Wednesday, November 28, 2007

The Photographer V2

She was an artist in the general sense. More specifically she was a photographer. She loved taking pictures with friends when they made wild faces, at school when she thought the classroom had a certain aesthetic, in the park when the grass felt cool under her bare feet. She loved the limits the photo’s frame offered after it slid out the other side. It provided her with a sense of perspective on the things around her that she couldn’t ever fully understand. She loved the feeling of solidity that it gave her, the things in each shot existed outside of what she saw with her eyes, they were independent of her life. It gave them life. She loved photography.

She then also liked to organize the photos into albums in neat symmetrical patterns in a strictly chronological order. She liked to get out her clear blue ruler and measure the exact number of half-inches in from the sides in order to align the four photos on each page in the perfect place. She enjoyed the patience and diligence that went into this work and the feeling of self-accomplishment that followed. She enjoyed the hours she poured into these albums, adding captions and borders and pages of more photos. She did this when there were quiet moments alone, or when there were quiet moments in class, or when there were quiet moments at the park. She loved photography.

He hated her for her love. He only had one class with her maybe five times a week for maybe an hour and a half. Unless either was sick or he skipped to go smoke, then it was slightly less. But he hated her for those few hours. He would watch her from across the room, watched her mindlessly measuring and adjusting and re-measuring and pasting her photographs into her albums as their teacher hopelessly taught ethics. He hated the way she would only look down at her photos, not blinking for minutes at a time. He hated her self-absorption and the way her tongue would sometimes creep out from beneath her lips as she slowly pasted down a corner. He hated everyone else in the class for not hating her the way he did. He didn’t understand how no one could notice this girl slowly working her photographs into an album until the bell would ring day after day. His hate consumed those few hours a day five times a week, maybe less. But once in a while his hate would spill into the evenings and ruin his cigarettes. Or sometimes his hate would leak into the weekends and ruin his nights and sheets. And sometimes even after that his hate would surge through his mind and send electricity through his bones as he had sex or when he masturbated or when he day dreamed. Some days after school when he would light up his cigarette, breathe it in apprehensively, and say to no one in specific, “I’m gonna burn those fucking photos some day.”

And then on no particular cool October day he did. It was more of a sudden impulse than anything planned or thought out. She was sitting on a bench outside the school taking a photo of the trees becoming vibrantly bare when the hate boiled up in his throat. He grabbed the album from off the bench and flipped it open. He saw to a photograph of her painted toe nails in the nearly green grass lighted by summer sun, a photo of a merry-go-round with two young children smiling on it smiling widely, a photo of a sunset intensified by the deadly fires of the west, and a photo of the girl with an empty smile standing next to some friends with emptier eyes. His body flared with hate and then his lighter flared from butane and then the album flared with flames.

She didn’t put up a fight, she didn’t protest or even stand up, she hardly even blinked. She met his eyes and held them for a long moment with a passive stare, eyes glossy like a lens. The acrid smell of burned chemicals stung his eyes and sent tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted her to feel something, to hurt her badly, he wanted to grab hard onto her cheeks and drive his thumbs deep into her eye sockets, to crush the glass lenses. But he just stared, letting the cool October breeze put out the little flames of the album and pushing his tears off their course. The girl raised her camera, clicked, and walked away.

She was an artist in the general sense.

Monday, November 26, 2007

new story rough draft

She was an artist in the general sense. More specifically she was a photographer, or at least that’s what she thought of herself. She liked taking pictures with friends when they made wild faces, at school when she thought the classroom had a certain aesthetic, in the park when the grass felt cool under her feet. She liked the limits of the photo after it game out the other side. It gave her a sense of perspective on things she couldn’t ever fully appreciate. She liked the solidity that it gave her, that these things did exist and there was objective proof to this. She liked the feeling she got as she snapped each photograph, that what she was doing might someday be appreciate by someone else and they would know her. She liked photography. She then also liked to organize the photos into albums in neat symmetrical patterns in a strictly chronological order. She liked to get out her clear blue ruler and measure the exact number of half-inches in from the sides in order to align the four photos on each page in the perfect place. She enjoyed the patience and diligence that went into this work and the feeling of self-accomplishment that followed suit. She enjoyed pouring hours into these albums, adding captions and borders and pages of more photos. She enjoyed doing them when there were quiet moments alone, or when there were quiet moments in class, or when there were quiet moments at the park. She loved photography.

He hated her for her love. He only had one class with her maybe five times a week for maybe an hour and a half. Unless either was sick or he skipped, then it was slightly less. But he hated her for those few hours. He would watch her from across the room mindlessly measuring and adjusting and re-measuring and pasting her photographs into her albums as their teacher hopelessly taught ethics. He hated the way she would only look down at her albums and photos, not blinking for minutes at a time. He hated her self-absorption and the way her tongue would sometimes creep out from beneath her lips as she slowly pasted down a corner. He also hated how no one else hated her as much as he did. How no one could notice the quiet girl slowly pasting photographs into an album until the bell would ring day after day infuriated him. Then once in a while his hate would spill into the evenings and ruin his cigarettes. Then sometimes his hate would spill over into the weekends and ruin his nights. And even sometimes after that his hate would come up as he had sex or when he masturbated or when he day dreamed. Some days after school when he would light up his cigarette and breathe it in apprehensively he would say to no one in specific, “I’m gonna burn that fucker’s photos some day.”

And then one cool October day he did. It was more of a sudden impulse than anything planned or thought out. She was sitting on a bench outside the school taking a photo of the trees becoming vibrantly bare when he grabbed her album. He flipped it open to a day that featured a photograph of her painted toe nails in the almost green grass in the sunshine, a merry-go-round with two young children smiling on it, a sunset intensified by deadly fires of the west, and the girl with an empty smile standing next to some friends with empty eyes. His eyes flared with anger and then his lighter flared with butane and then the album flared with flames.

