for you

we did hundreds on the two
fifties on the one
and when it was near eight
we lined up by the office
for pancakes and egg mcmuffins
orange juice and milk
we’d breakfast in the bleachers
and throw barbs, zings

you threw them right back

our hair got shiny
blonde grew green
our skin got dry, flaky
we smelled of chlorine,
wreaked of chlorine
and when the time came
we shaved our arms and legs
some our chests
we shaved our heads
(some of us still do)

and we swam for you

we were a bus full of teenagers
man children
we were a bus full of laughing
a bus full of mirth

and after we won
(because we'd always win)
you’d lead a cheer for the other team
and then back on the bus
you’d tell us our splits
and how to improve
and prove ourselves

it’s called practice
so we’d practice

and on any winter’s day
we grabbed a board
and pull buoy
and set them at the water’s edge

we flapped our arms
shook our legs
and tried to hook our goggles on the flags

you can do well
you said
or you can do wah
you don’t want to be a do wah
do you?

we’d jump in
the water was always cold
we'd goggle up
and sink just below the surface,
wait for the whistle,
and push off the wall
we were a chorus of kicking,
water bending at the bow

and when we turned our heads
or lifted our chins
hoo!
hoo!
hoo!
at every breath
and turn

we swam for you

our chests red
our eyes red
our arms aching
we got better stronger faster

you gave us wings
water wings
in the pool
and on land

you showed us the merits of hard work
team work
integrity, discipline
and honesty

if it were easy
you said
everybody would be good

when you decided to leave the pool
you did it
you just did it

but the 7.2 pH water was in your blood
and you returned to the pool
courageously

and we continued
to swim for you

you were always supportive
you were always understanding
you always listened

your dry wicked sense of humor
always made it better

and when we did something good
something that made you proud
you said
who knew

but that was the thing

you knew

as a teacher
as a coach
as a friend
you touched
and influenced
countless
lives

you gave us wings
water wings
and these wings
will aways swim for you

thank you mr wagner
thank you mark
thank you wags

hoo!

How I Play The Instagram

Not sure who said the following, but it's true.

The best camera you'll ever own is the one you have with you.

The iPhone, for good and/or bad, is always with me. It's a communication device, it's a computer, it's a camera, it's a dessert, it's a floor wax, it's a fucking miracle that fits in my pocket.

A lot of people spend their time on Angry Birds and Temple Run. Mine goes into taking pictures. I take a lot of pictures.

I take them with the iPhone issued camera app. I take a bunch because, well, it's digital. I can throw away the ones that are blurry or framed poorly - the ones that suck.

Most of the photos I take will go on Instagram, a square format. So I shoot to crop; I give myself room.

There are TONS of apps for iphoneography. SHIT TONS. Personally I have several dozen, although I only use about 6 regularly.

(I know what you're thinking... I use an app called Appshopper; which is now Appshopper Social. It keeps a list of apps I'm interested in buying. When an app is on sale, or FREE - it alerts me.)

The one I seem to use most is Decim8. It turns your pictures automagically into puck rock album art. This is a picture I took of a bio-hazard sticker on the garbage can when I had a Dr appt.



Decim8's blurb in the App store:

FILM IS DEAD ... And yet many camera apps still insist upon attempting simulations of that long-past era. We say NO to artificial nostalgia, pushing forward in the digital realm with different forms of creative destruction.

With that in mind we present Decim8, a digital tool for photographic destruction. Armed with a set of bit-glitching filters, evolve your pictures into strange and sublime artifacts bordering on chaos. There are no effects to simulate your grandpa's snapshots. No virtual replicas of plastic instant-cams from your imaginary summer of '73. Just mad combinations of digital data-mashing. That's how we roll.

I'm an anti-social social network kind of guy. I don't post a lot of personal pictures, although I'm trying to*. I mostly post casual/abstract arty stuff, or something with a story connected to it. And I always provide a title. Sure, a picture is worth a thousand words, but I think you really need something to anchor it in a digital space. Otherwise it's just a sandwich or a tree; which is fine, but still...

That said, I try to keep my gallery mixed. I don't want to by arty guy, daddy guy, obsessed with burgers guy, or boring random guy.

