Conflux #1 offers conflux as a synonym for confluence, as “a flowing together” or “the act of blending together components thoroughly”; its connotations are slightly different from the riparian ‘confluence’, which is the name of a nascent entry that I never wrote because I could not get it perfectly in-mind.  After browsing an entry by a blogger who liked my previous post (in August), I wanted to answer his critique of diversity-driven comic-book plots but I lacked a good angle. Firstly, I do not read comic-books. Secondly, I did not want to offer any more trite ‘white-privilege whack-a-mole-ing’ that fails to benefit anyone disadvantaged. It also grows boring to read white people’s empty castigations of each other– its just another film on the surface occluding our view of the channels beneath.

Still, my reader needs to realize that diverse identities, encounters, and relationships (especially the intersection of all these) are global society’s fascination de jur; we thirst for a broader palette of stories. With practice, the new generation of storytellers can develop characters just as strong as past-protagonists, yet whose settings are not only more complex and intriguing by virtue of heterogeneity but also having immediacy, relevant to a moment in history where the world is webbed by circuits. I intended to describe an allegorical space where multiple streams come together, as well as feeling sadness for the other blogger who wants to stay upstream in the limited beauty of a single channel, suggesting some are disdainful toward the rapids of confluence because they…

There is an impasse. Because I do not want to cannibalize someone who actually read my post, I recognize my envy: I know the blogger I critique has written extensively, whereas I have only waded again and again into the confluence and allowed it to churn me. That explanation is faux-artistically figurative, misleading: I’m unemployed and broke. I wanted to feel better about myself before I aimed a hose of cold water at my reader– I would rather not play ‘white-privilege whack-a-mole’ without a mallet. Therein lies the ugly truth, eh? How could I swing a gavel when…

And now, for a brief word from out sponsor…

‘BAM! BAM BAM!’ goes a hammer against a table-top. Were you skimming? This could be an excellent place to put your keel in the water: a new stream enters. I thought about killing myself, often. Do not misunderstand: I never had a plan or strong impetus toward suicide; I just entertained those thoughts as my guest. Suicide would join me for dinner, a walk, reading on the futon, perhaps waiting with me for my lover, and in all manner of domestic settings and tasks.
“Isn’t it a shame you don’t own a gun? It would simplify matters were you to need to end your pain, hypothetically,” said a dry, morbid voice over tea.
“I concede that,” I say, sipping, “but I’d hate to give the weapons industry any profit whatsoever, you understand.”
“Yes, indeed, but what if you were to put a note in your hand that said ‘it’s the gun industry’s fault — promote gun-control’. You could make an example of yourself.” (“It’s an idea.”)
While I washed dishes, he’d say “I love the romantic ideal of a long knife to the heart– a pity it would be so painful.”
“Oh! It would be gruesome and I can scarce imagine mustering the gumption,” I shuddered.
“Unless you were to imbibe something quite numbing–” he interjects, “–but not nauseating. Can you think of anything?” Plates clinked together for several beats. “Probably not: a shame that the buildings are not taller in Washington nor that the river stays too warm to cause hypothermia quickly enough nor…”
“–hypothetically… but indeed,” I concede as I towel my hands and reach for a cookie.
“Yes, you might get others to understand that ‘right to die’ has dignity,” said he, then asked, “life is really worth indefinite suffering?”
“Someone else’s life might be,” I’d say, catching his mood, “it’s a pity I can’t sacrifice myself to save a child from slavery or donate my organs for medical research– just as options. I suppose I’ll go on living; things could get better if I’m lucky.”
While playing trumpet, more recently, my morbid voice came calling: “It’s a pity you’re in your friend’s home– if you hadn’t lost your apartment you wouldn’t have to worry about emotionally scarring his family by impaling yourself–naturally, just a hypothetical scenario.”
I looked at my trumpet, played a few notes, and muttered ‘this is not normal for me.’ Entertaining suicidal thoughts is not quintessentially who I am– but playing the trumpet IS. My skills may rise and fall (no forthcoming albums) but playing music is quintessentially ME living into my OWN being, continuing as my SELF. The suicidal thoughts had seemed like part of my fabric, like dye, but they were only deep stains awaiting a superior solvent; my history with music predates their premises. “Intrusive thoughts: you don’t belong. Get thee behind me!”

“‘Sex’,” I say warmly, ringing the rim of a wine-glass with a silver spoon. Skimming, were you? That’s quite fine because another stream joins here, its entrance raising a swirl of eddies where readers can linger. As you all see, the name of this entry is conflux, not confluence. I chose the obscure synonym so I could tailor its connotations to the purposes of this evolving piece; I learned the word while, finally, searching ‘confluence’. I improvised. I dove into this torrent for a sunken branch and emerged with a polished stone. ‘Conflux’ has similarity to ‘influx’ or ‘in-flux’, each bringing their whispered meanings to confluence like the wind rustling leafy branches overhanging a river. ‘The influx brings me into-flux’. New material is discovered and introduced, now that a writing process is allowed to proceed and a dam gate opened; the presence of newness creates the state of change and heightens uncertainty. The perfection I called precocity must weaken and the pain of living becomes sharper. Life is not worth all of this pain; life is worth the pain, pleasure, and presence. Life is actually bigger than both the pain and the temptation to end it by ending my life. Suicide is the ultimate stifling of expression and my inner-musician would not tolerate it.

And this conflux is an imperfect reflection of the idea, of itself, much like a fast-flowing stream provides a poorer reflection yet is a natural, forward vehicle~


Mind-Trip: Visiting Past Selves

The morning after my graduate coursework was complete, and with no more school assignments to write, I sat in dim quiet. A restlessness stirred in my core but fatigue lingered-on. I decided to try a self-compassion exercise I found on the Internet. It told me to think of an uncomplicated love and I tried to remember my grandparents. I could send those ‘warm fuzzy feelings’ to the leftover parts of me inside, supposedly, by visiting my memories.

The next part of the exercise asked me to send compassion to past versions of myself. At first I pictured myself in the seventh grade, walking down the hallway with a large piece of cardboard that read “I love [girl’s name]”, with a pink heart (like one does). Picturing the scene elicited an uncomfortable mixture of stale teenage hopelessness and amused retrospection. “Maybe I’m too old to connect—” I muttered to myself, “I am nearly two-and-a-half times as old as I was then.”

lucky_Kristen-Brown-took-itWithout realizing what I was doing, I started to rub the prayer beads I bought in al-khalil. I might have an easier time connecting to myself in Jordan, I mused. Around this time four years ago I passed through Amman twice while waiting for Israeli immigration services to process my volunteer visa so I could return to Bethlehem. After a brief sojourn in Southeast Asia I settled for a few weeks in the Canary Hotel in ‘jebel weibdeh’ near a glorious mosque with a blue dome. I soon fell ill with some pathogen that stowed away in my body from either Hong Kong or Davao City. I pictured myself wrapped in sweat soaked sheets at the Canary hotel, then sitting patiently for over six hours at an Israeli embassy, and finally sipping Arabic coffee and preparing for the now-infamous border-crossing into the West Bank. I saw myself, shaggy hair, bearded chin, and a face that is a little more pink than brown both because and despite of the sun. My eyes are too blue but I — this ‘younger me’ is gun-ho to return to Palestine. Even if I’d had the power, I doubted he would join me for a ‘jaunt’ through time. Once he left his sick-bed, I did not know how to send him compassion — there was little to pity in a version of myself so genuinely brave. At that moment, I was not mentally prepared to follow him to the crossing at ‘beit shaan’ and I opened my eyes. My room in Northeast Washington, DC flashed back into existence and I exhaled, sharply. I closed my eyes again.

