Indian Summer

A short story I recently wrote. It is created from the ideas presented in this painting: Indian Summer, by George Inness.

by Logan Zillmer

   I left her sitting there in the window sill, looking out onto the land that was overgrown. Jonah was in the house with her. It was Sunday, seven days after Father passed. The air was still warm, hot even, not humid so it was comfortable, even though the leaves had begun to change. The whole plot of land was calm, as if somehow it also knew he was gone, the Earth waiting to turn cold, knowing it held a good one in its belly. Father always called the natural world: the trees and the river and the tarpons and all else, the “Second Bible”. It was upon the first that he was strictly raised, and from this first, by the second, that he was weaned; though the spirit of God in him never died, as they say, in his turning from the church, because he had found it moving among the wild things in life. The wooden boat scratched along as I dragged it through the orange leaves, scraping the dirt from the bottom. There was a patch of dirt in the yard now where the boat had lain since last I was here. Father had kept only one cow, and she roamed around in the evening sun outside the window. Mother was talking to her. I remember Father saying, “A mechanic who keeps but one cow, by taking pains, can make her yield abundantly”.   The long reeds waved against my bare legs. The Sun beat down on my face. I spotted a bright white Magnolia near a log in the reeds.

   I watched Momma as she come out of the bedroom in her new dress. She had a smile on her face bright as the flowers on her dress. She spent nights a whole month making the dress, sometimes before Papa and I get up in the morning, before Papa and I saw to the milking and the trees, and before we went out to the river to fish and hunt sponges. We made our own breakfast, me and Papa, he’d say it’s a fair trade for meals and that Mommas’ gonna make two more today, we can handle one I expect. He grabbed her around the waist and she put her hand in his and he twirled her around the room and Jonah watched through the window holding his axe. Jonah loved Father and Mother. He said Papa was his whale. Papa always said nonsense and that he had got a heart from God too and it beat just the same, and just cause some don’t hear it don’t mean it ain’t true. Jonah didn’t care about making money; he always said “I thanks God for what let a man live as he is”. Jonah has a Seminole woman who visits to the farm sometimes and makes rush baskets and leaves them full of berries and fruits. I know Jonah loves her cause I seen him treat her like Father treats Mother, hugging on her neck and being sweet. Momma likes her too and sometimes she helps with things around the farm, and Momma taught her to keep her hands soft with vinegar after working with them in the yard and after washing. I jumped up and down and Momma and Papa danced through the light from the windows and through the dust they was kicking up and laughing. It was Papa that put her smile on, not so much the new dress, it was that he never forgot, he never backed out or said he was too tired. Papa knew how much this day meant to Momma every month. He said, “A poor man has to treat his wife right ‘cause he’s lucky enough she took his ring, and lucky more when the ring was only a promise, and more still when she realized that it might as well be a reed tied around her finger.” So he never said no, he never dragged or carried off slow. He put on that energy he’d stored up over the days. I know he looked forward to it like she did.

   I pulled the old wooden boat through the reeds toward the becalmed water. A loon called out somewhere from inside the fog; that same fog that rested there atop the crystal blue bayou since I was a boy and probably that same loon; that ageless mystical creature that always came down early and stayed late. The sun was breaking the horizon beyond the river. It had been cold the night before and the bayou was covered in a thick immovable fog, so much so that when we pushed out we couldn’t see five feet straight ahead. I lay in bed that morning, listening to the loon’s eerie tremolo. Father came in with the lantern and kneeled down next to my bed.

   I don’t know why but I always pretended to sleep when he come in to wake me. He always did talking quietly, telling of the day we were gonna have and what we were gonna do. This morning he told of our great loon hunt. “It’s a true hunter that catches his game in a mystical fog like this, son, and is only what such a beautiful bird deserves.” I dressed and we ate eggs. He told me again about the man he met on his way to Florida after the war. He was a strange and energetic man, but with a tremendous love and genius for nature, he would say. He carried a bag full of plants in a plant-press and nothing else but a few crackers and a few books; one he gave to father and father reads it to me. I always thought Waldo was a strange name but I understand some of it now. The strange man was also on his way to the Gulf Coast so they went together, and was a good thing they did because on more than one occasion they had ran into angry Rebels who were mad from the war and had spent the months after roaming areas of the South robbing and looting travelers, wearing long Rebel hair and riding sickly horses. One time Father said the man made him carry a notepad and one of the plant presses to show that Father wasn’t anything but this strange man’s apprentice. They would stand aside the road and talk about plants while the young, gaunt riders passed slowly by, looking on these two strange men and their things, thinking whether it would be worth the energy to rob them or not. They talked about religion, both of them growing up in the church, and of nature and how to see Him in all its parts. Father said it was the best trip of his life. And one day we seen that man’s face in a newspaper; he was protecting trees out west they said were bigger than a rich man’s house.