Further, an image has to originate from my phone; no dslr pictures, nothing re-grammed, nothing memetastic. I manipulate it in other apps until I get something I dig, and then post. I'll tag people or locations if appropriate. I hashtag the app I'm using, or the subject, joke, etc. I don't do all that instagold instabest instacrap hashtagging - too much work/nonsense. I like pictures I like, although sometimes I'm just being supportive. I keep my comments minimal, usually just emoji if I can. And I try to only post a few pictures at a time - so as not to clog up the stream, as it were.

Lately, I've been doing a lot of timelapse now that Instagram can do video. And I create montage style stuff of my kids. (Yes, they have private accounts.) But I'm still experimenting. To do it right, video demands more time.

But I understand Instagram is an evolving platform, so who knows...

Anyhoo, that's how I play the Instagram.

--

* None of my friends - people who I actually know in real life - ever like my arty pictures. None. But if I post a picture of something personal, like an old bandana or a shoe, I usually get a few likes. Which is fine. Likes are not a thing for me. Don't get me wrong, they're nice. But in the same way that of your 500 hundred facebook friends, only 5 will take you to the airport, the Instagram timeline is faster and blurrier and not everyone is on there seeing all your stunning snaps.

Nonetheless I recognize Instagram is a social network. And really, there are other better places to create your galleries such as 500px, Tadaa, etc...

So I'm trying to share more personal stuff because I like when friends post their personal stuff. It's nice. And I can do the same.

We're all just playing, right?

The Chafed Red Wrists of Fisher Poleman

I do the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge from time to time. What follows is my assignment/story.

[Full disclosure: I had to look up historical fiction.]

Group 10
Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: A psychiatric hospital
Object: A ship in a bottle
1000 words

Synopsis: Fisher Poleman has spent two years in the Danvers State Hospital. Like the screaming in his head, his wants his treatments to stop.

The screaming got Fisher Poleman out of bed. He went to the window, slid his chafed red wrists through the bars and lifted. The New England air was crisp and he could smell the wet leaves returning to the soil. It reminded him of walking to school as a boy and the gray cat he once found. He remembered the way its whiskers tickled the back of his hands as he stopped its breathing.

To the east, the sun would soon pop up like a golden coin. To the west, he could make out the tower. The lights were on and he saw a horned figure standing in the window. Fisher rubbed his eyes and looked to the tower again. There was no figure and no light. Fisher sat down and stared at the palms of his hands. They were the bellies of spiders.

After today, there would be no more treatments.

The speaker crackled at his door.

“Mister Poleman, the orderlies will be up to receive you shortly.”

Fisher put on his uniform. It was still stiff and he was careful around his chest where the hair had been burned away from therapy. The uniform was white and resembled the gray staff uniform, except in the back where it said DANVERS, it said PATIENT.

Throughout his two-year stay at the facility, Fisher liked seeing the uniform on his fellow residents. He imagined them all as solitary figures quietly waiting for help. But he’d only been in a month when the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated. Droves of young men his age started to show up soon after that. They joked and laughed and talked about how Danvers was like a wellness center and by the time they got out the war would be over. But to the staff and the doctors they spoke of visions and paranoia. For Fisher the visions were real, the paranoia at hand.

The knock at the door startled Fisher. He listened to the click clack of locks and the bolt sliding through the slats. The door opened. Two orderlies stood next to a wheel chair.

“Good morning, Mister Poleman. How are you feeling?”

“Spry,” said Fisher. “In fact-“

“You can tell Doctor Axelrod when you see him,” interrupted the other orderly motioning toward the chair.

Fisher turned and sat down. The wood groaned beneath him, the wicker stretched against his back.

“Your wrists, please” said the first orderly.

“Of course.”

Fisher placed his arms along the rests. Each orderly took a side and pulled the straps tight. Fisher winced slightly, but not that anyone could see.

As Fisher glided along the South corridor, he looked out the tall windows onto the great lawn. Patients sat on benches in the sunlight, and waited quietly. Staff hovered nearby. A flight a sparrows swooped and dove among the trees.

The elevator took them to the fifth floor of the tower. The first orderly knocked on the door, which opened immediately. Doctor Axelrod was a tall man with a barrel chest and a thick black beard.

“You’re four minutes late,” said Axelrod staring down the orderlies before tucking away his pocket watch. “Bring him in.”