Still rubbing the beads I went deeper into my trance, in search of a past version of myself to which I could send compassion. I remembered Geneva; I’ve had writers’ block about my brief time in the French and Swiss countryside, there, for a long time. Preparing to cross at ‘beit shaan’ is one matter: the pressure from Israeli border control was expected. Nine months later, the counselor at the debrief center West of Geneva caught me off-guard. I wanted to just be authentic in my feelings and be affirmed, feel normal. Instead, the therapist made little room for ISM politics or even Palestinian Liberation Theology; I felt judged for my frustration. I watch myself going silent in her office, then praying with a candle in the same office later that night, then wandering across a snowy canvass amid the breath-taking scenery. I took long walks that week, trying to follow the sight and sound of hawks. I hoped for guiding signs, to help me adjust in the sudden cold and emptiness — literally, relationally. Now I am following the twenty-six-year-old version of me back into Geneva, onto a train leaving for Zurich and places beyond. My two Never seen a pale-face in a kefia? Get used to it.former co-workers, R2 and Debz, are there but I swiftly recalled that 26 (this version of me) felt distant from them. He seemed almost real. He wore one of those hats that is a cross between a billed-cap and a beret that is solid black, always turned backward; he still has the black-and-white kefia purchased in a Bethlehem market, wrapped loosely around his neck, partly draping down his chest and tucked into Buck’s* olivey-brown sport-jacket. One one lapel are two pins, a Palestinian flag and a key symbolizing the return of refugees. Dressed to be a bona fide ISM-activist, surrounded by the glory of mountains, mere feet away from wonderful colleagues, he sat in perplexity and despair on a cushy train-seat. I imagined him rubbing…

Prayer beads. He looked-up at me, suddenly awake. Realizing he could see me, realizing I was on the train over three years ago, I gasped and crouched to the floor in a muted panic.

“Get over here,” he commanded in a harsh whisper, “you’re just as conspicuous like that. Walk over here, calmly, and pretend to be my twin before Debz or R2 see you.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you might be lonely— actually, I knew, but I didn’t… um… wait! You know that I am a future version of you? That seems too convenient.”

“Just now, I wished someone who truly understood would appear. Again, it seems too convenient—who else, ever, could understand?


“How did I learn to do this time-warp thing? Or I shouldn’t ask, I guess. Nevermind. Don’t tell me the future. Just…” He leaned against the window, sapped of vim.

“Sit with you? I can do that.” He reached-out and held my hand. I had not realized how much I wanted my hand held and I gave 26’s hand a squeeze. He quickly let go and I never quite asked ‘why’. By this time the train was moving and vivid images from my past mesmerized me, the alps scrolling by through the abundant windows while we remained nestled in the luxurious train-cabin.

“Life is good, then? You don’t have to give details.”

I hesitated. Did I really believe my life was better than his? The answer was ‘yes’, mostly, because I knew his world had spun upside-down in a week whereas mine was just turning, slowly, on its side. “I just finished graduate school; you knew you would do that. I’m going to be thirty.”

“Peace and conflict at American University? I see your AU t-shirt.” I just smiled at him. The answer is ‘no, not P & C’ but it was not worth explaining ITEP.

“We all need to be rescued, sometimes,” I said with a wink. He smirked and started gazing out of the window again. I read that as assent but it was not.

“If you could come here, does that mean we both could return to somewhere else?” This time, I was careful not to hesitate for fear he would doubt my expertise — of which I had none, of course.

“Well… the prayer breads brought me here… it seems… so maybe if we agree where to go next and both rub our beads we can… yeah. I should mention, this is part of an exercise in self-compassion that went magically wrong. I should have said that right away.”

“Self-compassion can go magically wrong? And I thought you said you were here to ‘rescue me’? Well, it’s worth a try. I just want to get out of here.”

Something about the way he said ‘rescue me’ touched my heart in a strange way. One of those uncanny feelings that there is not language to describe surfaced and I let it slide by, or linger, or whatever near-subliminal emotions do. I wondered if he would take us to al-khalil where the beads had come from or another place I was not mentally prepared to go. “Can you do me a favor? Can we go somewhere in Michigan?”

He continued to stare out of the window. God only knows where he wanted to go, in the first place. Then he nodded. “There are other versions of us to be rescued, right?” He slowly looked at me and the sensation was wonderful and terrible, far beyond seeing oneself in the mirror for the first time. This version of myself that I had come to console was, despite my intentions to comfort him, the epitome of the rescuer in me — and he had just concluded his mission. 26 was looking for ACTION at a time when reflection gave him no solace. I glanced instinctively over my shoulder and thought that Debz and R2 were looking at us.

Convinced that the jig was up, I approached: “Ladies it is truly a gift to see you again; as you can see, I am John Daniel’s doppelganger—from the future, not a precise doppelganger. Before you say anything, I need to get some things off our chest, 26 and me (I’m 30 but that’s not important)~ number one, he is very confused right now. It’s true that he’s attracted to both of you but that’s NOT what is on his mind right now. He just lost an office of beloved, Arab, co-workers and he’s feeling disconnected…”

“John Daniel…”

“—I understand that the both of you are enjoying your independence, especially Debz, and that he might seem like a little bit of a drag. I apologize on his behalf— he just needs some more perspective. Plus, the therapist at the retreat center actually treated him like SHIT but he doesn’t want to burden either of you with that…”

“EARTH TO THIRTY! THEY CANNOT SEE OR HEAR YOU… oh damn, did they hear me?”

A pregnant pause filled the cabin as I waddled a retreat. “I guess not.”

“I’m still not even sure if I’m conscious—I must be asleep on the train. Although this episode is certainly telling me something about how I feel about myself…”

“Let’s make the best of your dream, then?” I asked, hopefully.

“Let’s go rescue 19,” he said. The flush returned to his face.

“When you say it like that, it’s really infantilizing. He is technically a grown-man.”

“Technically,” scoffed 26. Not surprisingly, as my younger self’s vigor flowed so did his penchant for ‘assbad’ comments. It was so good to see him smile, I decided to play-along.

“Let’s go lift his pitiful ass out of bed!” I said with some gusto.

We rubbed on our beads for a while. “Maybe we need something else— something that you and he share—”

“—like our entire bodies? Or is it true that all the cells in our bodies change in seven years?”

“…rub your stitch: I bet the surgery is on his mind…” I said it with some gravitas, hoping he would take the bait.

“…rub YOUR stitch, wanker! I’m not rubbing my stitch on a Swiss train…”

“…it has to be you. Trust me. It has to be the person who is physically visible in the environment from which the teleportation is taking-place,” I lied. I wanted to see him do it. “And you won’t see these people again. R2 is not even looking—”

“—screw you—”

“screw yourself: just do it (and you’re the wanker)”. He glanced around, then furtively shoved his hand down his pants. I put my hand down my pants for good measure, since I was invisible anyway. “…just to show you how it’s done, of course.”