She didn’t put up a fight, she didn’t protest or even stand up, she hardly even blinked. She met his eyes and held them for a long while without really registering anything or sending any real message. He became wild at her indifference and began cursing loudly and tearing out pages of the album. The acrid smell of burning chemicals hurt his eyes and nostrils and served as a motivation to keep going. He wanted her to feel something, to hurt her badly, he wanted grab hard onto her cheeks and drive his thumbs hard into her eye sockets. But she just stared, and then after a while a cool October breeze put out the little flames. The girl took out her camera, snapped a photo, and walked away.

She was an artist in the general sense.

Monday, November 5, 2007

play

1-Act Play

By Cooper Foyt

[ANTON wakes suddenly, breathing hard with a faint sharp noise in the background. He takes a moment to gather his wits and realize that he is in his own bed. He moves legs out from the covers but remains seated in bed. His eyes move towards a picture frame that he picks up and stares at it for a moment. He places it back down gently and begins to quickly put on his clothes and brush his hair down with his hands. ANTON walks out the door and into the main apartment]

ANTON

[Looking around]

Laura! You here?

JEFF

[Watching television]

Cmon, Anton, keep it down!

ANTON

Sorry… have you seen Laura?

JEFF

You barely ever say a thing until someone’s got a massive hangover. Just ridiculous.

ANTON

Sorry…

JEFF

Anyways, they’re probably still in Rob’s room. Well, that’s where I saw them go last night anyways.

ANTON

Oh…okay.

JEFF

You shoulda been out here last night Anton, it was ridiculous. Some kid got up on the roof and was tossing balloons filled with shaving cream over the ledge. Ha he must have hit about 5 people that were walking by. Then some guy tried to get with Jackie, Brett’s girlfriend ya know? Well anyways they ended up going out back and fighting. Brett wrecked the guy in about 20 seconds, I think he had to get stitches ha. The whole party didn’t die down till around 7 or 8 or whenever the sun came up today.

ANTON

Yeah, I heard… what time is it anyways?

JEFF

Like 5 or somethin… I don’t know. Oh man, also, last night this….

[Lights begin to fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON. His speaking is inner-monologue and much more confident than before.]

ANTON

The dream last night, it was so… beautiful. The gentle caress of the sunrise, the dull hiss of the breaking waves, the glassy sea tinted vibrant reds and oranges. The breeze moving across my skin like her finger’s used to. Salt saturating every mouthful of breath…

[Lights quickly go back to normal as ANTON is interrupted by the sudden opening of a door and the appearance of LAURA and ROB. ROB silently proceeds to sit next to JEFF on the couch. LAURA moves to the kitchen and starts to try and find a cup for coffee. ANTON moves towards LAURA]

ANTON

Hey…

LAURA

[Briefly looks at ANTON before continuing to try and find a cup]

ANTON

So, how was the party?

LAURA

How do we never have any clean coffee cups?

ANTON

Did you check up here…?

[ANTON reaches up to higher cupboard]

LAURA

[Yelling]

Rob! Wanna go grab some Starbucks?

ANTON

Yeah, here’s one up here, here you go.

Laura

[Yelling]

Nevermind!

[ANTON hands jar to LAURA who takes it without speaking and begins to pour coffee into cup]

ANTON

So Laura, I had this dream last night I wanna tell-

LAURA

[Patting herself searching for something]

Hey Rob! Where’s my cell phone at?

ROB

Why would I know where your phone is? Probably on the bed stand.

[LAURA rushes off back to the bedroom leaving ANTON in the kitchen. He begins to overhear ROB and JEFF talking]

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

Dude last night I must’ve made out with at least 10 other girls, I was so drunk.

JEFF

[Whispered incoherently]

Oh nice, did you….ya know?

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

Of course man, with Laura and then Katie too after Laura passed out in my room.

[All lights fade. When they are lifted it is a different scene. ANTON is asleep in his bed. The room is lit by warm colors glowing from the window. The room has a pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed, and book shelf with many poetry and psychology books. LAURA enters the room in a towel, her hair is still wet, and walks over to the bed. She sits down gently near his feet and smiles at him. ANTON wakes up slowly, becoming aware of her presence. He sleepily meets her gave and smiles, moving his hand out towards hers. He moves his hand up to her thigh— A sharp, stinging noise erupts from the scene. All lights fade suddenly.

Lights return to normal with ANTON back in kitchen. He is caught in a zoned-out stare at nothing in particular]

[LAURA re-enters the kitchen focusing on her cell phone, as if texting]

LAURA

[Holding phone up in air]

We never get any reception in this crappy apartment….

ANTON

Hey Laura…

LAURA

[Not looking up from phone and taking drink of coffee]

Hmm?

[Laura looks up at ANTON as the lights fade. A solo light remains upon ANTON]

ANTON

I had this dream last night, you know, like the ones I used to have last year and tell you about. I was on this, indescribable beach, and a few feet away from me I saw these flowers, these brilliant roses. When I moved towards them they started to emit these strange and lovely sounds, like hearing a love story in a language you will never understand. And I just felt compelled to keep moving towards them, they were pulling at my chest, pulling like-

[ANTON is interrupted by the crash of LAURA’s coffee cup smashing on the floor. The room is shaking and there is the low rumble followed by a piercing whistle of a passing train.]

LAURA

[Can’t hear at first over sound of train]

…….knocks everything down at 5:15 [bends to clean spill]

[The telephone is now noticed to be ringing. ROB turns up the volume of the TV in the other room. Phone rings several times]

ROB

Laura! You gonna get that?

[LAURA rushes to answer the phone, obviously annoyed. ANTON crouches to clean broken cup and spilled coffee]

LAURA

Hello? … Yeah one second…

[LAURA walks over to ROB and gives the phone to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. ANTON sees this from the corner of his eye as he is cleaning.

ANTON

[To self]

…they were pulling like gravity.

[All lights fade. When they are lifted they are in the other room again. LAURA is sitting on the floor looking through a book near the bookcase. ANTON is lying on the bed reading a book as well. ANTON sets his book down and his gaze falls upon LAURA who is illuminated by golden lights. ANTON mouths something but there is no sound. LAURA looks up at him, sets her book down, and gets into bed next to ANTON, resting her head on his chest. A sharp, stinging noise sounds the moment they touch. All lights fade suddenly.

