Tag Archives: small towns

145. The Metamorphosis

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You kept away from the corporate coffee shop
this morning, although not so much out of principle
as for the crisp walk through the park
with the sleeping ducks,
and for the path over the pond, where
below you, when mid-way across
the wooden bridge, you saw
what you at first understood
to be a floating pile of snow
until it lifted its neck from the water
and became a swan. On
the other side of this bridge,
beyond the partly frozen baseball diamond
and past the reader board outside
the bagel shop that said, TRY OUR
NONDAIRY CREAM CHEESE, was a coffee
place with a Kafka quote stenciled
on the bathroom wall—to your sensibilities, a nice touch.

Don’t think of the guys in dreads for just a moment—
the pretend hippies, the yippies—driving
their hybrid SUVs back
and forth through this small town. Don’t think
of the rock climbing shoes, the mountain
bikes, the microbrews. But
rather, remember
what it took—all those years
as you used to like to say—to get to this
exact moment here. Remember it
even when they later try to choke you
with charm and fill you with tchotchkes. Remember
how it felt, for instance, to lift your neck
from the frozen water
after clearing your mind
with your morning mug. Remember
the scuffed lines of chalk
in the dirt as you touched second
and headed for third on the Long Walk Back.
And as for that old dog over there
straining against his leash? Remember him
most of all—remember that old heart
of yours and how you learned to teach it the new ways.

112. Breaking the Rules of His Genre

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There are rules for just about everything that the Author has done of late. These are the rules that he must abide by. To not end on a preposition is one such rule, albeit a minor one. There are many others.

When he follows especially the more major rules of the genre of his life, which is fictitious if not also truthful in every respect, the world is pleasant to walk around in. When he does not or is incapable of following the rules for whatever reason—when he breaks his own rules—the world can come dangerously close to teetering on some abysmal world-ending apocalyptic chaos (or so he fears).

If it turns out to be a good, rule-abiding day, the sun shines eagerly and bright—not harshly, but temperately so. It is as if at these moments the sun is given permission to be itself, and as itself, the sun is a fairly happy thing. On other days, on the other hand, he may well ask:

See that sun of my own dark planet? No, you do not, for I have blotted it out. I have blotted out the sun by breaking the rules.

And yet how is it that nobody else seems to notice?

That is the confusing thing about rules. When he breaks the rules of his own genre, so as disrupt, even, the celestial bodies in their various orbits, how is it that nobody else seems to notice? It leaves him wondering where these rules come from and, most importantly, if they can change.

Now this brings us to the dark matter, or that one rule that when broken, everyone would surely turn to him at once and point. He is the one. He broke that ONE thing.

But have you done this? he asks himself. Have you really disrupted the flow of the universe? There may not be wireless here, but is not the coffee still pouring? Is not that horse in the dusty yard across the road standing with blinders on? Is not the wind still pushing that reluctant tumbleweed through the abyss?

Granted, this town may well be a black hole, a fictitious place narrowing to a point of zero volume all its own, but even here, at 2 a.m., you might be surprised by those flowers coming out on those cacti just outside the window there, or so the waitress says. “They bloom only at night. They’re short-lived.” She spends a moment chewing her gum so as for him to take that in.  She’s holding onto his empty dish. “Can you imagine that?” she says.

“No,” he says, and shakes his head. But why can’t he imagine it? Or why should he even have to imagine it? He sees them there—does he not?—and they’re blooming yet.

106. When You Travel to a Strange Town

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When you travel to a strange town several hundred thousand light-years from your own, do not smile too much, for the people there will look at you as if you’re an early discharge patient from a closed-down mental facility.

Smile in a local way, locally, as in that one guy there—technically, more globally, a scowl.

Do not feed the local wildlife. Do not laugh when the locals make fools of themselves as they sometimes will. Do not act foolish yourself. Do not, for instance, get too drunk and punch somebody (or get punched).photo-15

Most importantly, do not ask for the delicatessen. Even if that’s what it is—a delicatessen—do not ask for it. Ask,
rather, for recommendations on where to get the best roast beef on rye with a pickle wedge. And do not say “pickle wedge,” as in “with a pickle wedge.” Understand that some things in this town are best left unsaid.