“Get back in the box!” I gasped, recovering my balance. An old hiking staff lay near my hand, and I clutched it with both hands, hoping to ward off the strange man.
“I don't want to go back in the box.”
“Get back in the box! That's where you belong!”
“Says you. I think I like it out here. Who are you to order me around, anyway?”
“This is my room! This is my house! That's my box!”
“Then you get in the box. I'm going to get a soda.”
I pushed the stick in his face, and my eyes contorted with crazy, stupid rage. “You. The box. Now.” He looked down the end of the stick, unconcerned but visibly annoyed. “We don't have soda, anyway.”
“Now that's ridiculous.” He pushed the stick away with a wave of his hand. “It's a hundred degrees out here. You've got to have refreshments.” He started walking to the door.
“I don't like soda. It makes me gassy.”
He stopped walking. “You. You are ridiculous.”
It was then that I remembered myself. “Get back in the box!”
“Oh not this again.”
“I mean it!” I meant it. Sort of.
“Look, why do you even want me in the box?”
“You came out of the box. Now...I'm scared? Of you, out of the box. So get in the box!”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, as he sat down on the aforementioned box. “You open a box that has been sitting in your closet for, how many years now?”
“Three. Three years. Five. Eight?”
“You have no idea how long this box has been here.”
“I know it was after middle school.”
“Yes, and that was a very long time ago.”
“Ok, sure. Ten years, maybe.”
“Anyway, you opened a box, and it's been here for a decade. That's a very long time.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And when you opened it, a scary man came out.”
“Ummm...yes. Yes, that is basically, exactly what happened.”
“And God knows how long he's been in there, right?”
“I know! That's what makes it so scary!” I was having a little trouble staying focused.
The man sighed. “And now, you want that scary man to go back in the box, to sit in the closet for another indefinite period of time?”
“...”
“Probably watching you while you sleep...”
“Please, please tell me you haven't been watching me while I sleep.”
“Well I will now, if you make me go back in the box.”
I covered my eyes with my hands, in shame. “My God, you're an asshole.”
"You're the one without any soda for your guests."
"Just...just tell me, who or, what, the hell are you?" I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples vigorously, desperately trying to will the last ten years out of existence. It didn't work.
Gently, he picked up my fallen staff and leaned it against the wall. He sat down next to me on the bed, a look of deep compassion on his face. "Which?"
"What?"
"Who, or what?"
"Whichever!"
"Well," he said, "what I have to tell you is going to sound very, very difficult to believe. Unless you do your best and keep an open mind, I'm afraid it would be a big waste of time."
"I'll see what I can do."
"You see," he began, "my name is very difficult to pronounce, so you can call me 'John.' I'd tell you my true name, but it would take you a while to say it right, and I'd rather not waste all of that time."
"For someone who's been sitting in a box for ten years," I interrupted, "you'd think wasting time wouldn't be such a big deal."
"Who said I wasn't busy? If you wouldn't interrupt, I'd get to that a lot faster!"
"I'm sorry."
"Anyway," he continued, "it just so happens that I was very busy the entire time. Or, most of the time, anyway. You see, I belong to a race of people who live in boxes. We have a name, but it's not a very good name, so you might as well call us the Box People. Most people don't know very much about the Box People, because most people don't go looking in old boxes very much. Understand?"
"Very much," I answered, "as far as it goes."
"And it goes further than that. You see, from the first invention of boxes, my people have lived in them. We've lived our entire lives in boxes, moving from box to box as needs arose. We've raised our families, conducted our businesses, and sought out the mysteries of the universe, all from within the confines of boxes; thousands, millions of boxes, all over the world. Inside of each box there may be a whole community of Box People, or there may be none at all: more rarely, a box may be inhabited by a single Box Person. It is a lonely existence, but there are certain aspects of living in boxes that can only be appreciated in isolation."
"Living by yourself, in a box," I observed, emptily.
It occurred to me that continuing to react as emotionally as before would not do me any good. The situation was very weird, but it was real. At least, real enough that it had to be dealt with responsibly. So I decided to think it out. I sat for a minute, pondering his tale and pondering the most appropriate response to it. At length I turned to the man and said, "you're making that up. I can tell."
"Oh really."
"Really. First of all, it's completely impossible. You don't address any of the inherent impossibilities in your story. It's like you expect me to suppose some magical element that makes it all possible, even though you never even bother to describe what that element is, and I can't even begin to imagine what it could be. I don't think anyone could. Or should, really. It's clearly just a ridiculous lie."
"And yet," he said, smugly, "I'm here, and you can't explain it to yourself."
"That's true. And I almost believed you for that reason. But since you told the whole story with that same smug, condescending tone you're using now, I've decided to go ahead and assume that you don't really mean to tell me who you are, and that you've just been messing with my head this whole time."
"Well, you can believe that if you want."
"Thank you. I will."
"In the meantime," he said, exactly as smugly as before, "I'm still a guest in your house. Maybe you should get me some soda?"
In one sublime, fluid motion, my palm met my face with a resigned slap. "Fine. Fine. Fuck it. I'll get you a soda. You just stay right here, don't go anywhere. I'll get you a soda."
"Pepsi."
"Fine."
I left my parents' house and drove to the nearest gas station. It was already evening time, and if I'd had my way I wouldn't have been going anywhere, but sometimes things happen that have to be dealt with immediately. Well, perhaps not immediately, but it's usually better if you do, because otherwise they sit around in your room, telling you lies and complaining about what you do and don't have for them to drink.
I walked into the Seven Eleven, half-ignoring the customary greeting from the kid behind the counter. Almost automatically, I I retrieved the requested beverages from the refrigerator in the back, and traversed the sticky floor back to the registers. It felt much more familiar than it had any reason to feel.
"A six pack of Pepsi?" asked the fuzzy young man behind the cash register.
"That's what I've got."
"Did you want anything else?"
"Well, what else would you recommend?"
"Ummmm..." he stalled, desperately searching for something to offer me.
"Actually, I'd really appreciate a suggestion. I'm probably not going to enjoy this Pepsi very much. Too gassy, you know?"
Visibly confused, he scratched his head, stuttering finally, "beef jerky?"
"Pardon?"
"Do you want some... beef jerky, I guess?"
"Huh. You know, I think I would like some beef jerky."
"Do you... still want the Pepsi?"
I sighed as I paid the cashier, and began counting the days until summer's end.
I ran into my mom as soon as I got home, though I tried not to make eye contact. It didn't matter: she simply had to know why I was cradling a sixpack of diet Pepsi on the way back to my bedroom. I couldn't blame her for being surprised.
"I don't know. I had a craving? A craving for Pepsi."
"Well, you usually don't crave things like that."
"Yeah, well, weird things happen sometimes."
"By the way," she added, "I put those things back in the box in your closet for you."
My heart stalled. I played it cool. "You did, huh?"
"Yes, I did. Did you want to take any of those things back home with you?"
"Umm... no. No, I definitely don't want anything in that box following me home."
She laughed, probably because it sounded funny. "OK. I'll keep holding onto it for you. Let me know if you change your mind."
Back in my room, I found no strange men lurking in the shadows; only a closed box, sitting in its familiar spot in the closet. None of its contents remained outside, least of all my strange visitor. As relieved as I was, I didn't see myself changing my mind any time soon.
"Asshole," I muttered, placing the box of warm Pepsi cans on the lid of the box, thereby fulfilling my promise to my unwanted house guest. I took one for myself, in a halfhearted and unnecessary display of hospitality. I drank it, and it was warm and gassy and terrible. I'm sure he would have enjoyed it.
I didn't know where John the Box Man had gone, or whether he was telling the truth about his life and adventures. I really couldn't be sure that he was even real, or just the product of a bored imagination. The only way to confirm his existence, opening the box, didn't seem like a very good idea. Now that he was gone, frankly, I found it surprisingly easy to just stop caring. I could go a very, very long time without opening that box again.
After about an hour or so of TV, I felt tired. More tired than usual, actually; I told myself I wasn't feeling well. People can hallucinate when they're under the weather, and I couldn't be happier than to know I'd been hallucinating. I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed, confident once again that I was truly alone.
And after about a minute, I thought better of it, and closed the closet door.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Don't Panic
Something's very, very wrong. Actually, everything's wrong. But some things are more wrong than you can imagine. Broken, warped, twisted and perverse: whatever you want to call it, it's wrong and nothing you can do will make it right.
But don't panic.
You see, it turns out you're wrong too. As part and product of this world, you've evolved to be as twisted and perverse as your distressingly wrong surroundings. You were molded and shaped by them; in essence, you were made for them. Which means that at the very least, you've got a fighting chance. Probably.
So in the words of Douglas Adams, don't panic. You can panic when you're dying.
This is the sort of thing I tell myself when I'm in a foul mood. To be perfectly honest, it's really the sort of thing I tell myself the day after I've been in a foul mood, because at the relevant time I'm usually much too busy thinking up creative ways to be surly and sarcastic to even begin trying to bring myself down to Earth.
And then the next day comes along, and suddenly I just don't feel that way anymore. I'm not even sure why I felt so angry in the first place: I can't really will myself back into that position. All I can do is pat myself on the back and tell myself it's OK now.
Why do that? As much as I've "reassured" myself, I've also gone and justified all of my negative emotions, without getting a better understanding of why I felt them in the first place. I suppose it's easier to live with them if I treat them as mysterious and inevitable.
Oh, I'm sorry. You're still here. Don't panic, I'm alright.
The truth is I don't know why I get these mood swings, or why a perfectly good day can lapse into an evening of irritation and irrational frustration. But I woke up this morning and decided, I'd probably better say something about it, and do it out loud so that other people can hear me. And since I felt anxious and self conscious about standing on the street corner with a megaphone (perhaps this is related?), I chose the more restrained course and said it on my computer.
But you know, today was a pretty good day. I feel good about it, and I feel pretty good about how I spent it. So don't panic. Everything's going to be just fine.
But don't panic.
You see, it turns out you're wrong too. As part and product of this world, you've evolved to be as twisted and perverse as your distressingly wrong surroundings. You were molded and shaped by them; in essence, you were made for them. Which means that at the very least, you've got a fighting chance. Probably.
So in the words of Douglas Adams, don't panic. You can panic when you're dying.