They return to normal with ANTON still crouched over the broken coffee cup. He finishes cleaning and throws the broken parts away.]

[LAURA comes back towards ANTON, calling back at ROB and JEFF]

LAURA

….Yeah let me just grab my stuff and we’ll go. [Catching ANTON’s eye but quickly looking away] We’re just going to some bar downtown with some friends.

ANTON

Oh… ok. Did you wanna hear the rest of the dream?

LAURA

[Grabbing coat, purse, etc.]

Wha..? Yeah, hurry.

[Lights fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON]

ANTON

Well, these flowers, they kept changing colors. The colors would flash and vanish instantly and continuously. So many colors I had never seen before and they flowed out from these flowers like they were crying, their mourning spreading out across the sand. And they were growing too; vines flowed out in every direction, moving in and out of the soft dunes like crackling organic snakes. The vines created a wake of hundreds of more flowers like the first, all singing their exotic tones and seeping beauty. All of them kept pulling harder and harder at me until I became completely surrounded by them, and then in front of me, at the center of this orchard, at the center of this dream was the most beautiful sight, and that…

[Lights return to normal and ANTON is alone in the apartment. Everything is completely silent.]

ANTON

…was you, Laura.

[ANTON walks back into his room and sits on his bed, mirroring the way he awoke. He holds the picture frame in his hands, then places it face down back onto his bed stand. A piercing sharp noise sounds as the lights fade.]

Monday, October 29, 2007

Reminiscence [Wedding Story Ver 2]

Reminiscence

The wedding’s only a fifteen minute drive up the avenue from here, already been dressed for an hour, enough time for one more drink. Thirty minutes until the procession begins, until the grandmothers and mothers and bridesmaids and flower girls all walk down the aisle. It’s been a rough week already, so many weddings in the summer. And it’s so sunny out, not a cloud in the God damned sky, not a trace of weather. I’ve been good about it lately, watching myself, watching my ring. Enough time for one more, easy. Only had a couple so far, just to loosen up, soften the edges, to black out the corners. Make the sun a little dimmer; it’s just been so bright out this whole week. It’ll make the flowers a little less fragrant, the bridesmaids a little less happy, the mothers a little less tearful, the flower girl a little less innocent. Still 25 minutes left until they all start to walk the aisle. Plenty of time for one more. Way too much time. It’ll make the words a little easier to say. Let them spill out of my mouth, like the bottle of bourbon pouring into the glass.

The soft light of morning was peering into the room below the drawn window shades, illuminating the dust caught in tiny updrafts. The only sounds were the splitting and jostling of the ice cubes in his glass, and the periodic hollow clink of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s being set back down on the coffee table. Samuel Rasmussen sat in his small apartment living room on a fading oak wooden chair that he had decided to keep after his wife had died. He was dressed in an ink black shirt and pants with his white collar standing out brilliantly against his dark, aging skin. Too many bright sunny summer weddings. Lines were beginning to cut deeply across his face, adding a defeated look to his already subdued eyes. Some of this was due to the years slowly accumulating, some to his drinking, but mostly it was due to the death of his wife.

20 minutes until it starts, enough time for one more.

Adrienne had been diagnosed with breast cancer. All her years doing walk-a-thons and putting pink ribbons on the back of the car were in vain. All his years devoted to the church, to God, to his wife, and to the people whose length of commitment was maybe a few hours once a week were also in vain. Then all the hospital visits, the chemotherapy, the drugs for the pain, the hospital bills, the weakened body, the prayers on Sunday, the cards from family members, the remission, the hope, the reappearance, the mastectomy, the visiting hours, the prayers on Wednesday, the promises of another recovery, the doctor’s condolences, more cards from more family, more drugs to ease the pain, the prayers on every night, the last few weeks back home, the final few days when she seemed happy, the funeral in the church, the questions of why. All in vain. Adrienne, the reason for the drinking and lines.

15 minutes until it starts, time to go to one more.

The drive there was marked by windshield glare and heat. The June sun beat in on Samuel, causing tiny beads of sweat to form across his wrinkled forehead and run down his back. The black shirt and pants made it worse, the broken air conditioner made it worse still. Samuel had grown accustomed to traveling after drinking though, and was able to keep himself composed on the road. Start, stop, turn, repeat. Easy. The real challenge was ahead of him on a grassy little hill where a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears would be on him, lost in June romanticism. He arrived just as everyone was ready to begin the procession and took his place at the altar next to the groom. The music began.

One more outdoor wedding, you can get through this. Keep yourself steady, focus on the words spilling out of memory, don’t look them in the eyes. The eyes made it so much worse. Let it all just fade into a great grey blur. Keeping them faceless was the trick he learned in the war. Same little brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and friends in the front; odd acquaintances and strangers in the back rows. The same June sun and the same June romanticism on the same grassy little hill. Keep them faceless; keep them like cookie cutter bodies.

The grandmothers sat down.

Faceless grandmothers with the same wrinkles, same small apprehensive steps, same smiles, same dresses, same proud posture while sitting. Good start.

The parents sat down.

Faceless parents with the same crying emotional mothers with the same special occasion expensive jewelry. The same stiff military father with a defined chin and short hair. The same pressed uniform with tiny medals of courage and pain. Same supportive lean against each other and the same sharing of memories. Keep it together, Sam.

The bridesmaids and groomsmen walk down the aisle.

Bridesmaids, with thick happy smiles and ivory teeth and dreaming eyes. Same excited bodies and light feet and clean dresses. Same styled hair and painted nails and dangling ear rings. Gotta keep it together, Sam. Same groomsmen in the same awkward debonair outfits. Same freshly cleaned faces and tired eyes from last ditch parties. Same concupiscent eyes and confident steps and hair like their fathers.

The flower girl skips down the aisle.

Faceless little flower girl with the same tiny arms and legs and big head and bigger smile. Same odd mixture of summer flowers and the same skipping routine. Same cuteness, same innocence. The bourbon will kick in soon.