   We would hunt and kill when necessary, Father and I, but not for game, not for sport. We never caught the loon that morning with just a simple fishing net and a box, and I’m certain Father never thought we would. But this wasn’t apparent from the rigor with which he hunted, wrapped in heaven and haze. We turned around for hours on the river, guided only by ear, drawn forth as if by some beguiling, omnipresent siren, Father bent on the bow like George Washington, our aquiline boat pressing silently through the calm blue water, swirling the fog around our bodies like a horse running through smoke.

   Each of the horses have their own stall and shoes. “Each is not plural son,” he said, “each is singular.” I looked at him, the sharp dark eyes that had life and energy. “So, what should it be?” I looked back at what I had written. Again, I read it aloud, Father nodding along and slowing at the right moment to queue my change. I stopped pulling the boat for a moment and stood silently, listening again for the loon, but it was gone. It had disappeared somewhere among the fog like a ghost, an apparition, maybe passing into another time altogether with that same silent ease with which it moves so effortlessly through our hazy bayou. I looked down at the boat; it was wet from the rain early that morning. It was dark and black at the bottom.

   I stood over the box where he lay. I heard people speaking. He looked kind and like he still had that energy stored up inside him, trying to get out. The land was quiet. He grabbed mother’s hand and told her, “God is good that he lets me go to him, coming from you”. She wept and hugged his neck. She held a magnolia and looked out the window. Someone began speaking. I watched them standing in the river, the tarpon fished jumped all around and he put a white cloth over Father’s nose and mouth and dipped him backwards into the river. He was dressed in a white robe and I couldn’t hardly see him. The water was so full of light that I could only see my father’s dark clothes and when he went under I could only look away. Father walked out of the river and the light, the tarpons still jumping, the bright light glinting off their big silver bodies. He looked at mother who smiled. “God, though he gave us time, does not require it quantified for admittance at the Golden Gate. He accepts all who believe, at any point in their journey”. She leaned in and moved his pillow; he tried to sit up but she made him stay still. “For God does not punish those astray who return, nor does he hold higher those who never leave the comfort of these hallowed walls. There is room for all at the foot of the Lord.” The light was fuzzy and I was hot; the dank room swirled around my head and I suddenly became dizzy. I couldn’t find anything solid to look at or hold to. I felt air coming out and my mouth moving. The preacher stopped and looked at me with big terrified eyes; mother came and wrapped her thin arms around me. The hot air stopped coming out of my lungs. Ellie moaned on the new hay, her swollen belly rose and fell hard and fast. Her tail was wrapped up. I pulled at the little foal’s legs, trying to help. Then she lay on her side, breathing, resting. I looked at Mother, she was serene and calm; she was smiling. The foal lay at its mother’s side, wet, shiny-black on the new hay. The sun broke through the other side of the barn and shone onto the baby; dust danced in the beam of orange light. Father was proud and stood with his arms akimbo, looking on. Suddenly the mare rose to her feet. Her knees wobbled. “Whoa El, whoa now, not yet girl!” Father said to her, the one he knew for years as a friend, who trusted none but him. He moved toward her to calm her down, but, in a violent burst the umbilical cord broke, and blood ran from both ends, from both horses, out onto the new hay. He moved quickly then, running to the trailer. The exhausted mare flopped down again, almost crushing her baby; the foal moaned in pain and confusion. Blood trickled through the hard stalks of hay onto the earthen floor. Father returned with a soft rope in his hand; it had been boiled that morning. “See to the foal. Tie up that end so it don’t bleed out,” he instructed, handing me the rope. I knelt down in the blood and broken sac and wrapped the lace around the umbilical cord attached to the foal and pulled it tight. The blood slowed, and the little horse lay moaning. Pieces of hay were stuck to its body. Father calmed Ellie, and tied up the other umbilical end. Mother began to tear up, her eyes turned grey and heavy. She put her hands up to her face. “They’re all right Junie,” Father said with that earth-warm slow confidence, “just a little scare, you know she gets this way.” Chickadees darted among the wooden rafters and the orange dust. The cat prowled into the barn and looked at the mare and foal, both breathing heavily on the soiled hay. I filled a glass with the solution. I knelt down and put the umbilical in the solution and pressed the glass against the belly of the little horse, then shook it. I knew what to do. Father knelt next to the mare and slapped his hand on her flank twice, soft and slow. “She’s a beautiful girl, El,” he said. His eyes were soft and dark, and full of joy and relief. “For I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” Mother and I were outside now, and I could smell the honeysuckle when I took deep breaths. “He doesn’t know a damn thing about Father! He wasn’t there when he was baptized again, he doesn’t know why!” I said. She understood and wept in her black dress.