This is the sort of thing I tell myself when I'm in a foul mood. To be perfectly honest, it's really the sort of thing I tell myself the day after I've been in a foul mood, because at the relevant time I'm usually much too busy thinking up creative ways to be surly and sarcastic to even begin trying to bring myself down to Earth.
And then the next day comes along, and suddenly I just don't feel that way anymore. I'm not even sure why I felt so angry in the first place: I can't really will myself back into that position. All I can do is pat myself on the back and tell myself it's OK now.
Why do that? As much as I've "reassured" myself, I've also gone and justified all of my negative emotions, without getting a better understanding of why I felt them in the first place. I suppose it's easier to live with them if I treat them as mysterious and inevitable.
Oh, I'm sorry. You're still here. Don't panic, I'm alright.
The truth is I don't know why I get these mood swings, or why a perfectly good day can lapse into an evening of irritation and irrational frustration. But I woke up this morning and decided, I'd probably better say something about it, and do it out loud so that other people can hear me. And since I felt anxious and self conscious about standing on the street corner with a megaphone (perhaps this is related?), I chose the more restrained course and said it on my computer.
But you know, today was a pretty good day. I feel good about it, and I feel pretty good about how I spent it. So don't panic. Everything's going to be just fine.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Next Great Convention
Let's play pretend for a minute.
Pretend that there is a document, an incredibly old document, written by hand in archaic language by a legendary council of wise men, and proclaimed as a timeless guide to the proper ordering of society. All of the people throughout the land worship the principles enshrined in the ancient charter, so much so that they venerate everything related to it, even the paper it's written on. The words of this document are not only synonymous with law, but with the ideals and values the law is meant to protect.
But you already know I'm talking about the U.S. Constitution, don't you?
Although it may seem eternal, having always existed for as long as liberty has struggled with tyrants, the Constitution has in fact been in operation for no more than two hundred and twenty three years (though its birthday is coming up soon!). This is ancient by international standards, and carries an air of long-standing authority. But compared to the entire political history of the world, the Constitution is only one among many articulated visions of how to run a state, and not necessarily the best possible.
Because it is the Supreme Law of the Land, and not uncommonly capitalized as such, the Constitution's aura is sometimes disconcertingly religious. When a branch or agency of the government does something outside its legal authority, it is properly called "unconstitutional." However, when pronounced in moments of high passion by breathless people, unconstitutional has other, unmistakeable connotations: tyrannical, unconscionable, even evil. When one word deriving its authority from a single document can commonly describe both the random arrest and prosecution of citizens, and the placement of a cemetery cross on Federal land, I think we need to to be extra careful about what the authority of that document actually means.
The Constitution is not an eternal authority. It was written to replace a different constitution that did not work, and was explicitly designed to be amended whenever the nation required it. In theory, it could be replaced by a new constitution (we might even call it the New Constitution) for exactly the same reason.
Our political system is now in dire circumstances. The Constitution has been through worse times and survived, and that is a testament to its fundamental soundness and flexibility. However, its effectiveness as an actual guarantor of liberty is being eroded, bit by bit, as empty words, lip service, and twisted "originalism" have created a political culture that cares more about red, white, and blue than it does about equity and good governance.
Most, if not all, of our problems could be solved by simply amending the Constitution, or even by ordinary statutes. But nothing on that level could push back against the bitter partisanship that stains our system, or diminish the constitutional cults that produce such "timeless values" as States' Rights and Nullification. A new constitution would be controversial and iconoclastic, but it could prove, for the time being, that the life and values of the Republic are determined by the people, and not bound in place across centuries.
__________
Where, Who and How
Article V of the Constitution describes how the document can be amended, either by Congress, or by a convention held at the request of two thirds of the states. The 1787 convention was itself originally intended to merely amend the first constitution, the Articles of Confederation. Therefore, it should be possible to replace the entire current Constitution with a new one at a new convention, provided the requirements of Article V were met. It bears insisting at this point that this scenario is utterly improbable, but as a historian I can't help being fascinated by the possibilities.
Both of the first two constitutions of the United States were written in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the 1770s, Philadelphia was the largest city in the country, as well as its first capital; today, it ranks fifth, and is the capital of nothing. The Founders chose Philadelphia because of its relative importance at the time, and while a city of one and a half million people is nothing to sneeze at, in the present day the capital and the most populous city are Washington and New York, respectively. Should the convention be held in either of these places?
I'd argue against it. Washington is so thoroughly politicized that anything placed there would almost certainly be poisoned. New York isn't much better: between the two of them, you get a half a dozen anger-inspiring buzzwords like Wall Street, the United Nations, and East Coast Elites. Philadelphia has history and the Liberty Bell going for it, so it remains the most appropriate setting.
And who should be trusted to sit in the now air conditioned seats of Independence Hall? This is undoubtedly the most critical question of the entire process. Contrary to the mythologizing of later eras, the authors of the present Constitution were just as regional, partisan, and ill-tempered as the politicians of the present day. The critical difference, of course, was the small handful of men present who commanded enough respect to force the others to behave civilly and make compromises. But even with luminaries like George Washington and Benjamin Franklin at the head of the table, their work was still derided as treasonous by uncompromising people like Patrick Henry.
It sounds ridiculous to even contemplate it: there is no living person in American politics with even half the reputation that George Washington had in his own time. No politician has anything close to that kind of gravitas and bipartisan support. In fact, the whole enterprise might be more successful if we entrusted it to some relative unknowns; moderate state senators, respected legal scholars, and other qualified people who don't get enough time on TV to be rejected out of hand by one side or another.
Finally, such a convention would have to be left to work under extremely strict conditions. The delegates would have to be kept strictly separate from the public, particularly lobbyists and members of the news media. There is a good reason that the 1787 convention was conducted with closed windows in stifling heat. Leaks of controversial ideas to the press, in the age of the Internet, would have immediate and catastrophic effects on the ability of the delegates to work earnestly. It would encourage the kind of showboating and dramatic obstructionism that thrives in today's media, distorting and probably ruining the entire process. Forbidding the intrusion of cameras might even keep the most irrational and extremist voices out of the delegations; people like that are usually more interested in pandering to their supporters than in winning over other committee members.
__________
The New Constitution
I don't intend to do this imaginary convention's work for them, but I wouldn't be suggesting this idea if I didn't have a few thoughts of my own about what should go in the New Constitution. My ideas aren't necessarily a radical departure from the current charter; I genuinely believe the U.S. Constitution is in theory one of the best governing documents ever written. The institutions it creates are in many respects worth preserving, and the three branch structure is inherent to our political tradition. All of them, however, could use some work.
As a liberal, my ideas of how things should be are of course informed by my ideology. If you are a liberal, my suggestions may (or may not) seem very sensible. If you are a conservative, and you haven't already stopped reading in disgust at my blasphemies, you may see my ideas as a Trojan horse designed to create an enduring liberal stranglehold on the government. Cut me a little slack on that, and I promise not to be too savage about your constituency's support of constitutional bans on flag burning and gay marriage. Anyway, I have a few modest proposals that I think would have a dramatically positive effect on the way this country does business:
1) The term of a member of the House of Representatives should be extended to four years, coterminous with the term of the President. Elections to the Senate should continue to be held every two years.
2) The statutory limit of 435 members for the House should be abolished, with the population (at each ten-year census) of the least populous state taken as the average size for all Congressional districts.
3) Congressional rules (such as the Senate's filibuster) which impose super-majority requirements on the passage of legislation or the confirmation of judges and other officials should not be permitted.
4) The District of Columbia should be abolished, with the land that it now occupies being ceded back to Maryland, and all its residents becoming residents of Maryland.
5) The war-making powers of the Congress should be more explicitly defined to include formal authorization for all offensive actions outside of the borders of the United States.
6) The annual budget of the combined branches of the military should not exceed twenty per cent of the total tax revenue for any given year. No other part of the budget should be similarly restricted.
7) The "personhood" status of corporations and other entities consisting of multiple individuals should be renamed and redefined as legally distinct from natural personhood, and exclude certain rights such as freedom of speech which naturally belong to individuals, while including certain rights such as freedom of the press which naturally belong to organizations as well.
8) The right of workers to formally organize and bargain collectively should be recognized, and job discrimination based on union membership prohibited.
9) The language of the proposed Equal Rights Amendment, banning legal discrimination against people of one sex or another, should be adopted.
10) The organization of political parties above the state level should be abolished.
11) The drawing of Congressional districts should be assigned to nonpartisan (not "bi-partisan") committees, rather than state legislatures.
12) The Electoral College should be abolished, and the President and Vice President should be elected by nationwide popular vote.
13) The President should be required to personally address and respond to each house of Congress at least four times in a year.
14) The Supreme court should be constitutionally defined as composed of nine members. The terms of federal judges, as well as Justices of the Supreme Court, should be reduced from life to eighteen years. They should be divided into three classes and reappointed or replaced at six year intervals, with reappointment set as a default.
15) The principle of judicial review should be officially codified.
16) The death penalty should be abolished at the federal level.
17) The individual's personal right to privacy should be officially acknowledged and protected.
Most of the amendments to the current U.S. Constitution should be copied or essentially paraphrased into the main text of the New Constitution: specifically, all except the 12th, 18th, 21st, and 23rd, which are either superfluous or already addressed by changes I mentioned above. The rights and protections provided by the New Constitution should be explicitly guaranteed by the states as well as the federal government. As for the 2nd Amendment, it should be rewritten so as to allow states to regulate the sale and use of weapons to convicted criminals, minors, and the psychologically unbalanced, and the federal government to regulate the formation and activities of mercenary armies and militias.
Finally, many important pieces of Supreme Court precedent should be explicitly codified in the New Constitution. While many such doctrines may be valuable, the most important should be the recognition that secession is not legally possible, and that no state legislature (or majority of state legislatures) may invalidate or "nullify" a federal law. All current state and federal laws and regulations not in conflict with any sections of the New Constitution would remain in effect.
I do not really have the space or time to provide a detailed rationale for each of these suggestions: doing any one of them justice would require a lengthy article. However, I'd be more than willing to discuss any of these with anyone, along with any good ideas I might have missed.