Time to start, take it easy, not too loud, not too quiet, keep it calm. “All rise for the bride.” Same father escorting his baby girl towards the same altar down the same aisle to the same future with the same family all around. A familiar bride with white lace and light flowing dress. Her familiar scared and excited and loving and not-quite-prepared eyes set straight ahead. Her familiar beautiful bronze skin caught in the rising sun, beaming joy onto the grassy little hill with a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears. Don’t think about her, eyes off your ring. Couldn’t keep it faceless, now it gets hard. At least he had the bourbon in him, still able to soften the edges, black out the corners.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

Good opening. Keep them nameless and faceless. Don’t let her get to you. Keep your head down, words steady, don’t look up, keep your head down just like in the war. Don’t let the sun get in your eyes, its way too bright. Focus on the words; watch them spill out of your mouth. Your shoes are the ice cubes, watch them split and jostle. Keep your head down; it’s a lot easier with the sun out of your eyes. With her out of your eyes. Head down, eyes off your ring, trained on your ice cube shoes. You can make it through this.

“Who presents this woman and this man to be married to each other?”

You can feel it in you now. Dampening your veins, hollowing you out, glazing over your eyes. It’ll get easier now. It’ll make the sun a little less bright, the flowers a little less fragrant, the bridesmaids a little less happy, the mothers a little less tearful, the flower girl a little less innocent. Now the words are really flowing, hear the splitting of your shoes yet?

“Damien, do you take Jane to be your wedded wife, and in the presence of these witnesses do you vow that you will do everything in your power to make your love for her a growing part of your life?”

It’s hitting heavy now. Ice splitting everywhere. Almost done though, only a little more left. Only a few more drops left to shake out. A good job so far, just keep your head down a little more, keep the words steady, keep the sun out of your eyes. Eyes off the ring, mind off of her. Just a little more, just like in the war. Let them face each other and promise love despite money and bad times and sickness. Just keep your head down. Ask the question. Pronounce the marriage. Get off the grassy little hill caught in the June sun that melts all the ice cubes.

“…speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Keep your head down. Just finish it.

“Now that Damien and Jane have given themselves to each other by the promises they have exchanged, I pronounce them to be husband and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Damien, you may kiss the bride.”

Wasn’t so bad. You did a good job. You kept your eyes off the ring and off their faces and on your shoes. A great job worth celebrating. Now get off the grassy little hill, out of the June sun, out of the heat of the car, and back into the calm dusty living room. Back into the fading oak wooden chair. Back into a glass with splitting and jostling ice cubes. Already half way back to the car, the glare is just awful with the sun out like this, not a trace of weather in the God damned sky.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Just keep walking. You didn’t hear it. All you hear is splitting ice and the hollow clink of bourbon.

“Hey! You hear me?”

Just a few more steps to go, no need to stop, keep your head down, almost there.

A man grabbed onto Sam’s right arm and spun him around with force. “Why don’t you just hold on? What the hell is your problem?”

A man from the procession. A stranger from the back row. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you do, you just motored through that wedding. You completely blew off that girl in the back who stood up to object. You didn’t even look up from your shoes, you old son of a bitch. What were you thinking?”

He had sobering eyes. They looked like anger was a rare spectacle for them, a special guest on holidays. “I must’ve missed her. Sorry.”

“You must’ve missed her? You’re sorry? Do you even realize what you’ve done? You could’ve just f***ed her whole life up, ruined somethin’ beautiful!”

Sobering voice too, with sobering words. Keep your head down, eyes off the ring. Keep your eyes off Adrienne’s ring. “Maybe. Sorry.”

“Is that all you have to say? Jesus Christ, what is your problem? What kind of man of God are you? Do you even know what it’s like to lose someone you love?”

Really sobering words in the sobering June sun.

“You know what? You probably don't have any clue what its like. The days filled with nothing but regret and thoughts of them and how they won’t ever come back. And how feeling sorry about it doesn’t matter to anyone, not even to them ‘cause they’re half way across the God damned country with a new man. The spiral of depression that feels exactly how it sounds, things spin by you in a terrible grey blur, and you never want to see the details of the life around you. You just shut down. That’s what you’ve done to this girl. You’ve condemned her.”

The man spat and walked away, back towards the grassy hill where a young girl sat with tears in her eyes, still in the seat she had been in during the wedding. Another back row stranger. Samuel stood there in the June sun, letting the glare and heat swallow him up for a long while. His eyes drifted from the barren blue sky that didn’t have a trace of weather in it, to the chair the girl had been sitting in, to his ring, to Adrienne’s ring. He remembered a wedding from a long time ago on a grassy hill many years ago in a younger June sun. He remembered a bride with white lace and a light flowing dress. He remembered her scared and excited and loving and not-quite-prepared eyes set straight into his. He remembered her beautiful bronze skin caught in the rising sun, beaming joy onto the grassy little hill with a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears all focused on them.

Samuel Rasmussen drove home slowly, taking in the trees and stoplights and building fronts and the drops of sweat running down his back. He quietly walked into his small apartment and into the living room. The tired light of evening was peering into the room through open windows, illuminating the dust caught in tiny updrafts. The only sounds were the splitting and jostling of ice cubes tumbling down the sink and the hollow clink of an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle dropping into the garbage. Samuel then sat in the fading oak wooden chair that he had decided to keep after his wife had died and wept.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

The Priest

The wedding’s only a fifteen minute drive up the avenue from here, already been dressed for an hour, enough time for one more drink. Thirty minutes until the procession begins, until the grandmothers and mothers and bridesmaids and flower girls all walk down the aisle. It’s been a rough week already, so many weddings in the summer. And it’s so sunny out, not a cloud in the God damned sky, not a trace of weather. I’ve been good about it lately, watching myself, watching my ring. Enough time for one more, easy. Only a couple so far, just to loosen up, soften the edges, black out the corners. Make the sun a little dimmer; it’s just been so very bright this whole week. It’ll make the flowers a little less fragrant, the bridesmaids a little less happy, the mothers a little less tearful, the flower girl a little less innocent. Still 25 minutes left until they all start to walk the aisle. Plenty of time for one more. Way too much time. It’ll make the words a little easier to say. Let them spill out of my mouth, like the bottle of bourbon pouring into the glass.