   Late summers always have the same smell to them inside the house. I can still smell it. Like the sun has been heating up the wood all season; each day it warms another layer in the boards, and in the late summer, you can smell the deepest center of the wood. The house is somehow just as much a part of this earth as the trees growing outside. The aroma lifts up off the boards and sits inside the house like a thick blanket. He made his drink; dissolved sugar in a little water and added Kentucky whiskey after. His father always did it when he lived in Mississippi before the war, and taught him how; now I do it. He grabbed mother by the face and told her “I love you only.” She didn’t mind his rough hands or his dirty fingernails.

   And they were, not because he didn’t care; he wasn’t a rich man with a summer home here in Tarpon Springs like most folks, but because he and I were farmers and fisherman; we were men of the dirt and earth. He and Mother were one of the first here at the Spring Bayou except the few Seminole Indians, who had been here since we don’t know how long, hiding from white folks who made war with them. And we lived like we were the only, like we were on some island, just Mother, Father, Jonah and I, the Seminoles not wanting to be seen most of the time. It wasn’t safe for my father where he grew up during the war, and less so after. He never said why but I know he didn’t carry the Southern ideals like everyone else, and they knew he didn’t; Father loved Lincoln. He said he was right about the Nation’s degeneracy. He came to Tarpon after he learned of Lincoln’s death. He couldn’t pretend anymore, and everyone was coming home and making trouble for him. One night, he said he almost got strung up next to a couple negros that was planning on going to Oregon.  They used to tell me stories about it here before anyone started coming down from up north, and before the Greeks came and the sponge hunters. And I see all of it here, anyone can and he don’t have that, that pride they all carried with them from Mississippi and Alabama and Georgia, that pride that the men brought here. “But it hasn’t made a man a better husband that I’ve seen; it hasn’t done a thing but only make him look a better man among the men.” She looked into my eyes. Blonde wisps of hair reached across her cheek and nose and hung on the puffy shoulders of her dress. The purple and orange sun dropped out beyond the river and reflected in her big round eyes, they were afire like the leaves on the tree above us. She banged the heels of her shoes on the raw faces of the chopped wood. “Do you think my father is bad man because he is a gentleman,” she said, not asking, that one word telling me everything she wanted to say, “because he carries himself in a certain way?” A blue heron stood in silhouette among the reeds. “Everyone is looking for a clean blue cove to push out into, lying on their backs, faces to the sun,” I said. She stared at me with a face like an owl.

   Papa and me caught a loon one morning, he was injured, we found him laying in the reeds. We carried him through the yard and into the house. He had shiny red eyes. He let Papa and I hold him, but we had to take him out when he almost cracked the cat’s skull with his beak. He pretended not to see him coming then raised up and cracked him good. Papa said it’s a smart bird. But we fixed him right and papa said he’d be fine.