Axelrod walked behind his desk and motioned the orderlies where to place Fisher. Behind Axelrod were shelves containing books, plaques and framed pictures of family. The top shelf held a large bottle with a ship inside. Axelrod looked himself squarely in the mirror across from him on the far wall and cracked his knuckles. He stole a quick look at his profile before taking his chair.

“And you can dispense with those,” he said waving his hands toward Fisher’s wrists.

Fisher rubbed his wrists and politely nodded at Axelrod who retuned the gesture.

“That will be all,” said Axelrod dismissing the orderlies.

“I know it’s been hard for you, Fisher,” continued Axelrod as the door closed, his hand firmly on the file in front of him. “Your family has paid a lot of money to keep you here. You’re not like those pacifist cowards.”

Fisher shook his head.

Axelrod pulled on his beard.

“Any visions lately?” he asked.

“No.”

“How about screaming? Do you still hear screaming?”

“No.”

Axelrod nodded, pulled his beard.

“I think another month of treatments,” he said. “And we’ll meet again, alright?”

Fisher was staring up at the top shelf.

“May I?”

Axelrod looked behind him.

“The ship? Sure. Just be careful.”

Axelrod stood so Fisher could reach up and take it down. It was heavier than he thought.

“Must be twenty-five pounds,” said Fisher.

“Got it in Crowhurst. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It’s lovely.”

Fisher stared into the bottle.

“Well,” he said. “It’s exquisite.”

“Sometimes I can hear waves,” Axelrod chuckled.

Fisher started to put the bottle back on the shelf.

“I can never figure how they get the masts up inside,” he said. “It seems impossible.”

“They do that last. After it’s all built, they reach in and pull the masts up.”

“Oh, right,” said Fisher as he gently rocked the bottle back in its place. “I forgot.”

Fisher turned to see Axelrod staring at him in the mirror.

“You held that bottle right over my head. You could have crushed my skull like a grape, but not even a hesitation.”

Fisher shook his head.

The two men smiled at each other in the mirror. Axelrod put his hand on the back of Fisher’s neck. Fisher sheepishly put his hand on the back of Axelrod’s neck. They beamed at their reflections.

“Well,” said Axelrod, “I think we’ve had a breakth-“

Fisher’s other hand flew up into Axelrod’s throat. The sound of cartilage snapping and the sputtering of breath filled the room. Axelrod tried to pull Fisher’s hands away, but the spiders held fast. Fisher noticed the curious way Axelrod’s beard felt on the back of his hands. As Axelrod’s body went limp, Fisher looked into the mirror at the ship in the bottle with its full white masts. There was no more screaming, only waves.

How Dexter Should Have Ended

At the end of season 4.

But let's not be snarky.

I mean you can't spell finale without fail.

(Sorry. My bad.)

Damnit, you spend 8 seasons watching a show, you want a little something of a reward in the finale!

But it's like the writers took it to a kill room, hacked away at it with a spoon, and hoped it would just bleed out. Because there's no way Dexter abandons his child and the love of his life to sail into a hurricane and become a fucking lumberjack.

That would be amazingly awful, right?

See for yourself.

Let's let bygones be bygones. We're at the end of Season 8. The link above IS what happened, but here's what SHOULD have happened.

[Although let's understand that while Dexter was an anti-hero, he was more hero than anti. Ok? And we're not going have him narrating from the dead, as some showrunners have suggested. No need to get that deep and metaphysical, especially within the context of this season's train wreck. Masuka's long lost daughter says what?]

So let's pick it up as Saxon enters Deb's floor...

FADE IN:

Saxon looks up what room Deb's in.

Cut to Dexter walking into the hospital. Understanding the distraction at play, he rushes to Deb's floor.

Cut to Saxon opening the door to Deb's room. Deb sees him.

DEB: What the fuck, motherfucker?

SAXON: Your brother should have taken the deal. You're going to pay for his mistake.

DEB: Fuck you, asshole!

Saxon approaches her bed, he wields a knife, but Dexter opens the door.

DEXTER: Saxon!

Saxon turns around, quickly puts the knife to Deb's throat.

SAXON: I thought you were on an airplane with your girlfriend. And your son.

DEXTER: No, I decided I had one more thing to finish.

SAXON: I see. You know how this finishes, right?

Saxon presses the knife into Deb's throat, we see a drop of blood.