The soft light of morning was peering into the room below the drawn window shades, illuminating the dust caught in tiny updrafts. The only sounds were the splitting and jostling of the ice cubes in his glass, and the periodic hollow clink the bottle of Jack Daniel’s being set back on the coffee table. Samuel Rasmussen sat in his small apartment living room on a fading oak wooden chair that he had decided to keep after his wife had died. He was dressed in an ink black shirt and pants with his white collar standing out brilliantly against his dark, aging skin. Too many bright sunny summer weddings. Lines were beginning to cut deeply across his face, adding a defeated look to his already subdued eyes. Some of this was due to the years slowly accumulating, some to his drinking, but mostly it was due to the death of his wife.

20 minutes until it starts, enough time for one more.

Adrienne had been diagnosed with breast cancer. All her years doing walk-a-thons and putting pink ribbons on the back of the car were in vain. All his years devoted to the church, to God, to his wife, and to the people whose length of commitment was maybe a few hours once a week were also in vain. Then all the hospital visits, the chemotherapy, the drugs for the pain, the hospital bills, the weakened body, the prayers on Sunday, the cards from family members, the remission, the hope, the reappearance, the mastectomy, the visiting hours, the prayers on Wednesday, the promises of another recovery, the doctor’s condolences, more cards from more family, more drugs to ease the pain, the prayers on every night, the last few weeks back home, the final few days when she seemed happy, the funeral in the church, the questions of why. All in vain. Adrienne, the reason for the drinking and the lines.

15 minutes until it starts, time to go to one more.

The drive there was marked by windshield glare and heat. The June sun beat in on Samuel, causing tiny beads of sweat to form across his wrinkled forehead and down his back. The black shirt and pants made it worse, the broken air conditioner made it worse still. Samuel had grown accustomed to traveling after drinking, and was easily able to keep himself composed on the road. Start, stop, turn, repeat. Easy. The real challenge was ahead of him down the road on a grassy little hill, with a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears would be on him, completely lost in the romantic delusion before them. He arrived as everyone was just ready to begin the procession and took his place at the altar next to the groom. The music began.

One more outdoor wedding, you can get through this. Keep yourself steady, focus on the words spilling out of memory, don’t look them in the eyes. The eyes made it so much worse. Let it all just fade into a great grey blur. Keeping them faceless was the trick he learned from war. Same little brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and friends in the front; odd acquaintances and strangers in the back rows. The same June sun and the same June romanticism on the same grassy little hill. Keep them faceless, cookie cutter bodies.

The grandmothers sat down.

Faceless grandmothers with the same wrinkles, same small apprehensive steps, same smiles, same dresses, same proud posture while sitting. Good start.

The parents sat down.

Faceless parents with the same crying emotional mothers with the same special occasion expensive jewelry. Same stiff military father with a defined chin and short hair and rented tuxedo. Same lean against each other and the same sharing of memories. Keep it together, Sam.

The bridesmaids and groomsmen walk down the aisle.

Bridesmaids, with thick happy smiles and ivory teeth and dreaming eyes. Same excited bodies and light feet and clean dresses. Same styled hair and painted nails and dangling ear rings. Gotta keep it together, Sam. Same groomsmen in the same awkward debonair outfits. Same light beards and tired eyes from last ditch parties. Same concupiscent eyes and confident steps and hair like their fathers.

The flower girl skips down the aisle.

Faceless little flower girl with the same tiny arms and legs and big head and bigger smile. Same odd mixture of summer flowers and the same skipping routine. Same cuteness, same innocence. The bourbon will kick in soon.

Time to start, take it easy, not too loud, not too quiet, keep it calm. “All rise for the bride.” Same father escorting his baby girl towards the same altar down the same aisle to the same future with the same family all around. A familiar bride with white lace and light flowing dress. Her familiar scared and excited and loving and not-quite-prepared eyes set straight ahead. Her familiar beautiful bronze skin caught in the rising sun, beaming joy onto the grassy little hill with a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears. Don’t think about her, eyes off your ring. Couldn’t keep it faceless, now it gets hard. At least he had the bourbon in him, still able to soften the edges, black out the corners.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God, to join this man and this woman in holy marriage…”

Good opening. Keep them nameless, and faceless. Don’t let her get to you. Keep your head down, words steady, don’t look up, keep your head down, just like in the war. Don’t let the sun get in your eyes, its way too bright. Focus on the words; watch them spill out of your mouth. Your shoes are the ice cubes, watch them split and jostle. Keep your head down, it’s a lot easier with the sun out of your eyes. With her out of your eyes. Head down, eyes off your ring, trained on your ice cube shoes. You can make it through this.

“Who presents this woman and this man to be married to each other?”

You can feel it in you now. Dampening your veins, hollowing you out, glazing over your eyes. It’ll get easier now. It’ll make the sun a little less bright, the flowers a little less fragrant, the bridesmaids a little less happy, the mothers a little less tearful, the flower girl a little less innocent. Now the words are really flowing, hear the splitting of your shoes yet?

“Damien, do you take Jane to be your wedded wife, and in the presence of these witnesses do you vow that you will do everything in your power to make your love for her a growing part of your life?”

It’s hitting heavy now. Ice splitting everywhere. Almost done though, only a little more left. Only a few more drops left to shake out. A good job so far, just keep your head down a little more, keep the words steady, keep the sun out of your eyes. Eyes off the ring, mind off of her. Just a little more, just like the war. Let them face each other and promise love despite money and bad times and sickness. Just keep your head down. Ask the question. Pronounce the marriage. Get off the grassy little hill caught in the June sun that melts all the ice cubes.

“…speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Keep your head down. Just finish it.

“Now that Damien and Jane have given themselves to each other by the promises they have exchanged, I pronounce them to be husband and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Damien, you may kiss the bride.”