    My feet crackled over the dead leaves. Not many trees change in the place of my youth, but there was always one in the yard that lit up like a great fire. I looked back at it from the edge of the river. They always said they were lucky to have me, that I was their miracle. Mother had three miscarriages. She always said it was stress from the war that killed her babies, and that every one of them are still here, waiting for her to pass on, and that her soul would take theirs with it up to the Golden Gates. She said the same about father the day he passed away. I laughed aloud standing there next to the boat at the river’s edge thinking about Jonah. “Thas a awful lonely thing to say ma’am.” Jonah said, “Man’s soul like mister James ain’t gotta wait no more n’ it take a soul to travel, an I reckon that ain’t no time. Thas awful lonely, bein trapped like that here, specially them little unborns… thas awful lonely, awful lonely thing to say ma’am.” A slight breeze picked up; it was cool. It rustled the orange tree and the rush and the reeds. I could smell the river and the honeysuckle and the deep center of the wood. Most of the tarpons are gone now, but every now and then one will jump, silver-backed, out of the river and catch the warm rays of the sun. I saw one just then and thought of Father.

   One last time, I pushed the old wooden boat out into the fog of the Spring Bayou, out onto that timeless blue water. I called out for the loon, and listened. It was still warm, the Earth knowing whose soul had departed, that it wasn’t of a speculator, or a politician, a degenerate or a sot, and here was, this Indian Summer, its parting gift.

The Cinematographer

A short one act play I wrote.

Rehearsal: 10:38pm, Friday (1983)


“Just...” he explained to his photographer, pointing and twisting his arm with a grotesque surly force, “just fuck the audience with the camera,” really filling out the consonant, and indicating with his arm the physical motion he wanted the camera to make and also the protruding molestation that would occur in the mind of the audience.
“You know,” he went on, “just keep them off balance, keep taking them by surprise,” he held his hands together and created the shape of a box and put it up to his eyes and looked through it. Then he began tilting his head and hands from side to side, his eyes constantly within the frame, indicating how he wanted the camera to see the actors.
He put his hands down and stood there for a moment looking around, as if seeing the set for the first time and then walked briskly back to the chair and sat down. He is a short man by Midwestern standards, those by which he was raised, but here that doesn’t matter, and not because most of the people with whom he associates - actors and the like - are the same relative slightness in stature, but because here, he is big. This is Hollywood. He yelled to his photographer from the chair, “I want it to feel disorienting you know, disassociate the audience from the story.”
The photographer, a tall quiet gaunt man with thinning hair and a pale complexion, replied with a lazy resounding voice as if it were emanating from the thick hollow hull of a ship, “They’re going to be aware of the camera though, you’re making them aware, I think the story is great, why disassociate the audience from it?”
The Director looked at him for a moment, “Well sure Frank, I think the story is great too, that’s why I accepted the project,” he sniffled quickly and half raised his hand to his nose, “but I think my vision is going to add to the story, not take away from it. It’s an artistic choice.”
The photographer nodded and shuffled his feet. He looked up at his lights and then back at the Director, who was lazily staring back at him. He had an off-putting, almost silly confidence that he wore in that grim stare that couldn’t be vanquished. He simply wore you down. The photographer looked toward the talent and lazily protruded his arm and twisted as the Director had vehemently coached a moment ago, laying on a thin layer of facetiousness by juxtaposing his languid action to the directors vigorous screwing.
“Fuck em,” the photographer said, “with the camera.”
“Yeah.” The director added, “keep em’ off balance you know?”
The photographer nodded his head and walked back to his camera set up on the tri-pod, his crew looking to him, alert and at the ready. He looked through the lens out of habit and then pulled back and looked at the talent. He ran his hand through the thick grey hair above his wrinkled forehead.
The director sat back and clapped the headphones over his ears and looked into the screen. “Lets run it one more time... lets run it one more time!" He yelled.
The photographer turned to an assistant of his and smiled mildly, almost wisely, like a secret could be found in that smile, some lost ancient wisdom that kept him going, kept his heart alive; the photographer nodded and walked into the shadows.

Soliloquy After the Storm

The other day a man fell off my roof. I thought about it a lot the last few days. Putting myself up there with him. That terrifying instant when you know. Luckily he is OK; broken pelvis. We thought he had broken his back.

Here is a soliloquy I wrote recently. I'd like to make it into a short film if I can find the right actor.