DEXTER: I do. With you dying. Right here, right now.

SAXON: How do you figure?

DEXTER: I'm a monster. And I remember where all the monsters are.

Dexter raises his hands. They are empty. Saxon is confused and stares at Dexter's empty hands. We see Deb's eyes following the hands as well, only she's looking at the shadow of the hands near the wall where there is an instrument tray. The shadow falls over the scissors. She grabs the scissors and stabs Saxon in the groin. He doubles over, but he's pulled the blade. Deb is bleeding. Dexter is wrestling Saxon for the knife. Fighting, wrestling, eventually the knife slides into Saxon. Saxon dies.

Dexter turns his attention to Deb. He quickly bandages her neck.

DEXTER: Ok, I think this will work. I'm not especially good at keeping blood in people.

DEB: Maybe you should learn.

Beat.

DEXTER: You need to hold this. Don't let go. If you let go, you'll die.

DEB: No shit. But I can let go of you, motherfucker. Go!

Dexter hits the alarm in Deb's room. He looks at Deb. Deb nods, waves. Dressed as an orderly, Dexter wheels Saxon's body through the chaos. Doctors pass him on their way to Deb's room. Dexter makes it outside, sheds the uniform, loads Saxon's body onto his boat, takes off to the storm.

We see Dexter on his boat finishing up the bagging of Saxon.

(Dexter calls Hannah, talks to Harrison. Same dialogue.)

Dexter tosses the phone into the ocean. He lifts Saxon and places him on the edge of his boat.

DEXTER (VO): All my life I never felt human, never thought I would know how to feel human. But now that I do, I just want it to stop. I am a monster.

Dexter throws Saxon off the boat.

DEXTER (VO): I destroy everyone I love. I can't let that happen to Hannah, to Harrison. I have to protect them from me, and who I am.

He sails off into the storm.

(And we keep going as they find Dexter's boat, the news, people reacting to Dexter's death, etc, but we cut out the part about Hannah seeing the news on her iPad (seriously?), and pick it up right after - as she talks to Harrison.

HANNAH: C'mon, Harrison. Let's go get some ice cream.

She walks off into the crowd with Harrison.

Cut to Hannah and Harrison (with melted ice cream on his clothes) as they walk into their house. It's modest, but airy and it's near water. We also see and hear neighborhood children playing.

HARRISON: When's Daddy going to get here?

HANNAH: I'm not sure, honey. Soon.

We hear a car pull up. We see the familiar outfit of Dexter getting out of the car, carrying a black bag, walking.

HARRISON: Daddy!

In walks Dexter. He's alive. He kisses Hannah, scoops up Harrison.

DEXTER: Hi buddy!

Dexter is wearing his kill clothes. There's blood on his sleeve. Hannah notices.

HANNAH: What happened?

Dexter looks at the blood, then up at Hannah.

DEXTER: Nothing, just a fender bender. Some guy hit a pedestrian. But he's going to make it. We got there right in time.

Dexter puts his bag down. His ID badge flops out. He's a paramedic in Mar Del Plata.

DEXTER VO: No matter who I am, blood will always be an attraction for me.

DEXTER: Come on, let's go outside. I saw Marco is back. He brought back some...

The voices trail off as they go outside. The camera stays inside, but watches Dexter's family.

DEXTER VO: Maybe it was Deb. Maybe it was Vogel. Maybe it was Saxon. But my dark passenger is gone. I feel free. I feel human.

FADE OUT.


Ok, I'm not saying it's perfect - it's a little puppies and rainbows - but I think it echoes a familiar sentiment.

African Black Soap

I'm an impulse buyer. I remember one time I was at a Borders waiting in line to buy a book - I know, crazy - and I saw something bright and shiny near the registers. It was a thimble. I grabbed it. It was attached to one of those tiny books, like three inches by three inches. It was a book on quilting. I bought it, gave it to a friend who quilts.

I remember another time at a record shop in LA there was a pyramid of mustards at check out. The guy's brother did something with Stadium Mustard out of Cleveland. "Yeah, I'll take these cds... and some mustard," I said. Turns out it's awesome mustard.