Wasn’t so bad. You did a good job. Kept your eyes off the ring and off the faces and on your shoes. A great job. Worth celebrating. Get off the grassy little hill, out of the June sun, out of the heat of the car, back into the calm dusty living room. Back into the fading oak wooden chair. Back into a glass with splitting and jostling ice cubes. Already half way back to the car now, the glare is just awful with the sun out like this, not a trace of weather in the God damned sky.

“Excuse me, Father?”

Just keep walking. You didn’t hear it, all you hear is splitting ice and the hollow clink of bourbon.

“Father!”

Just a few more steps to go, no need to stop, keep your head down, almost there.

The man grabbed onto Sam’s right arm and spun him around with force. “Why don’t you just hold on, Father? What the hell is your problem?”

A man from the procession. A stranger from the back row. “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re talking about, son.”

“The hell you do, you motored through that procession on a beeline. You completely blew off that girl in the back that stood at the objections you old son of a bitch. What were you thinking?”

He had sobering eyes. They looked like anger was a rare spectacle for them, a special guest on holidays. “I must’ve missed her. Sorry.”

“You must’ve missed her? You’re sorry? Do you even realize what you’ve done? You could’ve just f***ed her whole life up, ruined somethin beautiful.”

Sobering voice too, with sobering words. Keep your head down, eyes off the ring, keep your eyes off Adrienne’s ring. “Maybe. Sorry.”

“Is that all you have to say? Jesus Christ what is your problem? What kind of man of God are you? Do you even know what it is to lose someone you love?”

Really sobering words in the sobering June sun.

“You know what? You probably don't have any clue what its like. The days filled with nothing but the thoughts of them and how they won’t ever come back. And how feeling sorry about it doesn’t matter to anyone, not even to them ‘cause they’re half way across the God damned country with a new man. The spiral of depression that follows in the real sense of the word, things spin by you in a terrible blur, and you never want to see the details of the life around you. You just shut down. That’s what you’ve done to this girl. You’ve condemned her.”

The man spat and walked away, back towards the grassy hill where a young girl sat with tears in her eyes, still in the seat she had been in during the service. Another back row stranger. Samuel stood there in the June sun, letting the glare and heat swallow him up for a long while. He kept his eyes locked on to over to where the man had gone back to the young girl with a face. He looked down at his ring, Adrienne’s ring. He remembered a wedding from a long time ago on a grassy hill many years ago in a younger June sun. He remembered a bride with white lace and a light flowing dress. Her scared and excited and loving and not-quite-prepared eyes set straight into his. Her beautiful bronze skin caught in the rising sun, beaming joy onto the grassy little hill with a hundred faces with two hundred eyes and two hundred ears all focused on them.

Samuel Rasmussen drove home slowly, taking in the trees and stoplights and building fronts. He quietly walked into his small apartment and into the living room. The tired light of evening was peering into the room through open windows, illuminating the dust caught in tiny updrafts. The only sounds were the splitting and jostling of ice cubes and bourbon tumbling down the sink and the hollow clink of an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle dropping into the garbage. Samuel then moved to sit in the fading oak wooden chair that he had decided to keep after his wife had died and wept.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

The Fog [300 word story final]

He woke up invisible. It was more than simply disappearing from sight, however. He could not be heard, he could not be smelled, he could not be touched. Truly invisible. But for the first time in his life he felt whole, calm, aware. The thick swirl of thoughts that had plagued him for years was gone, replaced by a pleasant distant echo, like raindrops in a cave. Like a branch crackling in the woods. Peaceful.

He sat up in his bed, except he didn’t move how a body moved, he moved how a fog moves, docile but brooding, stoic and unnerving. The feeling was natural, as if the fog had always been within him. Peaceful.

Flowing from under sheets, along dusty wooden floors, under cracks of closed doors, between drifting cars, through branches of great pines, above the people he used to know. The heightened sense of awareness, coupled with his newly sterilized mind, allowed him a new perspective on all of these surrounding objects. He was a part of them all. He had a place as they did, all turning together like gears inside a great clock. Peaceful.

Suddenly, her voice seethed into him, drowning out every thought in a pool of caustic reverberation. The peaceful raindrops and branches were displaced by sharp hot flashes of panic and the engulfing mouth of dark. The feeling of death.

When he opened his eyes, he was in her room. Illuminated by the gray twilight of fall, he saw pages of journals strewn across the floor, torn in a fever from their spine. He saw familiar photos of people he knew, loved. A mirror with a cobweb shatter, bloodied bandages and crumpled tissues, and her.

He was no longer the brooding, stoic fog. Instead, he had evaporated into the stagnant air of depression, the brackish weight of a memory.

Peaceful.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Truly Invisible [55 word story final]

He woke up invisible, not being heard, smelled, or touched. Truly invisible. For the first time he felt whole, calm, aware. Suddenly, her voice seething into him, he began to gravitate towards her.

He remained in her room until his skin was dust and cobwebs were his organs. He would always be in her memory.

The Fog [300 word story]

He woke up invisible. It was more than simply disappearing from sight, however. He could not be heard, he could not be smelled, he could not be touched. Truly invisible. But for the first time in his life he felt whole, calm, aware. The thick swirl of thoughts that had plagued him for years was gone, replaced by a pleasant distant echo, like raindrops in a cave. Like a branch crackling in the woods. Peaceful.

He sat up in his bed, except he didn’t move how a body moved, he moved how the fog moves, docile but brooding, stoic and unnerving. The feeling was natural, as if the fog had always been within him.

Flowing from under sheets, along dusty wooden floors, under cracks of closed doors, between drifting cars, through branches of great pines, above the people he used to know. The heightened sense of awareness, coupled with his newly sterilized mind, allowed him a new perspective on these. He was a part of them all. He had a place as they did, all turning together like gears inside a great clock. Peaceful.

Suddenly, her voice seethed into him, drowning out every thought in a pool of caustic reverberation. The peaceful raindrops and branches displaced by sharp hot flashes of panic and the engulfing mouth of dark. The feeling of death.

When he opened his eyes, he was in her room. Illuminated by the gray twilight of fall, he saw pages of journals strewn across the floor, torn in a fever from their spine. He saw familiar photos of people he knew, loved. A mirror with a cobweb shatter, bloodied bandages and crumpled tissues, and her.