“Wanker… now it looks like—”

dorm-desk-and-bunkBut suddenly we were in a dormitory room on the campus of Michigan State University, sitting next to each other on the bottom bunk. A slush-laden pine tree was visible through a window.

Naturally, 19 was in the top-bunk sulking about his surgery and the complications that followed. Granted, bed was probably a good place for him: he had a severe respiratory infection. The surgical sight itself was free of infection but he was on a medication to reduce swelling at, shall we say, ‘critical junctures’. We could not see his hands but we both knew where they were.

“Be gentle with that stitch, boy,” I said playfully as we stood and looked at him.


“Dude, 30,” 26 said calmly, “have you forgotten our tendency to startle when our bedroom is invaded? Hey 19…” he said turning to him.

[”We got nothing in common…” I crooned]

“We are the 30 year old and 26 year old versions of yourself, here to ‘rescue you’…”

[”No we can’t talk at all…”]

“This is part of an exercise in self-compassion and rescue…”

[”PLEASE TAKE ME ALONG— don’t either of you remember that Steely Dan song?”]

“…we are here to rescue you — older, wiser — to lift your ass from bed—”

“Whoa,” I said, “this is overwhelming. He has not said anything. Aren’t you overwhelmed?”

“It just figures,” said 19, closing his eyes and starting to cry, “that I would be psychotic in addition to everything else.”

“It’s going to be okay,” said 26 reassuringly. “We’re going to get you THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. So get dressed…”

“…whoa. What is the hurry?” I protested. “As a matter of fact, I am cold. I came here straight from… a place.” I balked. Neither of us wanted to explain to 19 how he came to leave his home state. “Can I crawl into bed with you? That guy over there is dressed for—umm…”

“MICHIGAN. See? I’m wearing a scarf.” He fumbled his kefia tassels awkwardly. I was still wearing my American University t-shirt.

“Forget what we’re wearing,” I said. As I sprung into the top-bunk, 19 recoiled and turned his front-side toward the wall. “We came here to talk to you. Maybe not so much to ‘rescue’ you; maybe that was not the right word.”

“—that was sure as hell the word you used for me, as if I hadn’t gone… places that required… self-sufficiency.” This game of hiding 19’s future was quickly turning into a comedy routine. “But hey 19, my man, we know you’re having a rough time,” said 26 recovering his assuaging tones.

“Yeah, buddy,” I said starting to spoon the younger version of myself. He was still wrapped like a burrito and I was worried that he was not wearing very much underneath. His face looked oddly pale when I remembered, distinctly, being feverish and on the edge of death. I expected him to be ruddier.

“What is there left to say?” he mumbled to the wall. “I’m sick and frustrated all the time. I never get across campus to see Kim…” 26 rolled his eyes. “And I’m just afraid I’m going to blow-it. I’m so… conflicted. I want to be with her and yet I don’t want to burden her. At the same time…”

“Forget about her!” said 26 emphatically, “you’ll do all kinds of things that she wished she had done!”

“26,” I said sternly, “we’re not talking about the f-u-t-u-r-e, here.”

“30…” said 19, “I am an English-major. I get it.

“—you’re going to be a writing tutor!” volunteered 26.

“Shut-up!” I said, surprised by my own frustration.

“He’s already in the writing-center rhetoric class, so he knows anyway,” sassed 26.

“Anyway…” he continued without making eye-contact, “maybe I do need to go on anti-depressants.”


“Dammit, 26! Shut. UP.”

“Not that there’s shame in it but your chemistry will get—” I threw a pillow as hard as I could at 26.

“Go take a walk! Go see if you can find someone to — but you’re invisible —bah, I don’t care…”

“Fine,” he said, releasing a deep breath, “I’ll just sit on the floor and listen.”

“You were saying, John? Try to look at my eyes while you talk. Pretend I’m just a funky mirror that… that can hug back.”

At first he was a little reluctant but after a while he let me under the covers with him and we talked for a long while. 26 seemed to lose his stomach for all of the talk about our ex-girlfriend and decided to ghost-walk around MSU’s campus. I quickly became jealous of him, as the charm of cuddling a younger version of myself went stale. No doubt, I felt some sympathy for 19 but he seemed to be churning the same set of problems into a thick, milky paste of anxious feelings. On the other hand, I could not judge him because there was not much he could do about it and, really, that was what I understood the best. His want to take action, the bitter feelings of helplessness, and wanting to be completely loved, even coddled, the moment he (we, I) relinquished being strictly self-sufficient — the chasm between independently-strong and totally-supported is cold, horrifying, and wide. What I understood that 19 did not was that his social networks were filled not with great people who shunned him, nor with bad people per se, but with normal people who were also still growing — still young.

The scarved-ghost returned. All at once, I saw him for what he was: the culmination of 19’s plan-B wishes. 19’s hope in Love would burn-down several times and from the ashes would rise 26: assbad-tastic. Unconsciously, I had put myself in the company of the most vulnerable, dependent version of myself and the most hardened incarnation… but they both needed compassion. They both were severely lonely and wishing for connection. They both needed to be accompanied…

“Hey 19: we’ve actually got more in-common than I initially realized…” said 26.

I accepted this insight with credulity: “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Oh were you, old man? Well, I was thinking about our favorite bouncing ball. Come-on out of bed, with me, and show me where the ball is.” 19 obliged him, unsmiling. He tumbled from the bunk, to the floor, and then rose to his desk and opened a small drawer. He held-up a rubber-ball filled with swirls of blue, white, and peachy-pink.

“Bounce it, for us.” He did: it rebounded from the ceiling and off of walls back into his hand. “You’re not doing so bad, eh?”

“I guess not but I can never seem to hold onto this feeling that, you know, things are going to be okay.”

“It can be a challenge—it’s a challenge for me right now,” I said, mimicking 26’s tone. The walk seemed to be good for the renegade missionary; maybe I needed a nice, brisk stroll through the pines.

“I think you remember,” said 26 to 19, “the day after Laura broke-up with you?” This allusion bothered me but I could not think of any better examples that were not deep, deep into the future.

“Yeah?” answered 19, his eye still on the ball. “I guess that whole relationship was, I don’t know…”

“—remember that you tried to mow and you had to stop the John Deere lawn-tractor because you started weeping? Remember the scent of cut grass? The whisps of exhaust?”

“I remember, too…” I said, closing my eyes. I should have realized what 26 was doing.

“—I was crying pretty hard. I felt so ridiculous, dressed-up so… masculine?… but crying harder than I had in years. Plaid, paint-stained jeans… but tears running down my cheeks,” said 19. I kept imagining his shaven, sweaty, acne-spotted, face:

“—and no beard—” I added with a wince.

“—then you went up on the deck, that connected to the dining-room through a pair of double-doors, and sat on one of those black, metal gliders. The sky was so blue, dotted with cottony clouds, and the buzz of insects~ can you hear how alive that day was?”

“—today seems so… dead…”

“—but you were alive and it was the summer of 2003 and what did you do?”

“I bounced the ball…”

“—and rubbed it—”

“Now I can hear the insects! And I feel hot—am I halucinating?”

“Oh shit…” I said, jolting awake.

“This is not an illusion; this is an exercise in compassion going magically wrong,” said 26.

“This is not a delusion but 26 might be deluded,” I said, taking a wide look.