     Shaded by the large looming maple tree, he sat, reverent somewhat but with a sort of immediate detachment from the world around him. It was dawn and the sun rose slowly behind the small placid lake. He did not know how long he had been awake. His clothing was still damp but began to dry as the sun broke the horizon and glinted brilliantly across the becalmed water. Sometime before he slept, he couldn't remember when, he had taken off his dirty white sneakers and set them beside the tree with his damp socks tucked carelessly inside them. The air was still warm and had been all night, even through the storm which allayed somewhat the indomitable humidity of the previous evening. He did not know how far he had walked, and lacking direction or any sort of equanimity when he began, he could only guess at where he had ended, where he was now. Indiscriminate birds chirped or sang and he lifted his head, less in an attempt to discern and categorize them and more in a simple amazement at his recognizing their sounding at all, as if it had been a long time since he heard the sound of a bird, or at least gave effort to listen to one. But now he heard them. The thick grey clouds had spread sometime in the early morning. There were a few puddles about but for the most part the large maple's broad leaves stymied even the heavier rain. He had weathered the storm as long as he could but had to take refuge, though he hardly remembers doing so.
     He pushed with his palms on the soft grass and lifted himself into a sitting position against the trunk of the tree. He dug a damp single cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it into his mouth; then retrieved a lighter as well from the same pocket and tried to strike a flame. It was too damp to spark but he continued to roll the wheel over and over methodically and without restraint for a long time; sitting and staring at it, thinking not of it but of something and everything else, still surprised at hearing the birds. He rolled it over and over as if he couldn't believe it didn't work, that flame depended on a tangible and natural reaction, one that could be altered or stymied with other simple natural occurrences like rain, not believing like a kid doesn't believe he can't lift an automobile over his head until he has tried it over and over to exhaustion, as if the routine of dependency on the objects was so ingrained that his mind simply could not accept their not working, and like a child believing that the natural law held no jurisdiction on his expectation. Or maybe he was simply too tired to believe. His energies did not reach beyond his self-habituated daily process, on which his faculties and the objects that served his habits relied. He stopped striking the wheel and returned both damp objects to his pocket and the birds and wind sang loudly in his ear. He heard them in a slow steady build like a wave of crickets in the wet summer grass, and he heard them as well and he was surprised. He felt the early breeze, warm and palpable, but it was somehow less a sensation for the skin and more tactile for the olfactories, as if he could smell the breeze was warm, as if his nose had assumed the physiological function of his somatic senses.
     Large Canadian geese floated effortlessly toward the shore. They stopped once they reached the edge of the water and did not get out. They faced him, unmoving, hunkered down on their large white breasts like feathered inner tubes. He looked at the geese and looked around.
     "Believe me, I'm as shocked as you are of my being here this morning," he looked up at the tree waving gently in the breeze, "under this tree in the middle of who-knows-where, shoeless and damp like some homeless..." he trailed off and became indecipherable as he yanked his wet socks from the shoes, whipping them about trying to shake water from them. He stood and stretched his back.
     "Jesus Christ," he pressed his fists on the back of his hips and pushing outward. Then he raised his arms high above his head and stretched, the socks dangling from his clenched hands.
     "No hotel is it?" For a moment he stood there, clenching the damp socks, holding them out almost, like a child handing his mother two bottles of wine. He turned and went to a low branch and draped one of his dirty white socks over it, he stopped and turned around, looking at the geese who had yet to move.
     "Oh, do you mind?" He stared at one of the geese for a moment and almost laughed but held it back. He smiled broad and elegant like a maitre d' and his movements were languid and polite. But his tone was biting, "Of course you don't mind, what do you care you mindless fowl..." He turned back around and draped his second damp sock over the bough of the tree. He pulled off his damp and stretched out white shirt.