__________
Justification
I don't have any illusions about the feasibility of most of my proposed changes, or even the calling of a new convention at all. Likewise, I don't regard all of my suggestions as being of equal gravity, nor do I regard them collectively as a cure for all the country's ills. Our protracted natural sickness is a consequence of our history and culture, and most of all our tendency to take our positive attributes for granted as they erode beneath us. Wrapping so many controversial changes in an omnibus overhaul, in an atmosphere of such intense partisan deadlock, is a bleak proposition.
All of my proposed changes pertain to a small number of goals: to increase and protect the rights of individual citizens, to make the three branches of government more representative and accountable, and to reduce the influence of corporations and entrenched national political parties on the governing process. These are my priorities, and any concrete changes that went toward achieving them would please me greatly, even if a few of my specific ideas were rejected.
The U.S. Constitution is the heart of a system that is outlasting its usefulness as a living structure. If we transplanted that heart, in the spirit of 1787, we would do more than rectify a few systemic errors: we would force the evolution of a new system. No one could predict what would spring forth, and it may well be that in two hundred years we'll only have another dragon to slay. But it would be a different dragon, and we'd have a handy precedent with which to attack it.
I understand that my specific suggestions, and even the broad basis of my argument to replace the Constitution, stab into an ancient and sensitive cultural divide. Many Americans believe fervently in principles which I have denounced and wished to abolish in this article. My drawing a line in the sand is not going to earn either their agreement or their respect. But I can't argue for anything other than what I believe is right. It's the function of compromise to make the best in ideas come to life, and it is the spirit of compromise that I wish above all to restore.
Pretend that there is a document, an incredibly old document, written by hand in archaic language by a legendary council of wise men, and proclaimed as a timeless guide to the proper ordering of society. All of the people throughout the land worship the principles enshrined in the ancient charter, so much so that they venerate everything related to it, even the paper it's written on. The words of this document are not only synonymous with law, but with the ideals and values the law is meant to protect.
But you already know I'm talking about the U.S. Constitution, don't you?
Although it may seem eternal, having always existed for as long as liberty has struggled with tyrants, the Constitution has in fact been in operation for no more than two hundred and twenty three years (though its birthday is coming up soon!). This is ancient by international standards, and carries an air of long-standing authority. But compared to the entire political history of the world, the Constitution is only one among many articulated visions of how to run a state, and not necessarily the best possible.
Because it is the Supreme Law of the Land, and not uncommonly capitalized as such, the Constitution's aura is sometimes disconcertingly religious. When a branch or agency of the government does something outside its legal authority, it is properly called "unconstitutional." However, when pronounced in moments of high passion by breathless people, unconstitutional has other, unmistakeable connotations: tyrannical, unconscionable, even evil. When one word deriving its authority from a single document can commonly describe both the random arrest and prosecution of citizens, and the placement of a cemetery cross on Federal land, I think we need to to be extra careful about what the authority of that document actually means.
The Constitution is not an eternal authority. It was written to replace a different constitution that did not work, and was explicitly designed to be amended whenever the nation required it. In theory, it could be replaced by a new constitution (we might even call it the New Constitution) for exactly the same reason.
Our political system is now in dire circumstances. The Constitution has been through worse times and survived, and that is a testament to its fundamental soundness and flexibility. However, its effectiveness as an actual guarantor of liberty is being eroded, bit by bit, as empty words, lip service, and twisted "originalism" have created a political culture that cares more about red, white, and blue than it does about equity and good governance.
Most, if not all, of our problems could be solved by simply amending the Constitution, or even by ordinary statutes. But nothing on that level could push back against the bitter partisanship that stains our system, or diminish the constitutional cults that produce such "timeless values" as States' Rights and Nullification. A new constitution would be controversial and iconoclastic, but it could prove, for the time being, that the life and values of the Republic are determined by the people, and not bound in place across centuries.
__________
Where, Who and How
Article V of the Constitution describes how the document can be amended, either by Congress, or by a convention held at the request of two thirds of the states. The 1787 convention was itself originally intended to merely amend the first constitution, the Articles of Confederation. Therefore, it should be possible to replace the entire current Constitution with a new one at a new convention, provided the requirements of Article V were met. It bears insisting at this point that this scenario is utterly improbable, but as a historian I can't help being fascinated by the possibilities.
Both of the first two constitutions of the United States were written in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the 1770s, Philadelphia was the largest city in the country, as well as its first capital; today, it ranks fifth, and is the capital of nothing. The Founders chose Philadelphia because of its relative importance at the time, and while a city of one and a half million people is nothing to sneeze at, in the present day the capital and the most populous city are Washington and New York, respectively. Should the convention be held in either of these places?
I'd argue against it. Washington is so thoroughly politicized that anything placed there would almost certainly be poisoned. New York isn't much better: between the two of them, you get a half a dozen anger-inspiring buzzwords like Wall Street, the United Nations, and East Coast Elites. Philadelphia has history and the Liberty Bell going for it, so it remains the most appropriate setting.
And who should be trusted to sit in the now air conditioned seats of Independence Hall? This is undoubtedly the most critical question of the entire process. Contrary to the mythologizing of later eras, the authors of the present Constitution were just as regional, partisan, and ill-tempered as the politicians of the present day. The critical difference, of course, was the small handful of men present who commanded enough respect to force the others to behave civilly and make compromises. But even with luminaries like George Washington and Benjamin Franklin at the head of the table, their work was still derided as treasonous by uncompromising people like Patrick Henry.
It sounds ridiculous to even contemplate it: there is no living person in American politics with even half the reputation that George Washington had in his own time. No politician has anything close to that kind of gravitas and bipartisan support. In fact, the whole enterprise might be more successful if we entrusted it to some relative unknowns; moderate state senators, respected legal scholars, and other qualified people who don't get enough time on TV to be rejected out of hand by one side or another.
Finally, such a convention would have to be left to work under extremely strict conditions. The delegates would have to be kept strictly separate from the public, particularly lobbyists and members of the news media. There is a good reason that the 1787 convention was conducted with closed windows in stifling heat. Leaks of controversial ideas to the press, in the age of the Internet, would have immediate and catastrophic effects on the ability of the delegates to work earnestly. It would encourage the kind of showboating and dramatic obstructionism that thrives in today's media, distorting and probably ruining the entire process. Forbidding the intrusion of cameras might even keep the most irrational and extremist voices out of the delegations; people like that are usually more interested in pandering to their supporters than in winning over other committee members.
__________
The New Constitution
I don't intend to do this imaginary convention's work for them, but I wouldn't be suggesting this idea if I didn't have a few thoughts of my own about what should go in the New Constitution. My ideas aren't necessarily a radical departure from the current charter; I genuinely believe the U.S. Constitution is in theory one of the best governing documents ever written. The institutions it creates are in many respects worth preserving, and the three branch structure is inherent to our political tradition. All of them, however, could use some work.
As a liberal, my ideas of how things should be are of course informed by my ideology. If you are a liberal, my suggestions may (or may not) seem very sensible. If you are a conservative, and you haven't already stopped reading in disgust at my blasphemies, you may see my ideas as a Trojan horse designed to create an enduring liberal stranglehold on the government. Cut me a little slack on that, and I promise not to be too savage about your constituency's support of constitutional bans on flag burning and gay marriage. Anyway, I have a few modest proposals that I think would have a dramatically positive effect on the way this country does business:
1) The term of a member of the House of Representatives should be extended to four years, coterminous with the term of the President. Elections to the Senate should continue to be held every two years.
2) The statutory limit of 435 members for the House should be abolished, with the population (at each ten-year census) of the least populous state taken as the average size for all Congressional districts.
3) Congressional rules (such as the Senate's filibuster) which impose super-majority requirements on the passage of legislation or the confirmation of judges and other officials should not be permitted.
4) The District of Columbia should be abolished, with the land that it now occupies being ceded back to Maryland, and all its residents becoming residents of Maryland.
5) The war-making powers of the Congress should be more explicitly defined to include formal authorization for all offensive actions outside of the borders of the United States.
6) The annual budget of the combined branches of the military should not exceed twenty per cent of the total tax revenue for any given year. No other part of the budget should be similarly restricted.
7) The "personhood" status of corporations and other entities consisting of multiple individuals should be renamed and redefined as legally distinct from natural personhood, and exclude certain rights such as freedom of speech which naturally belong to individuals, while including certain rights such as freedom of the press which naturally belong to organizations as well.
8) The right of workers to formally organize and bargain collectively should be recognized, and job discrimination based on union membership prohibited.
9) The language of the proposed Equal Rights Amendment, banning legal discrimination against people of one sex or another, should be adopted.
10) The organization of political parties above the state level should be abolished.
11) The drawing of Congressional districts should be assigned to nonpartisan (not "bi-partisan") committees, rather than state legislatures.
12) The Electoral College should be abolished, and the President and Vice President should be elected by nationwide popular vote.
13) The President should be required to personally address and respond to each house of Congress at least four times in a year.
14) The Supreme court should be constitutionally defined as composed of nine members. The terms of federal judges, as well as Justices of the Supreme Court, should be reduced from life to eighteen years. They should be divided into three classes and reappointed or replaced at six year intervals, with reappointment set as a default.
15) The principle of judicial review should be officially codified.
16) The death penalty should be abolished at the federal level.
17) The individual's personal right to privacy should be officially acknowledged and protected.
Most of the amendments to the current U.S. Constitution should be copied or essentially paraphrased into the main text of the New Constitution: specifically, all except the 12th, 18th, 21st, and 23rd, which are either superfluous or already addressed by changes I mentioned above. The rights and protections provided by the New Constitution should be explicitly guaranteed by the states as well as the federal government. As for the 2nd Amendment, it should be rewritten so as to allow states to regulate the sale and use of weapons to convicted criminals, minors, and the psychologically unbalanced, and the federal government to regulate the formation and activities of mercenary armies and militias.
Finally, many important pieces of Supreme Court precedent should be explicitly codified in the New Constitution. While many such doctrines may be valuable, the most important should be the recognition that secession is not legally possible, and that no state legislature (or majority of state legislatures) may invalidate or "nullify" a federal law. All current state and federal laws and regulations not in conflict with any sections of the New Constitution would remain in effect.
I do not really have the space or time to provide a detailed rationale for each of these suggestions: doing any one of them justice would require a lengthy article. However, I'd be more than willing to discuss any of these with anyone, along with any good ideas I might have missed.