“Did I just do the time-warp with you two? This ball has never done that before… I’m not sure I want to talk to the seventeen-year-old me. I’ve changed a lot.”

I started laughing. 26 was more focused: “Don’t you want to rescue him? Wouldn’t that be empowering? Or should we rescue him?”

“Does we imply 26 & 30? Because this wasn’t 30’s idea. Also, referring to myself as 30 with three younger versions of myself staring back is surreal… it’s giving me heebie-jeebies.”

“Are you sure this isn’t your idea? You climbed onto a train leaving Geneva to rescue me…”

“I said rescue ONCE; I said ‘everyone needs to be rescued sometimes. Haha… you’re a missionary, let’s hold-hands and pretend not to feel lonely’ or something like that.”

“Did I cry so hard that I passed-out?” said 17. He had gone from hysterical to high-as-a-kite in the space of a few minutes.

“You’re okay said 19,” then started coughing, “but maybe I could sit down? I’m, uhm, a 19 year-old version of you. I guess this is some kind of spell…”

“A spell implies it was intentional,” I spat.

“Wasn’t it?” asked 26, “wasn’t this your idea?”

“To find you on the train not to haul 19’s ass out of bed — though I might have said those exact words, yes. Okay, that was half my idea but this,” I protested, spinning around and pointing at my childhood home, a beloved tree, Mom’s intact flower garden, the garage overfilled with memories, the sound of dribbled basketballs filtering through the trees separating us from a nearby park, “—this wasn’t my idea but it was a WONDERFUL idea!” I turned and jumped off the side of the deck, laughing. A muffled jingling sound rang from further away, then the clear tinkle of dog tags: Buster was awake. My now-deceased dog emerged from his little brown house, panting, and wagging his tail.

“Aren’t you paying attention?” called-out 26, “Your past-selves need to be rescued, here on the deck, and you’re going to… wow, Buster looks much younger! Look at him jump! I haven’t seen him look that lean or jump that high in… years…” He must have peeled his jacket off because the next I heard from him he was unwinding the kefia from his neck, shouting “—I’m coming too.”

When I glanced back I saw that 17 was bringing 19 a glass of water and a picnic blanket— the guy was in his pajamas, after all.

“17 is bringing 19 an inhaler, ironically,” said 26. “I think the rescuer dynamic is playing in reverse.”

“For a moment, I was getting ready to chew you out but I think you were amping yourself to chafe me, too. For my word choice.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m having a love-hate relationship with this idea of being a rescuer. You probably have a love-hate relationship with the idea of me, too?”

“Mostly love,” I said, scratching the dog behind his floppy ear, then prying him off of my sleeve. In his elder years he had stopped playing tug-of-war with people’s clothes but this Buster was only 3 years old. “I wonder if this is right before or right after Buster learned to unlatch the pen with his nose. It crossed my mind to take him for a walk but I was afraid to let all of you out of my sight. Not that you need me.”

“Not really. You seemed more eager to hold my hand and watch the alps pass by than lend me any wisdom you picked-up in Washington, DC.”

“Not all emotional support is advise or even instrumental. Sometimes it is just presence, just accompanying someone.”

“—you needed to be in-mission with yourself? This is about accompaniment? I definitely didn’t need that from you.”

“Maybe not while you were in Bethlehem and you had Zoughbi and the others to look-up-to but… let’s not say ‘you’. Let’s say that ‘I’ lost the spirit of accompaniment and became even more social-justice-ramrod from a distance than I was up close. I let the retreat-center therapist get in my head in just the opposite way when what I needed —what you need to do is find some compassion for her because she was going to drop the ball. You shook-up her theology and world-view in the space of one session. Can you muster some compassion?”

“I’m not sure I can,” he said, half-chuckling.

“That’s alright; the only reason that I can is because I found some supportive people in Washington. But it’s going to take a long time. Don’t chain yourself to the White House fence or something. Live to meet your people.”

“That sounds a lot like advice that I don’t need. I feel like what I need is to have a squirt-gun fight. Do you have any, uh, special intelligence about what happened to the Supersoakers in the garage? Are they/were they still there in ‘03?”

“Let’s go ask 17. He seems to be good for more than I thought.”

“Oh crap. Mom & Dad are down there. He looks like a zombie…”

“It makes me uncomfortable to see them together. Even now. Or perhaps more now than ever.”

“I don’t even want to know. I just can’t go down there.”

We had a squirt-gun fight. Then we turned our mouths purple eating wild-raspberries. Then we paced around the other side of the house talking about childhood and almost went into the house through another door. Yet when we heard 19 call for us, breathlessly, both us old farts raced to the deck and scaled its highest part. My shoes were better and I won.

17 was standing there, still half-way shocked but not so dazed that he could not launch into a series of questions about the future, aimed mostly at me. 19 kept adding obscure details from his cocoon on a glider, poorly camouflaged with inexpertly cryptic phrasings. I allowed it, since I felt most of what happened between 17 and 19 didn’t matter that much. At first I was surprised to see 26 lay serenely on the other glider but, of course, he had been through most of what I had. ‘Social process time’ moves faster when relatives start dying and you go through several different ‘homes’. More than the tendency to minimize his youthful ‘romantic’ sufferings, it seemed like 26 was really happy to be ‘home’ in the Michigan summer. I smirked at him when I caught his eye.

“—so you’re not going to say anything to me? Why did either of you bother coming here— just to bring me him?” he said, pointing at 19 “when you knew he was sick, anyway?”

“My bad,” said 26, “feed him some raspberries.”

“I’ve learned my lesson. I need to stop trying to ‘rescue’ my former selves. I should learn to be present with all the pieces of myself.” I put my hand on my heart and said, ‘you each are an important and cherished part of me—” trying to make eye-contact with each of them.

“Good. Tell me what I can do to be the best version of myself.”

“Shut the fuck up and be cute,” said 26, snickering.

“Twenty-six,” I said sternly but I could not keep a straight face: “—he’s right. Although I noticed that you… your skin looks terrible.” I laughed audibly. “It’s kinda’ painful and hilarious at the same time, especially when he told you to be cute… but you ARE cute!”

In hindsight, I don’t think 17 believed me. He walked off the deck, turned on the hose and drenched himself. That seemed like the right time to leave — before something funky happened to space-time. As tempting as it was to change the course of history, possibly preventing 19 from becoming so SO pitiful, I could not bear sending my teenage self on any trajectory that would not produce 26 exactly as he was. 17 went back to his tractor to finish mowing, probably eager to dismiss us as mirages.

“Let’s grab 19 and get out of here before we rip-up our timelines and disappear like an alternate ending of Back to the Future.”

“Great idea; just tell me what I need to do,” retorted 26, without moving.

“Yeah. Okay. Remember when you were bothering me about it being my idea to come ‘rescue’.”

“I’m still wondering about all of that,” said 19. I patted him on the head. “And quit kiddifying me.”

“You mean infantilizing you?” said 26, this time with his hat drawn over his eyes to keep-out a dappling of sunshine straying through the leaves above. 19 curled into a tighter ball. “…so, chief. 30. How do we reverse this ‘exercise in compassion gone magically wrong’?”

“Technically, I’m not 30 for another month. Also, it wasn’t my idea. It all just kinda’ happened when I rubbed the prayer beads.” 19 squirmed.

“Well, fuck it anyway?” said 26.