He became locked to this scene. No longer the fog, but the stagnant air of depression. He would always be in her memory.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Her Memory [55 word essay]

He woke up invisible. He could not be heard, smelled, or touched. Truly invisible. For the first time he felt whole, calm, aware. He immediately thought of her and left.

He remained in her room for weeks, months, years, until his skin turned into dust and his organs were cobwebs. He was only her memory.

What I Didn't Need to say [Ver 3]

Alright to be able to see my poem as I intend it to be seen you will need to go to this web address:

right here

Sorry for the inconvenience but I couldn't post it up here as a picture since it wouldn't fit properly and about half my poem got cut off. Just zoom in on the picture and you should be able to read it. If you can't then that's too bad and you will have to go read some other person's poetry and comment them instead.

Thanks everyone!

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Didn't need to say it.

it wasn't anything much
nothing special or unique
lovely or romantic
right or wrong
it was just something that happened
it was only physical
it was only skin tension
skin sensations

and sometimes eyes
but not very often
and not very alive

it was easier when you spoke it in a different language
when i didn't know what you were saying
i didn't want to
i could nod
lose interest
turn away
drift
breathe

it was easier

easier than leaving after every mapped strain
but not by much

and much harder than saying it back
impossibly harder
my body hostile against each word
lungs aching from stagnant well water
mind pierced blank by glass pitch tones
throat choking on that bitter taste of first ash
god it was hard

it hated that lie
it was repulsing / it rhymed
it was plastic / it had eyes
it was a face lift / it was disappointing
it was too loud / it was empty
it was ignorant / it was busy

i didn't need to say it

Sunday, September 30, 2007

48 seconds [final version]

it's between the second chorus and the
final verse in your room on top of sheets
with the faint sound of summer explosions dulled by thick walls
that i look across
my body and over to
you

you're nearing sleep
it's beautiful
trees after a mid day storm beautiful
the moon blushing from the pull of the earth beautiful
the sky getting lighter at 4 am beautiful


and i realize that you have lungs that are taking in oxygen that moves into blood cells that surge through veins pumped by a heart in the center of your chest that creates rhythms of warmth in the melodic fingers resting on my stomach and you have songwriter skin that is feeling the world around you and neurons in your brain that are firing off a thousand thoughts every second in chaotic symphony and acoustic eyes that see things in ways i can never understand

and they are all slowly
fading
eroding
and disappearing
with every chorus
with every thick summer explosion
with every mid day storm
with every blushing moon
with every 4 am
with every heartbeat

but for now you're willing to let that happen

it's 48 seconds
beautiful

Sunday, September 23, 2007

48 seconds [life changed ver 1]

it's between the second chorus and the
final verse in your room on top of sheets
with the faint sound of summer dulled by thick walls
that i look across
my body and over to
you

you're nearing sleep
it's beautiful
trees after a mid day storm
beautiful
the sky getting lighter at 4 am
beautiful


and i realize that you have lungs that are taking in oxygen that moves into blood cells that course through veins pumped by a heart in the center of your chest that beats and warms the fingers resting on my chest and you have skin that is feeling the world around you and neurons in your brain that are firing off a thousand thoughts every second and eyes that see things in ways i can never understand

and they are all
fading
eroding
and disappearing
everyday

but for now you're willing to let that happen

its 48 seconds
beautiful

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Lovers and Mirrors

Lights go out

mute clouds creep up streets,
ominous and erotic, into the neighborhood

the wind whispers to anxious glass and pushes against
the framework of the house of loveless lovers and mirrors,
forcing it down
placing a new weight on it
an unknown gravity embraced

rain saturates the scene in strands
glistening from pinpricks of pleasure, wet and warm

the structure strains and tenses

flashes of light lash out and reflect,
penetrating waves of ecstasy echo and rebound off static angles,
shattering the mirror of loveless lovers

with a sigh,
the storm breaks and recedes

Monday, September 17, 2007

My Last.fm Album Quilt and Recent Played List!

These will go here until I can figure out how to put them into my sidebar :-\ As of now the HTML is too long and if I try to use the other text-form it rejects the HTML. Soooooo if you see this and want to help that would be swell. If not that's cool too.








True is True

True is True

Sunday, September 16, 2007

gutters throw water into the street
like a drunk whos had too much
or a poet caught up in speech

when the downpour hits vulnerable places
allowing shivers to take over outward glances
before apparent eyes melting can make an appereance
you set the benchmark i see as an entrance
of thoughts consumed by consumer goods
of breads and lovers
it was so hard to find sleep
with both our hearts out of the covers
and no one noticed the rising of the sun
with her mind so distant in far off places
he said he would never love the same again
but it was hard to find solid basis

but it wasnt as soft as her skin is
and it wasnt as sad as charles is
and he wanted to see her standing in the door
as he crept out of a deep deep slumber
he would say
I'll circle poetic phrases if you speak to me in foreign languages
and she would say
pour toujours

Monday, September 10, 2007

1-act Play [version 2]

1-Act Play

By Cooper Foyt

[ANTON wakes suddenly, breathing hard with a faint sharp noise in the background. He takes a moment to gather his wits and realize that he is in his own bed. He moves legs out from the covers but remains seated in bed. His eyes move towards a picture frame that he picks up and stares at it for a moment. He places it back down gently and begins to quickly put on his clothes and brush his hair down with his hands. ANTON walks out the door and into the main apartment]

ANTON

[Looking around]

Laura! You here?

JEFF

[Watching television]

Christ, Anton, keep it down!

ANTON

Sorry… have you seen Laura?

JEFF

You barely ever say a thing until someone’s got a massive f***ing hangover. Christ.

ANTON

Sorry…

JEFF

Anyways, they’re probably still in Rob’s room. Well, that’s where I saw them go last night anyways.

ANTON

Oh…okay.