__________
Justification
I don't have any illusions about the feasibility of most of my proposed changes, or even the calling of a new convention at all. Likewise, I don't regard all of my suggestions as being of equal gravity, nor do I regard them collectively as a cure for all the country's ills. Our protracted natural sickness is a consequence of our history and culture, and most of all our tendency to take our positive attributes for granted as they erode beneath us. Wrapping so many controversial changes in an omnibus overhaul, in an atmosphere of such intense partisan deadlock, is a bleak proposition.
All of my proposed changes pertain to a small number of goals: to increase and protect the rights of individual citizens, to make the three branches of government more representative and accountable, and to reduce the influence of corporations and entrenched national political parties on the governing process. These are my priorities, and any concrete changes that went toward achieving them would please me greatly, even if a few of my specific ideas were rejected.
The U.S. Constitution is the heart of a system that is outlasting its usefulness as a living structure. If we transplanted that heart, in the spirit of 1787, we would do more than rectify a few systemic errors: we would force the evolution of a new system. No one could predict what would spring forth, and it may well be that in two hundred years we'll only have another dragon to slay. But it would be a different dragon, and we'd have a handy precedent with which to attack it.
I understand that my specific suggestions, and even the broad basis of my argument to replace the Constitution, stab into an ancient and sensitive cultural divide. Many Americans believe fervently in principles which I have denounced and wished to abolish in this article. My drawing a line in the sand is not going to earn either their agreement or their respect. But I can't argue for anything other than what I believe is right. It's the function of compromise to make the best in ideas come to life, and it is the spirit of compromise that I wish above all to restore.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Idle Threats and Politics
America, we need to have a talk.
We need to have a talk about your rampant insanity.
I want you to know right off the bat that I don't consider this entirely your fault. The world, as usual, is up to its poles in crazy. Between the wars, the terrorism, the climate change, and the continuing mass of delusion that is the global economy, our little space pebble is writing itself quite a depressing stretch of history. Assuming there's anyone left to look back on all this, they won't be calling this a golden age for planet Earth.
But does that get you off the hook? See, that's the problem, America: it's exactly that kind of thinking that's put you on the hook in the first place. You seem to think that you can be as crazy as a headless loon and still command the respect of the world, as long as you're rocking the most kick-ass theme music. It is precisely because of that sort of attitude that, in spite of our tremendous wealth, we cannot have nice things. Things like equality, justice, and a moment's peace from the squabbling of an entitled political class.
For as long as I can remember (and probably longer than that), the political process has been marked by an impossibly endless regression. Every time I get used to a sub-par status quo, a new one comes along to make me yearn for the days when I was merely "uncomfortable." And now I have to sit and consider whether the liberal, progressive President I voted for in 2008 is cynically enabling the gibbering zealots of the dreaded opposition in order to look better by comparison? It's giving me a terrible, terrible head ache.
America, I live about four hundred miles from the Canadian border. Yes, the Canadian border; beyond which lies an enchanted fairyland of delicious pancakes and unfailingly polite lumberjacks, and a system of healthcare that is more concerned with serving its purpose than with keeping up appearances. What a delicious, maple syrup-covered border it is.
Am I threatening to move to Canada, like so many liberals have threatened before? Threat is such a strong word. I'm merely reminding you, America, that Canada is right there. It wouldn't be hard. A couple of forms to fill out, a crash course in French, and a new wardrobe of beaver pelt coats. It would be weird having a monarch all of a sudden, but it's my understanding that Canadians don't really pay attention to her. I think I could handle that.
So why don't I go? Honestly, I still like you, America. In spite of all the rage you inspire in the blackest depths of my heart, your potential for true greatness is blindingly obvious. You may have to slip down a few notches before you see how far you have to climb. You may have to stumble around the woods for a while before you take off the damned blindfold. But one day, you'll grow up, take off the tea party hat, and act like the responsible and benevolent nation state you were always meant to be.
If worse comes to worse, I could always try and have it both ways and move to the socialist paradise of Alaska. In Alaska, I could continue to salute Old Glory every morning, while still enjoying the hearty Canadian lifestyle of wrestling polar bears and living off the government teat. Somewhere in the Great Frozen North lies the American Dream.
We need to have a talk about your rampant insanity.
I want you to know right off the bat that I don't consider this entirely your fault. The world, as usual, is up to its poles in crazy. Between the wars, the terrorism, the climate change, and the continuing mass of delusion that is the global economy, our little space pebble is writing itself quite a depressing stretch of history. Assuming there's anyone left to look back on all this, they won't be calling this a golden age for planet Earth.
But does that get you off the hook? See, that's the problem, America: it's exactly that kind of thinking that's put you on the hook in the first place. You seem to think that you can be as crazy as a headless loon and still command the respect of the world, as long as you're rocking the most kick-ass theme music. It is precisely because of that sort of attitude that, in spite of our tremendous wealth, we cannot have nice things. Things like equality, justice, and a moment's peace from the squabbling of an entitled political class.
For as long as I can remember (and probably longer than that), the political process has been marked by an impossibly endless regression. Every time I get used to a sub-par status quo, a new one comes along to make me yearn for the days when I was merely "uncomfortable." And now I have to sit and consider whether the liberal, progressive President I voted for in 2008 is cynically enabling the gibbering zealots of the dreaded opposition in order to look better by comparison? It's giving me a terrible, terrible head ache.
America, I live about four hundred miles from the Canadian border. Yes, the Canadian border; beyond which lies an enchanted fairyland of delicious pancakes and unfailingly polite lumberjacks, and a system of healthcare that is more concerned with serving its purpose than with keeping up appearances. What a delicious, maple syrup-covered border it is.
Am I threatening to move to Canada, like so many liberals have threatened before? Threat is such a strong word. I'm merely reminding you, America, that Canada is right there. It wouldn't be hard. A couple of forms to fill out, a crash course in French, and a new wardrobe of beaver pelt coats. It would be weird having a monarch all of a sudden, but it's my understanding that Canadians don't really pay attention to her. I think I could handle that.
So why don't I go? Honestly, I still like you, America. In spite of all the rage you inspire in the blackest depths of my heart, your potential for true greatness is blindingly obvious. You may have to slip down a few notches before you see how far you have to climb. You may have to stumble around the woods for a while before you take off the damned blindfold. But one day, you'll grow up, take off the tea party hat, and act like the responsible and benevolent nation state you were always meant to be.
If worse comes to worse, I could always try and have it both ways and move to the socialist paradise of Alaska. In Alaska, I could continue to salute Old Glory every morning, while still enjoying the hearty Canadian lifestyle of wrestling polar bears and living off the government teat. Somewhere in the Great Frozen North lies the American Dream.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Poetry Jam #7
Writing poetry is a diverse exercise. Sometimes you have a feeling or idea that you just have to get out however you can. Sometimes you have a theoretical approach you want to try out. Sometimes, your brain is just in a really weird place. I write with a number of goals in mind, and sometimes I can succeed in one while failing miserably at others. But I hope I'm growing, because I've come to have a deeper understanding of my own work. These are my most successful poems from approximately June of 2010 to February of 2011, a time when I learned many things and experienced great changes in my personal life.
There are fewer here than in the last entry: the next several poems form a single unit in my mind, and I'd rather hold them off for the next round.
Sideways, Under, or Above
How high did you fly?
You said you were never airborne;
Well, why did you lie?
You said you were under orders
And you couldn't overcome them,
Sideways, under, or above them,
There was no way out of there.
What did he see in you,
What do you want to do,
What did he promise you,
Where are you going to?
You might walk the world forever,
Would you ever walk that far?
Where were you today?
You said he was underhanded;
Well, where will you stay?
You said you were undecided,
You were somewhere in the ocean,
Sideways, under, or above him,
You were stuck inside his skull.
Undying Girl
The last undying girl seduced by life
Was taken from the forest in the night;
In wood and earth she lived apart from time,
And spoke alike to oak and fir and pine
Of fire, lightning, flood and pouring rain,
Yet how the forest and the girl remained.
As one came walking through the buzzing woods
She spied him, and between the trees she stood
In waiting, watching at his every move,
Until he came upon the frigid pool
And placed aside his dirty walking clothes;
He rubbed his hands, and held his breath, and dove.
She watched him swim, and watched him come to shore
Exhausted, stunned, and frozen to his core;
She saw him stand and gasp in vain for air
And run those trembling fingers through his hair,
But soon he left behind those icy stones
And left her, dying, shaking through her bones
She lived a final lifetime's worth of years
In cities built of iron beams and tears;
She cried, and tried to find the one she knew,
But never found him; close her evening drew,
And soon was laid to rest in mournful death,
The last undying girl's immortal breath.
Ode to Chipmunk
Little chipmunk, do not run
But stay beside the fire pit
And no one here will do you harm;
Your being here is cause for joy,
Your living is a cause for hope
That we ourselves may yet enjoy
The freedom that we overlook;
Little chipmunk, do not flee
Before the flame and blowing smoke:
We have them both in our control.
By the Fire
We gather here to burn these
For the sake of our desires,
Planks of wood and logs and other things
Consumed within the fire
While we sit and stare upon the flames
In silence, we're inspired
As we sit and feel our faces burnt
Alive around the fire.
The Collision
Faster, faster,
I can't help it,
I can't stop it
I am coming
Down the highway,
You are small, you
Are not moving
Fast enough to
Get away; I
Think I may have
Run you down, I
Think I may have
Broken you, and
Now you cannot
Even quiver,
Broken and no
Longer breathing;
I can't help it,
I am coming,
You aren't moving.
Fragment
The words have never come easily,
And the people ambling down the street
Have never been more inscrutable;
I think the last one wore a broken dress shoe
And his toes were touching the sidewalk grime,
But he didn't seem to notice it at the time.
What the Older Woman Said to Me
An older woman said to me
She had a pretty tale to tell
About a kind of happy world
Across the universal sea.
"A heaven is an airy place
Above the peaks and clouds and stars
Where everyone is open-eyed
And floats around in empty space."
"Send me there at once," I said,
"I cannot stand another day
Of waiting in a little box
Until the day when I am dead."
"A heaven is a lofty earth,"
She said to me, and then she left,
And I have never earned the right
To land in such a lovely berth.