“Maybe you’re ready to hit the fuck-it button but I want to get back to DC and graduate! I’m going to have a life!”

“You had a life— he’s in the Spartan Brass (even if he’s too sick to play right now— okay, I take it back he doesn’t have a life) and I should be going with my two awesome co-workers from Geneva to New York City. Doesn’t that count?”

“I should ask you— doesn’t that count? I know you feel a lot better zoning-out in this memory but we’re… wraiths…”

“—we already were—” replied 26 moodily, now staring off into the trees. I stared with him for a while, in a spirit of accompaniment.

“I’m right here with you, both of you. I have warm, fuzzy feelings for you. The two of you. You’re so cute. You’re so much cuter than 17, 26, with your kefia and tough-guy routine!” I poked him on the cheek. He didn’t seem to like it. “Go poke your brother.”

We both poked 19 but he was unresponsive: still breathing, eyes still open, but empty-headed. We continued poking him all over until finally he jolted into action.


We both cracked-up laughing at him. “Balls, chief?”

“We bounced and rubbed the rubber-ball to get here; we need to do it again.”

“Uhhh… you sorta’ missed this earlier in the conversation but I actually rubbed some prayer beads to flash-back to 26, here. I’m not sure how the jump forward works.”

“Does it work?” asked 26, “or aren’t we fated to keep repeating the same patterns?”

“If that is the case, I need to find a way to accompany myself. I was the one who needed rescuing from my own rescuing. You all are cherished pieces of me—I have warm fuzzy feelings for all of you.”

“You already said that, though I don’t know if I believe it,” said 19. “You two have made fun of me this entire trip. Hell, even the 17 year old version of me was more sympathetic and he hasn’t even gone through all the things I already have!” 26 sighed heavily and I wasn’t sure if it was remorse or exasperation.

“—you’re right!” I said before 26 could say anything more. “We’ve been minimizing your hurt all day— nay, for years and years! We even brought you to this spot so you could minimize 17 and instead you found his primordial kindness intact! We need your powers to take us forward!”

“Primordial kindness? Please don’t ask him to rub his stitch, 30…”

“No no, I’m telling him something from the future to jolt him ahead—”

“Well,” said 26, “stranger things have already happened in our life.”

maria's“I need your help, 26. I need you to remember with me the first time we went to play trumpet under the Bogue Street bridge AFTER the bronchitis subsided. 19, hold our hands. Imagine its late April and all of us are walking toward the Red Cedar River. It’s a little humid but much cooler than this or the train. In the shadowed alcoves beneath the bridge it is cooler still and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to play again. Imagine yourself silhouetted against a canvas of bright greens, standing between a camera lens and the river. Now remember the song that you composed for yourself. Hear it in your mind. What is it called?”

“Underbridge Blues” we all say.

19 shivered and crawled back into his bunk. “I wonder if I’ll even remember this dream.”

“I hope you don’t—” said 26, “so that the day under the bridge is a great surprise.”

“As for you, habeeb,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. He gave my hand a squeeze then let it go again. I almost asked him about the time we touched-hands before but I was in mid-sentence: “—Geneva is not going to be a total waste. There is no good falafel and sharing a room with Debz is going to continue being awkward. Try not to worry about that. When you return to New York City—grab my other hand while I tell you this— when you return to New York City you are going to take a long walk with Alex and Clifford; Clifford swears that he knows a great bar on the other side of Manhattan. You will be colder than you can remember being in your life and on the verge of turning back. But you find it! It’s ancient, the walls are covered in memorabilia from over a century of young men, coming and going. Imagine wish-bones thrown into a chandelier. Everything inside the bar is warm, despite the frigid city blocks all around, and those two guys… those two guys? They are still your friends in distant places. They still send you messages. 19 breathed deeply again and you… you? You will be close to other people again. It will take even longer but it’s happening. Your train will come…”

“—I’m on it; I’m awake,” he said. A lady in a uniform spoke to him in broken English and he pulled francs from his pocket to purchase some canned orange-juice.

“Nothing like a woman in uniform to get the blood flowing,” I said and tried to squeeze his hand. He was like a shadow: I couldn’t touch him. The sound of train cars, clacking against their tracks, got fainter and fainter as the windows shrank and the cabin around me became smaller. A matching oak desk and dresser materialized, then the rest of my room in Washington…

from-nas“I wonder if I’ll even remember this dream,” I said. A freight train passing under South Dakota Avenue moaned. I shivered and started to crawl back into bed… but I brought my rubber bouncing-ball with me. “Balls,” I mumbled and giggled quietly to myself as I fell back to sleep.

Finding Balls on my Walk (another fragment)

Credit: Angela Johnson,

Photo-Credit: Angela Johnson,

I needed to go walking. How I knew I needed to walk can be the subject of a longer reflection, some other time. I varied my pace as I meandered through my Northeast D.C. neighborhood casting glances into obscure alleys or across the surface of familiar houses in order to hook something new with my eyes. I plugged my ears with the sounds of a band I liked before I left Michigan; I plugged into the lyrics of a song by Fireflight:

[Verse] “I want to know you/
There’s so much at stake/
Can’t face the memories/
They bend me till I break/
Hiding from the past/
But it’s eating me alive/
Can’t block it out/
When it’s coming from inside”

“Precious denial, a stone to break my back/
The chains I carry won’t cut me any slack/
Imprisoned by fear with no room for my heart/
My only hope, only you can heal the scars…”

“Every turn leads me to a new dead-end/

lost again, I’m screaming your name/


Come close come close and call my name/

How can you turn your back on me when you know my pain?/

Stay close, stay close; light up the night/

Save me from the part of me that’s begging to die”

‘John Daniel’ used to mean something but I prefer to be called ‘JD’ most of the time. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and started to turn my palms upward. Quickly, I opened one eye and started to look around: was someone watching? Instead, I kicked a chunk of concrete up the street, up the route I had almost traveled, and took a sharp left toward home, toward the prospect of continuing a project for graduate school. The way downhill to the bridge that spans the train-tracks was punctuated with patches of asphalt, as out of place as tuxedo jackets laid over potholes, and buckled sidewalks like broken saltine crackers. A little rivulet ran along one edge. I weighed staying in D.C. versus looking for adventure abroad. Then, I thought of a friend who said she was moving to Iowa (with a boyfriend) and what a dismal idea that is if she wants to work in our field (International Education). There are solid reasons I might voice my dissent to her but sometimes I varnish better motives with my own vocational tensions — and I know it. These are both the sheen and the stain on my opinions. I stay silent, supportive.

I noticed the rivulet again: its speed, the way it carried debris, the volume of water moving down this little side-street to a storm grate by Vista street. For a second I imagined a capsized pot, the size of a car, spilling an endless supply of water onto the street from its absurd depths. I wondered from where the stream flowed, whether from a broken water-main or an unseen mountain of snow. Only a week ago I meandered through a groove in the snow piled on both sides of every road. A week ago I inhabited, I wandered, I explored a different scene in the same place.

Kirby's Dreamland Villain (cute, stationary)The water disappeared into the curb inlet and I went left, again, along Vista. On Vista my hooking eyes caught dozens of visions. Dropped from some unknown tree were a multitude of… spikey-balls? A fruit or nut of an unknown species, they looked all at once like giant cockle-burs or wilted, alien flowers. They reminded me of cartoon maces or generic, stationary foes from NES video games: “Kirby’s Dreamland” and its ilk.