I use Dr Bronners's peppermint soap. It's something I discovered in college. The label is craziness, all about cleanliness and godliness in tiny letters written horizontal and vertical over every square inch of the bottle. I've tried the other 'flavors', but peppermint is my favorite. It makes me feel clean. Sometimes it stings - that's how I know it's working. My wife hates it. She doesn't like the way it smells and she thinks it's strong enough to remove paint from cars, tar from roads.

It probably is.

We just had a baby. During her pregnancy, my wife developed a superpower. She can smell things from three days away. For example, she'll point to the egg salad I'm eating and say, "You shouldn't eat that. It's spoiled."

"But I just made it 15 minutes ago."

"Throw it away. It's bad."

A few months ago I ventured into new soap territory. I figured it would make my wife happy. I got some Kiss My Face Mint and Citrus Bath Gel. Meh. It doesn't lather up. I can't tell if I'm using anything. I don't stink so I guess it's working. My wife seems pleased.

But I know what you're thinking. Why are you telling me any of this? Who the fuck cares about your condiment triumphs and shower needs?

Because a few weeks ago I got some Alaffia African Black Soap. It lathers up some. It's no Dr Bronner's, but it'll do. I got it specifically because it reminds me of my friend Ab. It was a focussed impulse buy.

I don't know if Ab's ever tried this soap or even heard of it. But after college he joined the Peace Corps and went to Africa. He became a teacher and was stateside for awhile, but he got married and his wife is a Foreign Service Officer. He and his family have lived all over the world and currently reside in Bangladesh, which is great. Bully for him.

But I miss him. Not all the time. I have a life. And I get busy. One of my best friends lives just a few blocks away. With work and family and everything else, I don't see him either. But we get together once a month or so. The friends who live around the country, we see each other once or twice a year. Is it enough? No. But that's how it is.

Ab is beyond a time zone, he's in another hemisphere of a different day. I can't call him or text him. And I don't email him because what am I going to email him?

This happened, that happened, I felt like this, and then I felt like that, and then he said she said that they said, can you believe it, oh I miss you so much.

We're dudes. We see each other when we see each other and one says, "Hey, how's it going?" And the other says, "Good. How're you doing?" And then the first one says, "Good." And we're all caught up. That's all we need.

Mostly.

I use the social media. I post short bursts of flotsam/jetsam of my life when I have the time; usually when I'm on the can taking care of business. Why? Because that's all I got. At the end of the day, I'm done. I don't even like to talk on the phone. I hang with my wife, take care of our kids, talk about our day, watch some tv, and try to get some sleep.

I like seeing my friends and family on the socmeds. I like wandering through their digital detritus. For a moment, I have a connection; a tiny glimpse and sense of time and place. It's nice. I like seeing their kids, their homes, their vacations. And I like reading something they thought was interesting, or listening to a song they like, or watching a video they thought was funny.

I mean, not all the time. Ain't nobody got time for that*.

Personally, I try to share funny, interesting, and semi-personal things on the fb. And I try to like and comment and be supportive. (And say happy bday to people because that's the very least I can do, right?) On twitter I post snark, politics, bizarrities, and self indulgent half-brilliance. I instagram 'iphoneography' as R. Von Sugarfoot. (I also keep private twitter and instagram accounts of my kids for close friends and family.) I pinterest - well, I don't really pinterest. And I tumblr my dad's FaceTime fiascos, although he's pretty much got it now.

And I blog shit like this because that's what I do.

Yes, facebook can be a weird place if you don't visit enough. I mean it's a game you can't win, you just play. And yes, I know it can be a bit of an estrogen drip if you don't beef up your feed. But I created a private group. It's just me and Ab and a few other guys. No fuss, no muss.

But it doesn't matter. You can lead a horse to water, right? C'est la vie, non?

Anyway, I think of Ab whenever I reach for the African Black Soap. I imagine him biking somewhere and seeing roadkill I might only see in a zoo. Maybe he's breathing in the black smoke of some third world vehicle that doesn't require emissions testing as he waits with his kids to cross a street. It could be that he's at a cafe trying to figure out which sandwich contains chicken.

Or he's in the backyard drinking a beer watching the Bears on pirate satellite with his expat friends from work, and he's wondering if I'm watching the Bears and did I make some wings and if I did they're probably hot as fuck.

SO, sure, this is mostly for Ab. But it's for all my friends I don't see enough. I miss you and love you and stuff... You know, whatever.


*