Waking Dream
My happiness is just a dream,
My sorrow is the same, a waking
Nightmare dreamt throughout the night
And lived without lucidity,
The softness of a gentle skin
Is gone, as it had never been,
Had never been a loving touch,
Had never been a chilling wind,
A presence pressing on my chest
And pressing on my face a kiss
Evaporates into the air
Come morning; I may have no rest
In neither day nor darling night
Because my heart upsets my mind
And keeps my life a waking dream,
An emptiness of sense and sight;
Behold my heart upon my door:
It will not beat forever, for
It waits until a dream comes true
And will not let me sleep before.
__________
Sideways is an odd poem for me because I had the rhythmic idea for it long before I decided what kind of story the words were going to tell. I think that story is still pretty open ended. There is another stanza to it, but it wasn't very good, so I ended up cannibalizing parts of it to improve the third stanza. Flexibility is key here.
I wrote Undying Girl under a peculiar set of influences. For one, I had just read Tom Shippey's book, The Road to Middle Earth. In it, Shippey mentions some speculation by J.R.R. Tolkien about fairy tales. The main idea is that stories about elves and fairies often have in common the theme of a human being seduced away from mortal lands to a place without death and time, because death and time are always around us. The speculation was that if elves and fairies existed, and if they told stories about us, then their stories would likely be about going off to the mortal world and suddenly becoming bound the passage of time. That is, more or less, exactly the premise of my poem.
My other main influence was a camping trip with some friends to the head of the McKenzie river. There's a beautiful blue pool where the water comes out from the ground, and the pool itself is nearly inaccessible (you basically have to climb down a cliff) and very, very cold. It provided the visuals in my mind: if I were better at this, you could see it more clearly as you read the poem. Anyway, I don't consider this one an unqualified success. The rhyming is terrible, but I intended to do this one in "heroic verse" and I wasn't going to let the pain of a few half-rhymes stand in my way.
Ode to Chipmunk and By the Fire were both written on that same trip. I like Chipmunk a lot, because it constantly threatens to rhyme but rarely does: that was actually intentional, whereas the bad rhyming on Undying Girl was just bad luck. Fire has a dash of irony in it, and irony is just delicious.
The Collision was kind of a thrill to write, because I was determined to continue writing it until I reached an end point that seemed natural with the meter. The trick is that a short trochaic meter almost always anticipates another line, so writing it (and hopefully, reading it) was similar in sensation to riding a runaway train. Unfortunately, it's based on a true event. As I was driving from Eugene to San Francisco on my way home for the summer, I saw a bird fly low in front of my car, and I'm about 90% sure that I hit it. I wrote the poem that night, because I couldn't stop thinking about the bird. There's not much you can do when you're going seventy miles an hour down the freeway and something pops up only a car length ahead of you, but I still felt bad about it.
"Fragment" is not a title, it's a description. I have no idea why or when I wrote it or what it was supposed to be. I only know it's from the same time as these because it's in the same color ink. But oddly enough, I like it. I assume it's a poem, so here it is.
Last fall I was student teaching, and I didn't do a lot of poetry writing as a result. But then I met a girl, and meeting girls has a way of getting that poetry impulse poppin'. I've already posted most of those poems, but there are a couple of others that weren't exactly a part of the project. Older Woman was written more or less immediately after the break up, and Waking Dream at a few months removed. In fact, it's less about any specific relationship and more about relationships in general. The ending was originally much more depressing, but then I smacked myself for being silly and wrote something a little closer to how I actually felt.
There are fewer here than in the last entry: the next several poems form a single unit in my mind, and I'd rather hold them off for the next round.
Sideways, Under, or Above
How high did you fly?
You said you were never airborne;
Well, why did you lie?
You said you were under orders
And you couldn't overcome them,
Sideways, under, or above them,
There was no way out of there.
What did he see in you,
What do you want to do,
What did he promise you,
Where are you going to?
You might walk the world forever,
Would you ever walk that far?
Where were you today?
You said he was underhanded;
Well, where will you stay?
You said you were undecided,
You were somewhere in the ocean,
Sideways, under, or above him,
You were stuck inside his skull.
Undying Girl
The last undying girl seduced by life
Was taken from the forest in the night;
In wood and earth she lived apart from time,
And spoke alike to oak and fir and pine
Of fire, lightning, flood and pouring rain,
Yet how the forest and the girl remained.
As one came walking through the buzzing woods
She spied him, and between the trees she stood
In waiting, watching at his every move,
Until he came upon the frigid pool
And placed aside his dirty walking clothes;
He rubbed his hands, and held his breath, and dove.
She watched him swim, and watched him come to shore
Exhausted, stunned, and frozen to his core;
She saw him stand and gasp in vain for air
And run those trembling fingers through his hair,
But soon he left behind those icy stones
And left her, dying, shaking through her bones
She lived a final lifetime's worth of years
In cities built of iron beams and tears;
She cried, and tried to find the one she knew,
But never found him; close her evening drew,
And soon was laid to rest in mournful death,
The last undying girl's immortal breath.
Ode to Chipmunk
Little chipmunk, do not run
But stay beside the fire pit
And no one here will do you harm;
Your being here is cause for joy,
Your living is a cause for hope
That we ourselves may yet enjoy
The freedom that we overlook;
Little chipmunk, do not flee
Before the flame and blowing smoke:
We have them both in our control.
By the Fire
We gather here to burn these
For the sake of our desires,
Planks of wood and logs and other things
Consumed within the fire
While we sit and stare upon the flames
In silence, we're inspired
As we sit and feel our faces burnt
Alive around the fire.
The Collision
Faster, faster,
I can't help it,
I can't stop it
I am coming
Down the highway,
You are small, you
Are not moving
Fast enough to
Get away; I
Think I may have
Run you down, I
Think I may have
Broken you, and
Now you cannot
Even quiver,
Broken and no
Longer breathing;
I can't help it,
I am coming,
You aren't moving.
Fragment
The words have never come easily,
And the people ambling down the street
Have never been more inscrutable;
I think the last one wore a broken dress shoe
And his toes were touching the sidewalk grime,
But he didn't seem to notice it at the time.
What the Older Woman Said to Me
An older woman said to me
She had a pretty tale to tell
About a kind of happy world
Across the universal sea.
"A heaven is an airy place
Above the peaks and clouds and stars
Where everyone is open-eyed
And floats around in empty space."
"Send me there at once," I said,
"I cannot stand another day
Of waiting in a little box
Until the day when I am dead."
"A heaven is a lofty earth,"
She said to me, and then she left,
And I have never earned the right
To land in such a lovely berth.
Waking Dream
My happiness is just a dream,
My sorrow is the same, a waking
Nightmare dreamt throughout the night
And lived without lucidity,
The softness of a gentle skin
Is gone, as it had never been,
Had never been a loving touch,
Had never been a chilling wind,
A presence pressing on my chest
And pressing on my face a kiss
Evaporates into the air
Come morning; I may have no rest
In neither day nor darling night
Because my heart upsets my mind
And keeps my life a waking dream,
An emptiness of sense and sight;
Behold my heart upon my door:
It will not beat forever, for
It waits until a dream comes true
And will not let me sleep before.
__________
Sideways is an odd poem for me because I had the rhythmic idea for it long before I decided what kind of story the words were going to tell. I think that story is still pretty open ended. There is another stanza to it, but it wasn't very good, so I ended up cannibalizing parts of it to improve the third stanza. Flexibility is key here.
I wrote Undying Girl under a peculiar set of influences. For one, I had just read Tom Shippey's book, The Road to Middle Earth. In it, Shippey mentions some speculation by J.R.R. Tolkien about fairy tales. The main idea is that stories about elves and fairies often have in common the theme of a human being seduced away from mortal lands to a place without death and time, because death and time are always around us. The speculation was that if elves and fairies existed, and if they told stories about us, then their stories would likely be about going off to the mortal world and suddenly becoming bound the passage of time. That is, more or less, exactly the premise of my poem.
My other main influence was a camping trip with some friends to the head of the McKenzie river. There's a beautiful blue pool where the water comes out from the ground, and the pool itself is nearly inaccessible (you basically have to climb down a cliff) and very, very cold. It provided the visuals in my mind: if I were better at this, you could see it more clearly as you read the poem. Anyway, I don't consider this one an unqualified success. The rhyming is terrible, but I intended to do this one in "heroic verse" and I wasn't going to let the pain of a few half-rhymes stand in my way.
Ode to Chipmunk and By the Fire were both written on that same trip. I like Chipmunk a lot, because it constantly threatens to rhyme but rarely does: that was actually intentional, whereas the bad rhyming on Undying Girl was just bad luck. Fire has a dash of irony in it, and irony is just delicious.
The Collision was kind of a thrill to write, because I was determined to continue writing it until I reached an end point that seemed natural with the meter. The trick is that a short trochaic meter almost always anticipates another line, so writing it (and hopefully, reading it) was similar in sensation to riding a runaway train. Unfortunately, it's based on a true event. As I was driving from Eugene to San Francisco on my way home for the summer, I saw a bird fly low in front of my car, and I'm about 90% sure that I hit it. I wrote the poem that night, because I couldn't stop thinking about the bird. There's not much you can do when you're going seventy miles an hour down the freeway and something pops up only a car length ahead of you, but I still felt bad about it.
"Fragment" is not a title, it's a description. I have no idea why or when I wrote it or what it was supposed to be. I only know it's from the same time as these because it's in the same color ink. But oddly enough, I like it. I assume it's a poem, so here it is.
Last fall I was student teaching, and I didn't do a lot of poetry writing as a result. But then I met a girl, and meeting girls has a way of getting that poetry impulse poppin'. I've already posted most of those poems, but there are a couple of others that weren't exactly a part of the project. Older Woman was written more or less immediately after the break up, and Waking Dream at a few months removed. In fact, it's less about any specific relationship and more about relationships in general. The ending was originally much more depressing, but then I smacked myself for being silly and wrote something a little closer to how I actually felt.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
One Hundred Posts!
...but not quite yet.
Sometimes I have a tendency to generalize my world view, and assume that everyone else sees life in more or less the same way that I do. Readers are welcome to call me out when I do this; I am always interested in cataloging evidence of my own insanity. One day they will be collected in an eccentric autobiography, along with an apology for not having lived a more hilarious and salacious life.