Mines at sea.Before I could unhook them, they all turned into choices. I could step on them intentionally, with glee or curiosity or even sadness or, rather, I could fix my gaze on the distance and allow myself to trample them like wine-grapes. I could have embraced them, could have allowed them to happen, but I avoided them. Which choice of hundreds could be best? What if they really belonged to someone else and I ruined them? What if they made a mess on my shoes? These multitude futures, I decided, need to be left as they are until I could be certain. I want to come back with a machine, like the ones at the Bethlehem co-op, and pour all of them down its diesel-scented gullet and turn them into oil: dream-oil. Like olives, that cannot be eaten unless they have cured or are processed, I left them all alone. I did not pick one up, because I could not be sure that one of them was not my dream, or a dream I might regret, or…

Each spine became a button, a trigger-ball floating in the stream of my life. No, I did not touch all of those choices and their multitude of futures. They could be mines! Am I ready to explode? Am I fully qualified as the bomb? Have I practiced blowing-up enough? Can I find the time for combustion? What if my explosion isn’t as good as someone else’s… no…

A block further and many sidewalk-cracks later, I stepped in some dog-shit that I had not expected. That was probably gushing with symbolism, too, but I wish it had not gushed into the sole of my shoe. The copious, cleansing snow-piles that covered the sidewalks just a week ago succumbed to time. So I walked back to the minefield on my way to the stream. I wanted to stomp on one of those choices and see what future was inside but it was too late. Going backward, they had all turned into memories. They were all the past, now. Now, my dreams were flowing through the past. I stood on one leg, almost ready to reminisce — but how could I be sure that… how could I be… could I… how?

As I washed the dog-shit off my shoes, I wondered what what secrets bathed and clung to my shoes, what came next, and why this walk made me feel like writing…

Chirp Chirp Chirp

Old Punching-BagMy keyboard chirps at me. It does NOT ‘cheep cheep’ endearingly like a goldfinch. If I bang very hard on my oak desk, defiant ‘twerk’ noises spit at me. I want to tomahawk my keyboard with a meat-cleaver.

It may annoy my musical sensibilities because the chirp comes too late, not in tempo with my key-strokes or on the off-beat like peck-horns answering a tuba during a polka. A tiny disk-jockey with bad rhythm is rubbing his scratch-plates a quarter-count behind the beat, somewhere between the mid-nineties and the jungle of circuits in my laptop. I wondered what it would be like to use a typewriter, to feel the levers beneath the keys delivering the force of my reflections. My words would literally have impact, the pace of my ideas would become the cadence of my practice.

Then I hit the back-space key and rephrased; I moved a sentence up and corrected a misspelling. The creaking idiosyncrasies of those protruding letters were crickets from hell, to writers typing their way out of purgatory decades ago. Each manual carriage return must have felt like cocking an antiquated rifle. Twick twick twick twick twick BANG: ka-chink. Twick twick twick twick twick BANG:

Twerk. Wicky-wicky-wicka-TWERK. Check my e-mail. I’m procrastinating.

Even when I do my homework I am procrastinating. Ever since I decided to start a Masters’ Degree in International Education and Training here in Washington DC instead of a Masters’ of Fine Arts in Poetics in Washington State I have been procrastinating an important project: my career as an author. This is not to say that I do not procrastinate my ITEP work too. Naturally, I do. Five or six weeks ago, maybe more, I pinned an article to my bookmarks tool-bar. I read it yesterday (“Why Wait? The Science Behind Procrastination”). These words in particular continue to chirp in my ear…

“The chronic procrastinator, the person who does this as a lifestyle, would rather have other people think that they lack effort than lacking ability,” says Ferrari. “It’s a maladaptive lifestyle.”

People do not judge me when I procrastinate, we judge my behavior. We laugh about it. To know that I was a bad writer would destroy my entire sense of self. Day after day passed, four years ago in Grand Rapids, and the words would not come. Regardless of why, I never wrote a book. The prospect of being a ‘bad’ missionary, even of dying in on a great adventure, seemed far less dire. Dying for something suited me more than living as nothing. For better or worse, when I got to Palestine Zoughbi convinced me that my living would accomplish more. He was right, as as he often is. However, the gamble that I took in 2011 did not pay as I had planned; I have checked all my levers and the words do not pour like a flood of quarters onto the casino floor. There is more to write about but no jackpot, just the same fear: if I start writing, it will be a long time before someone appreciates it — especially if that someone is ME.

But excellence is a lie. As Jane Vella said, and my training design instructors were fond of quoting, “the excellent is the enemy of the good”. There is no escape from the chirp of the keyboard, from the crickets of hell and the clunk of imperfect tools, except to turn them into punching bags. Around the time I confessed to Zoughbi that I wanted to stand in front of a bulldozer, I started using the boys’ punching bag. It hung from a sturdy green railing above the irregular limestone court next to the chicken-alcove — a little cave where the Zoughbis kept five hens. I was pissed about many things. The point is not that it felt good to be mad so much as that it felt right to feel the anger fully in the “thwack” of knuckles hitting canvas. I am trying to get the chirp to work like that, pretending that I can feel my knuckles splitting against the side of that bag each time my computer makes an unsettling noise…

—I can almost hear the chickens clucking, irregularly—

…it’s more of a ‘cluck’ than a ‘chirp’, anyway…

“Gardens” before “Pride”: trading Austen for Silko

Find more of Joan Peters' artwork here:

Find more of Joan Peters’ artwork here:

First of all, I want to apologize to all of my remaining readers: this is not the sort of piece I plan to write on a regular basis. I am in a fitful state of limbo. I ought to be contemplating the next stage in my career as a critical educator or author but instead I worked myself into a contentious mood, last week, and disparaged Jane Austen’s writing. The whole row began when I reacted to a noxious excerpt beneath a blog-post-link on Facebook. Reading later, I learned that Young Adult Author Anne Ursu was addressing misogynous comments from alleged-literary-writers (read her post here) and the putrid gem surfaced in her supporting evidence:

I heard a teacher joke that forcing boys to read Pride and Prejudice in high school was turning them off from books for life. And, haha, hilarious. It’s an important work and gives students plenty to analyze. But we just can’t expect boys to appreciate the merits of the book, to engage with it, to grow as readers, because, girl book. We cannot ask boys to think outside themselves. They won’t do it, say these particular men who refuse to think outside themselves.

With apologies to Jane Austen connoisseurs, I also believe that Pride & Prejudice is not great fodder for teenagers. My good friend Gene rebutted:

I would never say Jane Austen was a feminist. She was forward thinking for her time but she does provide historical context for the rise of feminism. And JANE AUSTEN IS NOT BORING!!!!!!! I didn’t appreciate her until I was older and could see the beautiful layers to her writing. You are on my list, Mr. Gore!

He has a point. I am arguing from a weak position, since I failed to finish the novel in the laundry room of my dormitory eight years ago; my undergraduate wit may not have been up to the task. People with the taste for Brit-Lit (like my sister) digest those nuances more readily and I will condemn a historical fascination with the period.