     He was thin, too thin, and pale; he had one patch of dark hair in his sternum and you could see his sharp collar bones protruding from his ill fitting skin. His round belly stuck out. It was small but in proportion to his body it gave him an appearance of being fatter than he was. He was lean otherwise and his skin bore the signs of age, though he was less than forty. He hung the shirt next to the socks and began removing his belt. He looked back at the birds floating motionless, watching him.
     "Whats that you ask? What is it that makes you find me here? At this time of the morning? Damp as a rag and it being clear, with the wet clothes and all, that I arrived late last night seeking shelter from the storm and slept in this very spot?" He looked at the geese while he unbelted and dropped his pants. "Oh you are quick to decipher aren't you, my not belonging here. Not a stranger gets by you on the banks of your pond eh? Though I expect you think I'm no different than a damn duck, just one you haven't seen before." He stepped out of his wet trousers and moved them aside. Well don't worry I ain't going swimming today," raising his arm "not here to disturb your reverence at the dawns beauty and what not....not here wade about in your little oasis alright, mindless fuck."
     His legs were merely sticks protruding out of his baggy underwear, pale with thin dark hair. "And what makes you find me here this morning, I believe was the question?" His knees looked like knots on a tree. "The very same question I awoke with in my mind just moments before you shirked over here. The very same. And though not remembering the particulars of the walking, stopping or resting, and only part of the debacle that set me to perambulate in the first place, and not knowing you, or wanting especially to talk about it at the moment, I say nothing more on the subject. Nor do I find anything particularly worth while, I might add, opining to a fucking bird, especially one of your particular ilk," he trailed off a bit, mumbled under his breath, "you mangy son of a bitch." He hung his pants on the branch and a heavy black object fell out onto the ground. He glanced over at the geese and then at the object. He smiled and gestured to it.
     "Well there you go, I am naked and ashamed, are you happy? Hey?" He picked up the gun from the ground and looked at it for a long time.
     He spoke quietly, "Just a drop of paint." He paused and pondered, "All I am really," he played with the weight of the gun in his palm, "just a fucking drop of paint on an otherwise clean front porch. Oh you see me, yeah you see me there, but I draw attention only by the seer's realization of the drops being a mistake to the harmony of the construction," he looked at the geese with an expression of surprise as if it were them that had been talking to him, "a fucking unintended nuisance is what I am, and in the end forgotten or removed." He held the gun with a limp wrist and wiped the air with it.
     "So what keeps one, who knows they are only a drop of paint, from doing the removing one's self?" He looked down the barrel of the pistol and then at the geese. "Does that satisfy, meet your expectations? Shall I describe to you what cause she had in leaving? Because I'd simply repeat myself again. Yes?"
     He pointed the gun at the geese.
     "Yes!?" He yelled, standing still.
     They began to drift slowly away, carelessly and without haste.
     "Ah, that's right, very fucking clever! More so than previously accredited, and no less, you being a fucking bird!" He fired the pistol into the water. The shot was tremendously loud in the early hours of the morning and it sent the geese splashing out of the pond in a jolt and flying away, honking wildly.
     "If you're going to go away then you're going to fly away screaming you sons of bitches!"
     He wheeled around and walked over to his hanging pants. He reached into the pocket and found the cigarette but the lighter was gone. He found it on the ground and snatched it up, nearly falling over, then went and sat back down against the tree, sitting cross legged. He laid the gun at his side on the grass. The lighter was still damp and would not strike. He threw the cigarette and lighter aside and picked up the gun again. He pointed it toward the sky, closed one eye, and followed the birds as they became smaller and smaller against the brooding morning sky.
     He spoke quieter now, "Fly away, fly the fuck away and leave me alone." Again he flicked the air with a limp wrist and the gun.