In any case, it seems to me that people have a complicated relationship with finite amounts. It's often said that humans are incapable of understanding infinity, thus providing justification for religion and philosophy and all of the wonderful mysteries of life, the universe and everything. But I think that above a certain basic level, finity (which I hereby declare is a word) is equally perplexing, if not more so.
Assigning precise values to very large numbers is conceptually very simple, but the practical difficulties involved make the whole process appear random and arbitrary. Statistics are very funny things: they simultaneously communicate very specific information (an amount or percentage) and very general, non-specific information ("a lot" or "a little"), and the extent to which a person absorbs either or both messages depends on familiarity with the subject.
For example, there are presently about three hundred and twenty seven million television sets in the United States (or at least there were in 2008). That seems like a lot, and it is, considering there aren't that many people in the United States. This information is useless to most people, but it carries practical information for others. Suppose you were a radical anti-TV activist, and you made it your life's work to swing a baseball bat into every television screen in the country. Unless you had help from similarly deranged accomplices, this statistic carries a sobering fact: you would have to smash a line drive into a TV some exact number between 326,000,000 and 328,000,000 times. Only then would your mission be complete, having guaranteed the wholesome purity of our national culture, as well as our precious bodily fluids.
You couldn't stop at one hundred and call it a day. You couldn't stop at a thousand and say you'd made your point. You couldn't stop at two thousand either: either amount would be covered by more or less the same report on the national news (which could still be seen on anywhere between 326,999,000 and 326,998,000 TVs). No, to truly accomplish your goal, you'd have to accomplish an extremely large and extremely exact feat of crazy.
I think comprehending anything as huge as 327,000,000 swings of a Louisville Slugger (along with a very thorough cross-country trek) is simply beyond the human mind. I wonder if a typical baseball player could even take that many swings in a professional career. But it's a very specific, very finite number that represents a very specific, finite task.
I have a point: it's not very interesting, but it's still a point. This is my ninety ninth post on this blog, and that number caught me completely by surprise. On the one hand it seems too high, because I clearly recall my frequent periods of inactivity, and forget all the shorter, insignificant posts in contrast to the ones with substantial content. On the other hand it seems too low, since I've been at this over two years and you'd think they'd add up faster than that. Ninety nine is comparatively small in the cosmic sense, but it's the kind of exact, finite number that I really can't make sense of.
Anyway, since my next post is going to be another batch of poetry, and I'd rather not muddy that up with any anniversary gimmicks, I figure I'll go ahead and do that now. Here's a song about ninety nine things.
Enjoy!
Sometimes I have a tendency to generalize my world view, and assume that everyone else sees life in more or less the same way that I do. Readers are welcome to call me out when I do this; I am always interested in cataloging evidence of my own insanity. One day they will be collected in an eccentric autobiography, along with an apology for not having lived a more hilarious and salacious life.
In any case, it seems to me that people have a complicated relationship with finite amounts. It's often said that humans are incapable of understanding infinity, thus providing justification for religion and philosophy and all of the wonderful mysteries of life, the universe and everything. But I think that above a certain basic level, finity (which I hereby declare is a word) is equally perplexing, if not more so.
Assigning precise values to very large numbers is conceptually very simple, but the practical difficulties involved make the whole process appear random and arbitrary. Statistics are very funny things: they simultaneously communicate very specific information (an amount or percentage) and very general, non-specific information ("a lot" or "a little"), and the extent to which a person absorbs either or both messages depends on familiarity with the subject.
For example, there are presently about three hundred and twenty seven million television sets in the United States (or at least there were in 2008). That seems like a lot, and it is, considering there aren't that many people in the United States. This information is useless to most people, but it carries practical information for others. Suppose you were a radical anti-TV activist, and you made it your life's work to swing a baseball bat into every television screen in the country. Unless you had help from similarly deranged accomplices, this statistic carries a sobering fact: you would have to smash a line drive into a TV some exact number between 326,000,000 and 328,000,000 times. Only then would your mission be complete, having guaranteed the wholesome purity of our national culture, as well as our precious bodily fluids.
You couldn't stop at one hundred and call it a day. You couldn't stop at a thousand and say you'd made your point. You couldn't stop at two thousand either: either amount would be covered by more or less the same report on the national news (which could still be seen on anywhere between 326,999,000 and 326,998,000 TVs). No, to truly accomplish your goal, you'd have to accomplish an extremely large and extremely exact feat of crazy.
I think comprehending anything as huge as 327,000,000 swings of a Louisville Slugger (along with a very thorough cross-country trek) is simply beyond the human mind. I wonder if a typical baseball player could even take that many swings in a professional career. But it's a very specific, very finite number that represents a very specific, finite task.
I have a point: it's not very interesting, but it's still a point. This is my ninety ninth post on this blog, and that number caught me completely by surprise. On the one hand it seems too high, because I clearly recall my frequent periods of inactivity, and forget all the shorter, insignificant posts in contrast to the ones with substantial content. On the other hand it seems too low, since I've been at this over two years and you'd think they'd add up faster than that. Ninety nine is comparatively small in the cosmic sense, but it's the kind of exact, finite number that I really can't make sense of.
Anyway, since my next post is going to be another batch of poetry, and I'd rather not muddy that up with any anniversary gimmicks, I figure I'll go ahead and do that now. Here's a song about ninety nine things.
Enjoy!
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Wolf of Albright: Part Three
Warning: this story contains some disturbing language.
A considerable amount of time passed since Mina Cardiff last saw Aaron Harfelt. In spite of the frustrations of the department's number one case – dead ends, no leads to speak of – she had regained much of her old composure. She felt strong again: the specter of the Wolf seemed to fade in her mind's eye, faded by the mists of distance. She had felt hunted, but as the time passed and additional victims failed to appear, she allowed a measure of detachment to retake its place in her mind. The only thing to do was to endure, knowing the monster was somewhere out there, out of sight and increasingly out of mind.
It was a foggy Sunday morning beneath her window, and the sounds of the street came in soft and muffled. It was unseasonably cool and damp, but a warm cup of dark red tea and a down blanket offered some relief. There was security in the stone walls of her living room, and they seemed impenetrable. For a brief time, she thought, she might live entirely within them. She was previously scheduled some time off, and it happily coincided with a slight illness. It was a mental malady, not debilitatingly physical, and a quick break was what she needed.
“Go ahead, take some time off,” Lieutenant Bayern had told her, “I've got a hunch I want followed up on, but you don't have to worry about it for a bit. Might even take care of it myself.” He wouldn't say what he really meant, and she wondered if he wasn't speaking idly. She didn't ask.
The phone rang insistently, breaking the peace of a calm, cool morning. She turned off the television morning news and climbed unsteadily to her feet, with an ache already swelling in her forehead. The man to disturb the peace was Alex Smials, an unassuming department clerk with too much time on his hands. They talked for a moment about trivial matters; he inquiring about her health, and she replying that she felt mostly well as she settled back into her stiff easy chair. As usual, he did not seem at first to have anything especially substantial on his mind.
“It's really kind of strange how little work there is, with such a big case still open.”
“Incongruous.” She scratched a few markings on her notepad, of no particular significance.
“Yeah, incongruous. Inconsistent. After I saw the Harfelt house, I could have sworn it was the end of the world, but my in-box just isn't showing it.”
“Maybe that's what the end of the world is like: everything just comes to a stop.”
“Yeah, maybe. Say, speaking of the Harfelt house, did the Chief tell you what he was up to?”
“No, it's my day off. He never tells me anything when I go off duty.”
“Well, that's not exactly true. But anyway, he's back there, right now. Said he wanted to have a look around, see if we missed something.”
“But that scene is months old now.”
“I know, right?”
“And the clean up is already finished. There's nothing left to find, at all.”
“Yeah. He said he had a feeling, a feeling he'd find something, someone to give a new lead. Just a hunch.”
“There's still someone there?”
“That guy Henry, Aaron's brother. He's still living in there, you know?”
She didn't. It hadn't occurred to her where Henry might have gone since the profile had been submitted , but she could hardly imagine anyone choosing to stay in a house like that. “I suppose so. But I don't think he'll tell him anything new."
“No kidding, the kid's whacko. But don't tell Aaron I said that, he gets a little crazy about it.”
“I've noticed.” She glanced through the window to the foggy world outside. “Have you seen Aaron lately?”
“No, he's still on leave. And between you and me, I'm not absolutely positive he's coming back.”
Stories have a way of traveling, even when nobody particularly wants to tell them. Mina hadn't told anyone about the way Aaron Harfelt had behaved the last time she'd seen him, but the danger hinting from his eyes spoke for itself. The truth was that he was not quite as welcome in the department as he had been before, and his resignation was hopefully anticipated by many.
It was natural to feel sympathetic for him, only human. Mina felt terribly for his loss, and for his injuries; the mental injuries that must have sunk as deeply as the wounds carved in the bodies of his mother and father. She was sure that Alex did too. But in the last analysis, a man as deeply scourged as Aaron had been was not an asset to a police department. Not if he couldn't overcome his trauma, or exorcize the demons that bred in his thoughts.
“Do you think he's left town?” she asked.
“I really don't know. No one's reached him at his apartment. Actually, rumor is he's moved back into the old house with his brother.”
Her heart felt cold and dark at the suggestion: that house was no place for a man like him, with the scent of blood still so fresh. “Is that true? Is that why Michael went there?”
“I don't think so. No one's reached him there either, and the Chief says he isn't one to chase rumors.”
“No,” she sighed, “only bad hunches."
“You said it, not me. Oh, that reminds me. Alice just handed me a note, says here 'Lieutenant Bayern wants you to call him as soon as possible.'”
“I'm off duty...”
“Yeah, but it's only a phone call. I'm sure he just wants to pick your brain. Lord knows he can use the help. On such a tough case, I mean.”
“Is that why you called, Alex?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, I guess it was. I guess I'd better get back to work.”
He got back to work and she went back to sleep, in a manner of speaking. Her eyes were open, but for a few long seconds she perceived nothing through them. She felt momentarily like a child obliged to do homework on a Sunday afternoon: utterly unwilling, and only half resigned to the inevitability and necessity of it. But she was not a child, and her work was not a childish thing. She felt that to be true now, more than she'd ever felt it before.