Yet because her plot-lines concern the British upper and middle classes, Austen’s books inherently have colonial underpinnings. Everyone is groaning at me, now. Roll your eyes – get it out of your systems. Yes: I am playing the ‘colonization card’. The lives of opulence and leisure characteristic of these classes were sustained by the subjugation of colonized people – there was not an aspect of their economy that was not enhanced by—yes, I know I am being hard on the female characters, who were merely born into that—what I should say is that even something as simple as tea-time was a product of British Imperialism. Tea does not grow on Atlantic Isles. Their caffeine consumption was subsidized by militarization…

Begging to differ with Ursu’s teacher friend, I think Austen’s texts are far too palatable to a neoliberal, heteronormative male. Historic works like hers are part of a straw-doll feminism regularly used as fuel for archaic masculinities. I would much rather see Silko injected into high school lit-curricula —

Yes: I am biased. Leslie Marmon Silko is my favorite author of all time because she wrote “Ceremony”, whose half-Indigenous protagonist (Tayo) returns from the WWII battlefield to the plains and mountains of the American South-West, struggling desperately against the Spiritual quicksands of post-traumatic stress. I have my own relationship with PTSD and an affinity for indigenous literature. Now that my biases are laid bare, I am going to contend that students should know Silko long before Austen using “Gardens in the Dunes” as an example, since that text also features two sisters. Versus Mary & Elizabeth Bennett we will consider why little boys and girls should get their feminist buzz from ‘Indigo’ and ‘Sister Salt’.

Austen’s Bennet sisters were a beacon to white women (where are the WOC?) for decades because their voices are heard. They speak with as much nuance as their male counterparts. Far from being objects, Austen’s characters are complete, colorful, and roundly textured human characters; they are tailored with the same detail and sophistication as any comparable male character might be constructed by Austen’s male contemporaries. Bravo, Jane! However, Mary and Elizabeth still operate and draw their power-base from within the confines of a patriarchal society. Mr. Darcy merely appears as attractive from within that rigid limit-situation (Freirian thinking, here). There is no attempt to deconstruct the limit-situation, no move away from class-privilege in order to claim a female identity that transcends their society’s reference points. It troubles me to think that young ladies might project themselves into Austen’s characters and develop similar expectations for relationships: negotiating from below, invoking a world for themselves through male eyes. The Disney Princess mentality is not far removed from this.

Silko’s pair of sisters might be better described as proto-feminist. Indigo and “Sister-Salt” are among the final remnants living at the traditional gardens of “The Sand Lizard People”, who are captured and sent to separate ‘Indian schools’ after their mother’s disappearance and grandmother’s death. Tenacious Indigo declares that she will escape, just like her grandmother always did but… yes!: she ESCAPES and stumbles into the custody of an old-money-California-couple, Hattie and Edward. Indigo turns their paternalism inside-out. She is able to appreciate and assimilate to Hattie’s classy world for a time but, ultimately, makes a choice to return to her Sand Lizard way of life with an infusion of Western knowledge – not the reverse. It would be difficult for Indigo to be drawn into Hattie’s (and Elizabeth Bennet’s) ‘upper-crust’ because Silko has endowed the sisters with cultural pride and a strong matrilineal vein. In Silko’s texts women draw power from the Earth directly, saving wayward men. So close to success, Tayo nearly falters during “Ceremony” but… nah, I won’t spoil it.

With Silko, The Power originates in women – when Indigo and Hattie travel to Italy, they encounter multiple effigies of a fertility-goddess beloved to ancient Europeans… if Silko’s sisters are not feminist it is because they never needed feminism. Their matrilineal strand predates patriarchy, so their seeming acts of female empowerment bloom naturally from an indigenous persistence. That’s Silko.

I will try not to spoil the plot completely but I believe Hattie’s exposure to the indigeous women lends the book its feminism. For example, Sister’s control of her own sex-life. Sister Salt excepts money for sex from multiple men working on the dam project. She not only enjoys the sex but also makes enough to live by doing laundry, saving the extra money. Proper, white culture prefers women to be destitute drug-addicts when engaged in prostitution but Sister Salt makes a choice, validating the practice with ease. When she becomes pregnant, she chooses to only have sex with the father… eventually *wink*. It is inconceivable that Elizabeth Bennet would have such autonomy over her vagina – pre OR post marriage. For Sister Salt, there is no marriage… no need for the baby’s father per se …she goes from daughter to mother without losing her identity as Sister.

Many educators would balk at the prospect of discussing Sister Salt’s sexual choices, which shows little respect for the fact TEENAGERS ALREADY KNOW ABOUT SEX. We could have a robust, healthy discussion of Sister’s choices. Alternatively, too few instructors step past the literary elements in a thick-cut of Brit-Lit in order to appreciate the class and global-economic ramifications of daily tea-time. Oscar Wilde makes my point much more aptly (and subtly) in “A Picture of Dorian Gray”. Knowing the full depth of his sinister character, I read page after page of Wilde describing Dorian Gray’s imported merchandise and commodities. Having just finished “Orientalism” by Edward Said, my reading of those ‘boring’ passages was imbued with manifold layers of darkness: the subjugation of the mid-East, Burma and the Indian sub-Continent — thousands marching to the sea with Gandhi decades later… (okay, I’ll spare you the lecture…). Something I noted about Sister’s sex-life was how Silko grounded that in a distinctly Sand Lizard understanding of sex’s place in community life, not in rebellion or desperation. ps: ELIZABETH BENNET MUST HAVE A VAGINA, RIGHT?

Manifest Destiny looms large in “Gardens…” but I want to reinforce the gender element; Silko tints her men in “Gardens” with an empathic brush, creating characters we can mourn for when greed — yes greed— strikes. Silko’s women do not seize power from men, they retain power regardless of men. That is more disconcerting to The Patriarchy because feminism, a relatively recent phenomena, might still be branded as “new” and “hostile”. Earlier waves of (white) feminism followed a narrative where men possessed power first and women fought to obtain a piece but Silko’s women of color find their roots in a natural succession of female power – in Silko, as in the Laguna-Pueblo tradition that produced her, female power is original.

My Native American Literature professor (a Lakota man) said, “the penis always retreats after sex”. An instructor of mine in Belize (also male) quoted a Garifuna proverb as saying “A pumpkin cannot bear a watermelon,” which suggests that men and women both draw their essence from the maternal—the vine that nurtured us. Masculinities’ prior claims on society are debunked: society owes its coherence not to ‘great men’ but to thousands upon thousands of mothers who taught their children how to be and share family, the basic unit of community.

I will concede that my post-colonial criticisms are anachronistic, applied to a female author from the 19th Century. I am sorry, Jane; I respect your achievement for the intelligence and determination (and solid grammar) it required. I confess my delicious hypocrisy: I enjoyed both Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” AND Chinua Achebe’s critical shredding of that novel; the tension between hegemonic literature and post-colonial power-ups is dialectical, not paradoxical! Yet I cannot concede that I am wrong because my argument remains that the Austen text is less suitable for young men to read if they are to be freed from toxic masculinities. Jane Austen cast a beautiful glow upon the oft neglected potential of women in the British upper-class: human beings that deserve to be acknowledged. Yet Silko pays homage to women’s role as not only significant but foundational. Silko does not hightlight “women’s concerns” or give voice to a female culture as non-dominant; her worldview assumes that women are responsible for the entire Earth, just as much or even more than men. Women represent and restore order.