     The breeze became warmer still as the sun rose higher in the morning sky, he sitting upright against the trunk of the tree. Bright white clouds moved in sporadically. Looking at the sky he thought that it felt like fall was coming. He was pleased by this, not necessarily fall, but simply his noticing. He hadn't thought about the changing seasons, it seemed, in a long time. He felt something strange inside himself, something he could not think to explain.
     "She was too young to marry anyway, at least to marry me." He turned his head sharply, almost looking over his shoulder as if someone had walked up. He nudged the tree with his elbow, as if confirming with whom he spoke. "Married on a whim that one, and my guts knew it," he put the tips of his fingers together as if cradling something small on them and pressed them into his belly, "right in here, knew it the whole time, both years. And I loved her. I did. Don't think I didn't. I loved her. She was too young. Just a spontaneous grasp at a comfort and stability until then absent in her life, with no genuine thought, no honesty with herself as to the actuality of the breadth of time and life. It was no more than a quick fix. She didn't want to work or do anything or be productive, or give anything to the relationship. And who would really? To what end is our productivity anyway?"
     He stood and followed a low hanging branch, running a hand along it, the pistol in his other.
     "And we had great times together. Great times." He pulled off a leaf and spun it by the stem between his fingers. "But she didn't want to make it work. She wasn't ready to be a married person. To give the kind of time and effort it requires; to clamour over the rocky cliffs, hold tight the reigns (he imitated both gestures as he spoke). She wasn't ready for that, and I let her get herself into it. And how could I blame her for getting bored? What could I offer her at my age and her at hers?"
     He turned back to the tree, now standing a few yards away from the trunk.
     "Some chatterbox you turned out to be. You think I give you credit, for merely listening? I suppose I do. Most would do less. Though ignorance is clearly well suited in you, being that you are yet to fucking uproot yourself and cast shadows elsewhere along the pond here, away from my mania. You spineless rube. I wouldn't follow you, your shade is not so welcoming, or your limbs so necessary. Here let me remove my garments from your delicate boughs, so as not to upset you too."
     He walked quickly over to his hanging clothes and yanked them down. Leaving them on the ground.
     "And let me tell you, it's not a real comfort to sleep under you either."
     He lifted his shoulders and squeezed his back together, then bent at the waist and let his arms dangle to the grass.            
     Taking a deep breath he unbent and stood straight, "Jesus Christ." He looked sharply at the tree and stared for a moment.
     "And you ask what else? Well what do you expect!? She looses the comfort that was her sole reason to stay. What do you think is going to happen? Based solely on the needs of her situation, she did right by herself."
He moved around under the branches of the tree and began to pick up the clothing he had pulled down off the branch. He hung them back up. He laughed but stopped himself.
     "And who is to blame for that, is what you're really asking, the loss of the one thing that kept her in my bed at night?" He smiled. "Well who else? That's what I do."
     He held a single leaf in his palm, still attached to the tree.
     "And why would I, who has had such success in his job - who has carved out a place for himself in a company, drawn up a future, who had built something there, why would I be so careless, and appear, you might even say, to be the very author of the sudden destruction of all that was built? The doer responsible for the entire ruination? Well I wouldn't expect you to know, being your trifles deal merely in weather and bird shit. But is it not so obvious that I need explain?"
     He moved about under the tree again. The geese had returned with a splash but stayed clear of the shore. He stopped and began talking to another set of leaves on a different low hung branch.
     "Because what pleasure could I draw now from it? Because it is my nature. That I had such success in constructing something I care so little for, despise even, repudiate the very nature of! What pleasure was left there except what I knew lay in seeing it's destruction? What pleasure could I still expect to draw from this well save for that which I got when I razed the son of a bitch to the ground?"
     He walked over to his previous place and picked up the pistol. He played with the weight in his hand, lifting it and letting it sink back down. He ran the barrel along a branch of the tree. He laughed in a short burst, not loud.
     "Why you ask am I then surprised at my being terminated from the position," he gestured with the gun, waving it around, "oughten I had known that to pursue such a destructive end would be nothing less than a guarantee of my separation? Might even you say I brought the end on myself given the means? If that is what you say by your rustling and your dumb flapping of leaves, the yes, you are correct. But I would argue less surprised, I am, and more shocked. Why shock? Does shock not set in after all destruction regardless of intent? Regardless of whether it was myself initiating the full means of descent? And it was my fault. But am I not allowed the surprise of shock even at my own actions? Because what the fuck else are we if not a collection of vices?"
     He began to raise his voice and move quickly around, his thin pale knee-knot legs bending around the uneven ground.
     "That is all we are. All of us, just a collection of vices retrograde to whatever intention the 'one in charge' set as a design, and fuck-all good that design has done for us; sentience is a curse as far as I'm concerned, left to curdle and writhe in the mud like pigs, and we cover ourselves on hands and knees, lie and fucking ruin everything!" He began to trail off. He moved quicker now and accidentally stepped in a puddle that had formed after the storm.
     "Shit, god-damnit!" He yelled and shook his foot, "left to shake my leg like a mangy dog."
     He turned and looked at the tree.
     "That's man's nature!" Holding out his arms, the pistol still in hand.
     "To fuck up whatever design has been set for him, benevolent or otherwise, by whoever it is that does the setting, to the point that we are merely clumps of shit for nothing better than to prod at and toss away in fulsome disgust! There is no such thing as fate, we ruined fate! Do you argue otherwise? Rustling your leaves... what is that supposed to mean anyway?"
     He became loud again, "And why, you stuck fool, would one carry on, through this, why would one crawl like a beetle through the mud and excrement? For what? Just to live? How foolish are we to remain among the shit and pretend the wading through does nothing to our spirit, paddling along in our little boats with all our things, passing ourselves off as some sort of verity in life! Well I'm not fucking doing it anymore! And if you have anything to say about that!"
     He slid down against the trunk of the tree and put the pistol against his temple, he was quieter now but the intensity blazed through his eyes, "Then you can just shut the fu..." He began to breathe heavily, his nose ran and his eyes teared up, his chest moving in and out rapidly. He calmed himself after a moment, the gun remained at his temple.
     "Why then let it take me when I can take myself? To spend time? Doing what? Drinking into an unrecognizable dementia? Should I live to become like my father? Swallow gallons of booze and watch my life become confusion and darkness. Wander aimless through the streets, shirtless with one shoe on, leaving those who know me to set aside their secret wish of my demise to track me down in my aimless jaunt, put their life on the line and have to try and convince me I know them, that I should trust them to remove me from the myriad of cars veering and darting out of the way, my confusion creating only dissension and them fighting the urge to let me alone and watch from the curb, stand aside so one of the speeding brutes might do what they really, what they really want to do, what I should have done years before, what I should do now? Shall I remain alive so I can forget the use of a spoon, or a wad of fucking toilet paper, and only after watching my brother walk into the dark and confusion first, learning nothing? 'Cause that's what I've got now to look forward to!"
     He spoke with an intensity but he was not yelling, "So you shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up! You shut..."
     He pressed the pistol firmly against his head, his finger shook wildly on the trigger. His nose ran onto his lips and his eyes filled again. He breathed heavier still, and more rapidly, his chest heaving like the sea on the hull of a great ship. Then he took one deep breath and closed his eyes and very calmly spoke, "forget me, I am gone."