So she called Michael Bayern on his cellular phone. She called him a second time ten minutes later, because he did not pick up. Her third call went out two minutes after that. She didn't leave a message, because she knew from experience that they'd never be heard. In fact, experience quietly assured her that he was not likely to answer the phone at all; he was much more likely to call her.
Working with the Lieutenant as long as she had, she felt qualified to make judgments about his personality. She knew that it was more than a “hunch” that took him back to the Harfelt house, because he was a very serious policeman: he held no stock in unsubstantiated rumors. Of course, he trusted in his instincts; they were vindicated by many long and largely successful years of work. But his instincts were chiefly to verify and to prove, rather than to speculate. He had been unusually impassioned by this case: the lack of evidence, the lack of plausible explanations, the lack of anything that carried the potential for proof had upset him greatly. But he was still not inclined to take time from his busy schedule to pursue a hunch. If he had, it would have had to have been a very good one.
That was why, when he failed to pick up in response to her fourth phone call, she began searching for her car keys.
__________
As she drove down the old highway toward the mansion, she took notice of the improving weather. The sun was shining through now, but it did not bring any warmth with it. It was a cold light, peaking through clouds that looked too light for rain, but too grey to disperse. It was the clouds, she thought, that had sucked all of the warmth from the air, holding it within tortuous shapes. Between the spikes and spires of the clouds, the sun light found its way to Earth, bereft of heat. She wondered, “this is an improvement?” The skies grew brighter, but no warmer, as she drove on. “Why is it an improvement just because the sun's come out? The whole world feels the same as it did before.”
The house felt very similar as well, standing apart from the sparse land that surrounded it. It had been hard to make out the details of its appearance under the storm of rain and horror that enveloped it during her previous visit, but in the cool light of the sun new features were apparent. Her memory was of a dark, saturated building, melting steadily under the pressure of the water. Now it was dry and grey, and looked as fragile as aged papier-mâché. The lights of the patrol car's sirens were no longer reflected in the windows: there was only a pale, wintery glare on the panes. It looked like it might splinter under the force of one swift kick.
The old Harfelt house, which had been home to generations of vital, eminent citizens of the town of Albright, was no longer worthy of the name, except for the word old. It was desiccated, peeling, and coming apart at the hinges. There was no life left in the structure. The view from the old highway was not of a venerable landmark, and hardly even that of a tombstone. Landmarks and tombstones inspire instincts of preservation: even if they are forgotten for great stretches of time, their end is regarded as a silent tragedy. But the present view inspired exactly the opposite feeling. Mina felt no pity for the building. She actively wished for its demise, and she would never mourn its passing.
Michael's pale green Ford was parked in the semi-circular driveway, looking old and sick, but still healthier than the building. Yet against all odds and against all rights, the house still stood. Mina found herself faced with the same dilemma as before: her irresistible desire to flee, matched against her undeniable professional obligation. No one had ordered her to set foot inside, but she had no choice. Michael was inside, and he needed her. She braced the collar of her coat against the chill, and went inside.
The first thing she saw was the Lieutenant, sprawled against the wall under the banister of the central staircase. She went to him immediately; although the action began without thought, her mind raced through several hundred unpleasant possibilities before she reached him. She saw the marks on his forehead, as though a great hand had gripped his scalp from behind, squeezing the flesh white and red. As she felt quickly along the back of his head for signs of trauma, she found a large swelling; she could see in her minds eye how the assailant had seized the policeman's head and smashed it against the wood. She wished that she could not.
She felt distinctly the eyes of the monster on her from the shadows: eyes out of nowhere, hungry wolf's eyes. It was vaguely apparent on the night of the murder, but it was obvious now, that this place was the Wolf's true lair. The eyes of the house had seen violence that no scrubbing or disinfectant could undo, because the violence was native to the house. And yet, as Mina allowed herself to perceive the situation more clearly, she saw that the light in those eyes was dimming. They faded back into darkness almost as soon as they emerged, watching more and seeing less.
Michael was still alive, but she could not call him back to consciousness; she dreaded the consequences of those injuries to the poor man's mind. She imposed a state of calm on herself as she grabbed her phone. Her fingers hardly trembled as she dialed the emergency number. Awaiting the arrival of the ambulance and backup patrol officers, she slowly allowed herself to perceive more of the room. It struck her that she had been careless, dangerously so. She was unarmed, had entered a crime scene without first determining its security. The killer was probably still in the house, or somewhere near. And from where she now stood, she saw a series of rough, muddy boot prints leading up the central staircase.
“I should stay here,” she whispered, “I should stay here.” Michael was alone, and in a vulnerable condition. The persistent stench of death emanated from above, pressing down on every sense without reprieve. To follow this trail would lead her to destruction's doorway, and there was no guarantee of survival. Mina knew all of this, and she told herself again and again as she took those slow steps up the central staircase. “I should stay here,” she whispered. But she would have to endure the alternative.
The unnaturally warm smell grew stronger with every step. It grew hotter, sticking to the skin of her face and obscuring the musty air. It coated the walls, shading the yellow paper with an unpleasantly orange tint, strangling the life from its floral pattern. It slowed her natural movements, and kept her steps slow and regular. The stench was familiar and terrible, the physical embodiment of all her life's worst memories. Her footsteps were muffled by the silence.
“Aaron?” she said out loud, calling for the house's newest master. “Aaron?” she called out, expecting and receiving no response. An empty certainty had asserted itself in her mind, and she knew what she was bound to find as she retraced her fateful path through the East Wing. Her steps were lighter now, unencumbered by doubt, but her gut was strained. She found it difficult to speak, but she called out again: “Henry?”
There was no reply from Henry, either. His eerie, idiosyncratic music no longer wafted through the hallways, and to her surprise she found that she missed it. She hadn't particularly enjoyed the sound, but it had been a reassurance to her all the same. The resonant echo had filled the narrow passages as effortlessly as the ambient sound of any natural place. It had deeply annoyed Aaron; but Aaron seemed ill at ease at every point in the house. The silence would hardly have met his approval any more than the music.
She reached Henry's door, that otherwise unremarkable door. At the bottom, a small paper poked out from the other room. Slowly, Mina took the paper in her hands and drew it out. It was a sketch of Henry's: not a finished work, but a template for a more complete product. Mina knew very little about the formal aspects of art, but she recognized the picture as a very skillful, and very disturbing, work. It was the form of a feminine angel, a subtle study in contradiction. The angel possessed lush feathered wings; dark, gently curled hair; a small, pleasingly curved body. But she also had eyes like deadly fire, intensely searing and cruel. They were like the eyes of a murderous fox.
In the upper right hand corner, the paper was stained with fresh blood.
It took Mina a long time to open the door, although she knew what she would find on the other side. It was not a matter of courage, because she knew there was no danger. It was only a matter of will, a desire to disbelieve in the most gruesome result. There was no changing reality, but the moment could be postponed.
Aaron and Henry Harfelt, the last generation of a very old family, were dead. In a violent struggle they had torn one another apart with their bare hands, fingers wrenching flesh from bone. In the process they had damaged or discolored many odd and tragic works of art by the younger brother's hand. The Wurlitzer piano stood smeared in gore, alone and untouchable in the sea of madness. The music, composed and performed by Henry, drowned in his dead memories. Details of the brother's final moments will likely never be known: whether they spoke, and what they might have spoken of, will remain unanswered questions. The mysterious forces that destroyed the Harfelts faded from life, and the eyes that peered from the shadows at last went out.
Mina stood silently at the threshold, the first witness of the final end of a troubled family. In spite of the heat and her heavy grey coat, she shivered with cold. She stood, fragile and short of breath, but she stood, chilled by the pale light of the sun. Against all odds, she continued to stand as the sirens rose in the near distance, and flashing lights danced once again in the glass windows of the old house.
A considerable amount of time passed since Mina Cardiff last saw Aaron Harfelt. In spite of the frustrations of the department's number one case – dead ends, no leads to speak of – she had regained much of her old composure. She felt strong again: the specter of the Wolf seemed to fade in her mind's eye, faded by the mists of distance. She had felt hunted, but as the time passed and additional victims failed to appear, she allowed a measure of detachment to retake its place in her mind. The only thing to do was to endure, knowing the monster was somewhere out there, out of sight and increasingly out of mind.
It was a foggy Sunday morning beneath her window, and the sounds of the street came in soft and muffled. It was unseasonably cool and damp, but a warm cup of dark red tea and a down blanket offered some relief. There was security in the stone walls of her living room, and they seemed impenetrable. For a brief time, she thought, she might live entirely within them. She was previously scheduled some time off, and it happily coincided with a slight illness. It was a mental malady, not debilitatingly physical, and a quick break was what she needed.
“Go ahead, take some time off,” Lieutenant Bayern had told her, “I've got a hunch I want followed up on, but you don't have to worry about it for a bit. Might even take care of it myself.” He wouldn't say what he really meant, and she wondered if he wasn't speaking idly. She didn't ask.
The phone rang insistently, breaking the peace of a calm, cool morning. She turned off the television morning news and climbed unsteadily to her feet, with an ache already swelling in her forehead. The man to disturb the peace was Alex Smials, an unassuming department clerk with too much time on his hands. They talked for a moment about trivial matters; he inquiring about her health, and she replying that she felt mostly well as she settled back into her stiff easy chair. As usual, he did not seem at first to have anything especially substantial on his mind.
“It's really kind of strange how little work there is, with such a big case still open.”
“Incongruous.” She scratched a few markings on her notepad, of no particular significance.
“Yeah, incongruous. Inconsistent. After I saw the Harfelt house, I could have sworn it was the end of the world, but my in-box just isn't showing it.”
“Maybe that's what the end of the world is like: everything just comes to a stop.”
“Yeah, maybe. Say, speaking of the Harfelt house, did the Chief tell you what he was up to?”
“No, it's my day off. He never tells me anything when I go off duty.”
“Well, that's not exactly true. But anyway, he's back there, right now. Said he wanted to have a look around, see if we missed something.”
“But that scene is months old now.”
“I know, right?”
“And the clean up is already finished. There's nothing left to find, at all.”