JEFF

You shoulda been out here last night Anton, it was ridiculous. Some kid got up on the roof and was pissing over the ledge. Ha he must have hit about 5 people that were walking by. Then some guy tried to get with Jackie, Brett’s girlfriend ya know? Well anyways the ended up going out back and Brett wrecked the guy, I think he had to get stitches ha. The whole thing didn’t die down till around 7 or 8 or whenever the Sun came up today.

ANTON

Yeah, I heard… what time is it anyways?

JEFF

Like 5 or somethin… I don’t know. Oh man, also, last night this….

[Lights begin to fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON. His speaking is inner-monologue and much more confident than before.]

ANTON

The dream last night, it was so… beautiful. The gentle caress of the sunrise, the dull hiss of the breaking waves, the glassy sea tinted vibrant reds and oranges. The breeze raising my skin like her finger’s used to. Salt saturating every mouthful of breath…

[Lights quickly go back to normal as ANTON is interrupted by the sudden opening of a door and the appearance of LAURA and ROB. ROB silently proceeds to sit next to JEFF on the couch. LAURA moves to the kitchen and starts to try and find a cup for coffee. ANTON moves towards LAURA]

ANTON

Hey…

LAURA

[Briefly looks at ANTON before continuing to try and find a cup]

ANTON

So, how was the party?

LAURA

How do we never have any f***ing clean cups?

ANTON

Did you check up here…?

[ANTON reaches up to higher cupboard]

LAURA

[Yelling]

Rob! Wanna go grab some Starbucks?

ANTON

Yeah, here’s one up here, here you go.

Laura

[Yelling]

Nevermind!

[ANTON hands jar to LAURA who takes it without speaking and begins to pour coffee into cup]

ANTON

So Laura, I had this dream last night I wanna tell-

LAURA

[Patting herself searching for something]

Hey Rob! Where’s my cell phone at?

ROB

Why would I know where your phone is? Probably on the bed stand.

[LAURA rushes off back to the bedroom leaving ANTON in the kitchen. He begins to overhear ROB and JEFF talking]

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

…..made out….so drunk….

JEFF

[Whispered incoherently]

…did you…

ROB

[Whispered incoherently]

…yeah….Katie too after…..passed out…

[All lights fade. When they are lifted it is a different scene. ANTON is asleep in his bed. The room is lit by warm colors glowing from the window. The room has a pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed, and book shelf with many poetry and psychology books. LAURA enters the room in a towel, her hair is still wet, and walks over to the bed. She sits down gently near his feet and smiles at him. ANTON wakes up slowly, becoming aware of her presence. He sleepily meets her gave and smiles, moving his hand out towards hers. He moves his hand up to her thigh— A sharp, stinging noise erupts from the scene. All lights fade suddenly.

Lights return to normal with ANTON back in kitchen. He is caught in a zoned-out stare at nothing in particular]

[LAURA re-enters the kitchen focusing on her cell phone, as if texting]

LAURA

[Holding phone up in air]

We never get any reception in this s***ty apartment….

ANTON

Hey Laura…

LAURA

[Not looking up from phone and taking drink of coffee]

Hmm?

[Laura looks up at ANTON as the lights fade. A solo light remains upon ANTON]

ANTON

I had this dream last night, like the ones I used to have last year and tell you about. I was on this, indescribable beach, and a few feet away from me I saw these flowers, these brilliant roses. When I moved towards them they started to emit these strange and lovely sounds, like hearing a love story in a language you will never understand. And I just felt compelled to keep moving towards them, they were pulling at my chest, pulling like-

[ANTON is interrupted by the crash of LAURA’s coffee cup smashing on the floor. The room is shaking and there is the low rumble followed by a piercing whistle of a passing train.]

LAURA

[Can’t hear at first over sound of train]

…….knocks everything down at 5:15 [bends to clean spill]

[The telephone is now noticed to be ringing. ROB turns up the volume of the TV in the other room. Phone rings several times]

ROB

Laura! You gonna get that?

[LAURA rushes to answer the phone, obviously annoyed. ANTON crouches to clean broken cup and spilled coffee]

LAURA

Hello? … Yeah one second…

[LAURA walks over to ROB and gives the phone to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. ANTON sees this from the corner of his eye as he is cleaning.

ANTON

[To self]

…they were pulling like gravity.

[All lights fade. When they are lifted they are in the other room again. LAURA is sitting on the floor looking through a book near the bookcase. ANTON is lying on the bed reading a book as well. ANTON sets his book down and his gaze falls upon LAURA who is illuminated by golden lights. ANTON mouths something but there is no sound. LAURA looks up at him, sets her book down, and gets into bed next to ANTON, resting her head on his chest. A sharp, stinging noise sounds the moment they touch. All lights fade suddenly.

They return to normal with ANTON still crouched over the broken coffee cup. He finishes cleaning and throws the broken parts away.]

[LAURA comes back towards ANTON, calling back at ROB and JEFF]

LAURA

….Yeah let me just grab my s*** and we’ll head over. [Catching ANTON’s eye but quickly looking away] Just some party at Nick’s, some light drinking, maybe some weed, nothing major.

ANTON

Oh… ok. Did you wanna hear the rest of the dream?

LAURA

[Grabbing various objects]

Wha..? Yeah, hurry.

[Lights fade and only a solo light remains on ANTON]

ANTON

Well, these flowers, they kept changing colors. They would flash and vanish instantly and continuously. So many colors I had never seen before and they flowed out from these flowers like they were crying and their mourning spread out across the sand. And the flowers were growing too; vines flowed out in every direction, moving in and out of the soft dunes like crackling organic snakes. The vines created a wake of hundreds of more flowers like the first, all singing their exotic tones and seeping beauty. All of them kept pulling harder and harder at me until I became completely surrounded by them, and then in front of me, at the center of this bittersweet orchard, was the climax of all that was round me, and that…

[Lights return to normal and ANTON is alone in the apartment. Everything is completely silent.]

ANTON

…was you, Laura.

[ANTON walks back into his room and sits on his bed, mirroring the way he awoke. He holds the picture frame in his hands, then places it face down back onto his bed stand. A piercing sharp noise sounds as the lights fade.]

hey

i'm pretty hungry for lunch.