Additionally, “Gardens…” touches on expansionism, trade protectionism, religious hegemonies, and the theft of cultural object, to name a few. It’s loaded with still-relevant topics. Given that so many masculinities are drenched in neoliberal, radical individualities, Silko’s texts offer more direct moments of critical encounter for teens. The greatest flaw in my proposal is NOT that “Gardens in the Dunes” is too mature but that it literally has so many gardens: boys will need the patience to read the masterful, botanical descriptions that separates its action scenes — action scenes with guns, sex, liquor, a monkey named Lineas, and edible squash blossoms from Jesus Christ the Messiah.

—however beautifully layered, Jane Austen just cannot compete with that.

Pentagon City Mall: Craziness Dawns! are still at the damn mall. I am going to stay at the mall until I can get the hell out of it — do you understand me?

Nonfiction reflection is my native genre, my homeland in the world of writing. I started my musings in LiveJournal as a place to collect my teenage thoughts and give them significance. By the time I began “Reverse Exiled”, the impulse to journal was part of my mental machinery. Yet, I never intended for it to be that way. At an early stage, I contemplated leaving my own plot behind. Why I never made the jump is of great import, for me, but probably not of great interest to my audience. What you all need to know is that we are at the fucking mall. Right-the-fuck-now. You can smell pleather at the overpriced belt and hat stand in the middle of the Pentagon City Mall food court. There is actually a stand that sells sports-team themed spatulas but those are hard to smell so it became a belt & hat stand for the sake of your nostrils.

I needed to find a thin place in the universe: a singularly, an anomalous zone where the autobiographical and fictitious dimensions could be close enough to wade from one to the other rather than needing to build a ‘ship’. I never had the rocket-power I needed to reach escape velocity, in Grand Rapids, and jettison from the heavy places I reached (not entirely of my own volition). I wanted an escape: there may be some cold, surreal portal through inter-stellar space hidden in the deep vacuum between galaxies but I turned toward the whirling bulge in the middle and… that is where the singularity is: the black-hole, the rip in space. Not on the whispering shores of Lake Michigan where I long to be but at the damn mall where people rush around the food court, swung to-and-fro by something infinitesimally small and equally massive. I bet it was under that cracked tile next to the Starbucks island — the orbits were most intense in its vicinity.

Making astronomical metaphors is one thing but actually kneading those powerful images into scene takes a higher level of prowess. My Creative Writing classes brought me closer but I was missing a key component: insistence. More than persistence, insistence is the ability to continue producing coarse content with the trust that quality material can be produced. I never gave myself the space, especially emotionally, to do all the bad writing I needed to do in order to produce fiction and poetry — to be a story-teller. I wanted to be a prodigy: accolades on the first attempt.

As I’ll pick-up in later journal entry, I wanted success. I have clung to my technical ability to produce grants, prayers, newsletters, and other defined-products. When I walked into the mall I expected to see a clear picture of rampant materialism that I could deconstruct and critique using experiential lenses. That was the case at first. Then I became uncomfortable: I was losing the mental strength to hold all the stimuli steady — I wanted out but I resisted and started journaling instead. The volatile corners of that world creased and collapsed upon themselves.

Suddenly, I knew how Neil might be feeling. From time to time, over the past few months, I try to think about what Neil is going through right now. Neil spent three months in the West Bank. He’s from the DC-area but he studied civil engineering at a Big-Ten school — imagine trying to make sense of the separation barrier with his background. He is someone who believes that infrastructure should make commerce — and life — better for communities, coming into contact with (as I called it in my New World Outlook article) a ‘titanic millipede chewing through the countryside’. All of that is packed away, though, along with many other emotions. Our minds, Neil’s and mine, are like the neighborhoods and villages we knew, where it took much longer to get from one place to another — from one thought to another, one memory to another — because of physical obstructions, dangerous passages, roads in shambles, and points of unpredictability and/or hassle (check-points).

Having undergone that kind of fragmentation, Neil emerged from a fog in the Pentagon City Mall, just before Christmas. The holiday season was in full tilt and the Starbucks smells like artificial-peppermint-syrup. The mall was built as several white tiers where every floor was a little narrower than the one below it, like a wedding-cake turned inside-out. Neil sweeps his gaze across the spacious atrium, noticing bedazzled teddies in the Victoria’s Secret display window on the second-floor but quickly fixing his eyes on the apple store. From that distance, the panels of animated LED lights looked like fairies — no, they looked like they could be a cybernetic race of lightning-beetles, flying in formation of their own accord to form a reindeer, then an iPod.

hallmark_logo_2515He is supposed to be meeting some friends [what are their names? He used to know their names…] but they aren’t where they said they were. They said they were going to be on ground level, beneath an overhang, next to the window-display at a Hallmark store (is there even a Hallmark there? I guess there is…] one floor higher than subway level. Squeezing through the swarms buying their holiday cards, Neil realized that he was critically late to their meeting point. He knew they would not have waited: the search began. He drifted with the flow of the crowd for a minute.

As he turned to walk away, a television monitor glided from the wall and settled on his shoulder.

“The you take the Neil and just give’m a chop chop chop…”

“Oh Holy Fuck!” he gasped, spinning around. By that time, it was almost back to its perch over the door. That really happened. The television speaker was right in our ears, whispering our names. A fit woman is smiling and explaining how to make a ‘delicious’ salad to restore the body after an exercise routine. Obviously, a pitch for overpriced knives being sold in the home-furnishings store below but Neil was impressed. He knew the Mall would be confusing, like the directory where the label for a store would move when he tried to slide his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. The fact that surreal shit would actually begin to happen, really, was something I had not anticipated either. In my case, the television was only a ventriloquist. It never moved, it made my shirt-collar start talking: “…then add some tomatoes to your kale…” He misheard. Kale, not Neil. “—next on our count-down—” chimes the neighboring monitor, “is someone we have not heart from in a few years—”

“Seems like a couple months ago, to me…” makes his way onto the escalator and notices a short lady with long, wavy hair carrying a zebra-striped purse. He knows he has seen her before but, because he cannot think of her name, he cannot say anything. Will not, really. She is already walking briskly from the top of the escalator toward another corridor, sometimes flickering. You know? A person can flicker a little, as their image passes through so much tumult. It must be true because I just ‘remembered’ it and put it here, without even modifying it. It is an idea. The zebra-purse helped, you know. Zebras flicker a little to make it harder for the lions to track them visually. As long as he was searching for friends, he could be searching for anyone or anything. The woman never appeared again but he was already going down that corridor, fascinated: a tourist, a pilgrim in his own city.

* * *

I don’t truly want to stop before I tell you what happened when he went into Nordstrom. The department stores are a fresh dose of ergot. Eventually, he finds two more Hallmark stores but his friends are actually at… well, I’ll tell you in the book if it ever gets written.

I cannot stress enough how relieved I was to freak-out. All of this time, I thought I might feel ridiculous when I visited the mall and learned that it was composed sensibly and populated by well-adjusted folks but I found none of that. Some people were bound to be well-adjusted, of course, but the mall is an actual hot-bed of para-normality. It was both vindicating and freeing because I did not feel as if I needed to critique the mall and add artificial tints to enhance its features — to fictionalize it. The mall was already so close to being fiction that all I needed to do was not allow myself to become grounded. I refused to change my reference points to adjust to that kind of insanity: I allowed the craziness to dawn on me.