“Yeah. He said he had a feeling, a feeling he'd find something, someone to give a new lead. Just a hunch.”
“There's still someone there?”
“That guy Henry, Aaron's brother. He's still living in there, you know?”
She didn't. It hadn't occurred to her where Henry might have gone since the profile had been submitted , but she could hardly imagine anyone choosing to stay in a house like that. “I suppose so. But I don't think he'll tell him anything new."
“No kidding, the kid's whacko. But don't tell Aaron I said that, he gets a little crazy about it.”
“I've noticed.” She glanced through the window to the foggy world outside. “Have you seen Aaron lately?”
“No, he's still on leave. And between you and me, I'm not absolutely positive he's coming back.”
Stories have a way of traveling, even when nobody particularly wants to tell them. Mina hadn't told anyone about the way Aaron Harfelt had behaved the last time she'd seen him, but the danger hinting from his eyes spoke for itself. The truth was that he was not quite as welcome in the department as he had been before, and his resignation was hopefully anticipated by many.
It was natural to feel sympathetic for him, only human. Mina felt terribly for his loss, and for his injuries; the mental injuries that must have sunk as deeply as the wounds carved in the bodies of his mother and father. She was sure that Alex did too. But in the last analysis, a man as deeply scourged as Aaron had been was not an asset to a police department. Not if he couldn't overcome his trauma, or exorcize the demons that bred in his thoughts.
“Do you think he's left town?” she asked.
“I really don't know. No one's reached him at his apartment. Actually, rumor is he's moved back into the old house with his brother.”
Her heart felt cold and dark at the suggestion: that house was no place for a man like him, with the scent of blood still so fresh. “Is that true? Is that why Michael went there?”
“I don't think so. No one's reached him there either, and the Chief says he isn't one to chase rumors.”
“No,” she sighed, “only bad hunches."
“You said it, not me. Oh, that reminds me. Alice just handed me a note, says here 'Lieutenant Bayern wants you to call him as soon as possible.'”
“I'm off duty...”
“Yeah, but it's only a phone call. I'm sure he just wants to pick your brain. Lord knows he can use the help. On such a tough case, I mean.”
“Is that why you called, Alex?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, I guess it was. I guess I'd better get back to work.”
He got back to work and she went back to sleep, in a manner of speaking. Her eyes were open, but for a few long seconds she perceived nothing through them. She felt momentarily like a child obliged to do homework on a Sunday afternoon: utterly unwilling, and only half resigned to the inevitability and necessity of it. But she was not a child, and her work was not a childish thing. She felt that to be true now, more than she'd ever felt it before.
So she called Michael Bayern on his cellular phone. She called him a second time ten minutes later, because he did not pick up. Her third call went out two minutes after that. She didn't leave a message, because she knew from experience that they'd never be heard. In fact, experience quietly assured her that he was not likely to answer the phone at all; he was much more likely to call her.
Working with the Lieutenant as long as she had, she felt qualified to make judgments about his personality. She knew that it was more than a “hunch” that took him back to the Harfelt house, because he was a very serious policeman: he held no stock in unsubstantiated rumors. Of course, he trusted in his instincts; they were vindicated by many long and largely successful years of work. But his instincts were chiefly to verify and to prove, rather than to speculate. He had been unusually impassioned by this case: the lack of evidence, the lack of plausible explanations, the lack of anything that carried the potential for proof had upset him greatly. But he was still not inclined to take time from his busy schedule to pursue a hunch. If he had, it would have had to have been a very good one.
That was why, when he failed to pick up in response to her fourth phone call, she began searching for her car keys.
__________
As she drove down the old highway toward the mansion, she took notice of the improving weather. The sun was shining through now, but it did not bring any warmth with it. It was a cold light, peaking through clouds that looked too light for rain, but too grey to disperse. It was the clouds, she thought, that had sucked all of the warmth from the air, holding it within tortuous shapes. Between the spikes and spires of the clouds, the sun light found its way to Earth, bereft of heat. She wondered, “this is an improvement?” The skies grew brighter, but no warmer, as she drove on. “Why is it an improvement just because the sun's come out? The whole world feels the same as it did before.”
The house felt very similar as well, standing apart from the sparse land that surrounded it. It had been hard to make out the details of its appearance under the storm of rain and horror that enveloped it during her previous visit, but in the cool light of the sun new features were apparent. Her memory was of a dark, saturated building, melting steadily under the pressure of the water. Now it was dry and grey, and looked as fragile as aged papier-mâché. The lights of the patrol car's sirens were no longer reflected in the windows: there was only a pale, wintery glare on the panes. It looked like it might splinter under the force of one swift kick.
The old Harfelt house, which had been home to generations of vital, eminent citizens of the town of Albright, was no longer worthy of the name, except for the word old. It was desiccated, peeling, and coming apart at the hinges. There was no life left in the structure. The view from the old highway was not of a venerable landmark, and hardly even that of a tombstone. Landmarks and tombstones inspire instincts of preservation: even if they are forgotten for great stretches of time, their end is regarded as a silent tragedy. But the present view inspired exactly the opposite feeling. Mina felt no pity for the building. She actively wished for its demise, and she would never mourn its passing.
Michael's pale green Ford was parked in the semi-circular driveway, looking old and sick, but still healthier than the building. Yet against all odds and against all rights, the house still stood. Mina found herself faced with the same dilemma as before: her irresistible desire to flee, matched against her undeniable professional obligation. No one had ordered her to set foot inside, but she had no choice. Michael was inside, and he needed her. She braced the collar of her coat against the chill, and went inside.
The first thing she saw was the Lieutenant, sprawled against the wall under the banister of the central staircase. She went to him immediately; although the action began without thought, her mind raced through several hundred unpleasant possibilities before she reached him. She saw the marks on his forehead, as though a great hand had gripped his scalp from behind, squeezing the flesh white and red. As she felt quickly along the back of his head for signs of trauma, she found a large swelling; she could see in her minds eye how the assailant had seized the policeman's head and smashed it against the wood. She wished that she could not.
She felt distinctly the eyes of the monster on her from the shadows: eyes out of nowhere, hungry wolf's eyes. It was vaguely apparent on the night of the murder, but it was obvious now, that this place was the Wolf's true lair. The eyes of the house had seen violence that no scrubbing or disinfectant could undo, because the violence was native to the house. And yet, as Mina allowed herself to perceive the situation more clearly, she saw that the light in those eyes was dimming. They faded back into darkness almost as soon as they emerged, watching more and seeing less.
Michael was still alive, but she could not call him back to consciousness; she dreaded the consequences of those injuries to the poor man's mind. She imposed a state of calm on herself as she grabbed her phone. Her fingers hardly trembled as she dialed the emergency number. Awaiting the arrival of the ambulance and backup patrol officers, she slowly allowed herself to perceive more of the room. It struck her that she had been careless, dangerously so. She was unarmed, had entered a crime scene without first determining its security. The killer was probably still in the house, or somewhere near. And from where she now stood, she saw a series of rough, muddy boot prints leading up the central staircase.
“I should stay here,” she whispered, “I should stay here.” Michael was alone, and in a vulnerable condition. The persistent stench of death emanated from above, pressing down on every sense without reprieve. To follow this trail would lead her to destruction's doorway, and there was no guarantee of survival. Mina knew all of this, and she told herself again and again as she took those slow steps up the central staircase. “I should stay here,” she whispered. But she would have to endure the alternative.
The unnaturally warm smell grew stronger with every step. It grew hotter, sticking to the skin of her face and obscuring the musty air. It coated the walls, shading the yellow paper with an unpleasantly orange tint, strangling the life from its floral pattern. It slowed her natural movements, and kept her steps slow and regular. The stench was familiar and terrible, the physical embodiment of all her life's worst memories. Her footsteps were muffled by the silence.
“Aaron?” she said out loud, calling for the house's newest master. “Aaron?” she called out, expecting and receiving no response. An empty certainty had asserted itself in her mind, and she knew what she was bound to find as she retraced her fateful path through the East Wing. Her steps were lighter now, unencumbered by doubt, but her gut was strained. She found it difficult to speak, but she called out again: “Henry?”
There was no reply from Henry, either. His eerie, idiosyncratic music no longer wafted through the hallways, and to her surprise she found that she missed it. She hadn't particularly enjoyed the sound, but it had been a reassurance to her all the same. The resonant echo had filled the narrow passages as effortlessly as the ambient sound of any natural place. It had deeply annoyed Aaron; but Aaron seemed ill at ease at every point in the house. The silence would hardly have met his approval any more than the music.
She reached Henry's door, that otherwise unremarkable door. At the bottom, a small paper poked out from the other room. Slowly, Mina took the paper in her hands and drew it out. It was a sketch of Henry's: not a finished work, but a template for a more complete product. Mina knew very little about the formal aspects of art, but she recognized the picture as a very skillful, and very disturbing, work. It was the form of a feminine angel, a subtle study in contradiction. The angel possessed lush feathered wings; dark, gently curled hair; a small, pleasingly curved body. But she also had eyes like deadly fire, intensely searing and cruel. They were like the eyes of a murderous fox.
In the upper right hand corner, the paper was stained with fresh blood.
It took Mina a long time to open the door, although she knew what she would find on the other side. It was not a matter of courage, because she knew there was no danger. It was only a matter of will, a desire to disbelieve in the most gruesome result. There was no changing reality, but the moment could be postponed.
Aaron and Henry Harfelt, the last generation of a very old family, were dead. In a violent struggle they had torn one another apart with their bare hands, fingers wrenching flesh from bone. In the process they had damaged or discolored many odd and tragic works of art by the younger brother's hand. The Wurlitzer piano stood smeared in gore, alone and untouchable in the sea of madness. The music, composed and performed by Henry, drowned in his dead memories. Details of the brother's final moments will likely never be known: whether they spoke, and what they might have spoken of, will remain unanswered questions. The mysterious forces that destroyed the Harfelts faded from life, and the eyes that peered from the shadows at last went out.
Mina stood silently at the threshold, the first witness of the final end of a troubled family. In spite of the heat and her heavy grey coat, she shivered with cold. She stood, fragile and short of breath, but she stood, chilled by the pale light of the sun. Against all odds, she continued to stand as the sirens rose in the near distance, and flashing lights danced once again in the glass windows of the old house.
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