     The geese circled around the small pond, floating on their large breasts with an almost brash air. They sped after mallards, chasing them from the pond and making small streaks on the otherwise glassy water. The birds sang in full now, the sun rising still; he heard them, he heard all of them, and this pleased him.
He opened his eyes and stared ahead for a long moment before he dropped the pistol, watching the world about him come alive. He heard a woodpecker tapping along, the leaves on the great maple behind him, prophesying the great unheard secret. He spoke calmly now.
     "And yet... Maybe it is in the recognition of our vices, the realization that we are not more than simply that which we can not control, that we become human; or at least more than clumps of shit."
     He glanced over his shoulder at the tree.
     "Might that be our willed existence? To simply recognize that which makes us clumps of shit, and in doing so find exactly that which makes us human? In order that we may rise above? So that any hope of dealing amicably with those around us isn't merely a forlorn hope, and that we are let to live as we are?"
     He spun around on his hands and looked at the tree.
     "You sly son of a bitch."
     He stood quickly, knot-kneed and thin, pale, his thin legs sticking out of his stretched out dirty white underwear, giving the effect that they were disconnected somehow from his body; one foot muddy from the puddle. He walked over to the branch on which he had left his drying clothes. They were warm on his skin when he put them on. He walked down to the edge of the pond and put his foot in, rubbing the mud off with this hands. He splashed water on his face and walked back toward the tree. The sun was warm on his back and this pleased him. He was dry now.
     He looked out over the pond and took a deep breath. He did not smile, he walked away.

Posters and Patriotism: The Commodification of Experience. Part 2: Where have you gone, America?

     Lets take a look at what this idea means in a different arena. What images represent us as Americans? Originally, the symbol of our solidarity and patriotism to our nation was represented by our flag. It is an image to remind us of our binding to each other upon this soil, our democratic nation. Whether it is an effective representation is subject to debate, but this binding, this solidarity toward our country and its founded beliefs and ideologies was at one time our patriotism.
      Lets jump forward quite a bit, into the further stages of capitalism and what represents us and our Nation. Here is an image of Nikita Khrushchev and Richard Nixon outside a full scale replica of the home of an average member of America's working-class, at the American National Exhibition in Moscow in 1959. It has: fitted carpets, a television in the living room, two en suite bathrooms, central heating and a kitchen with a washing machine, a tumble dryer and a refrigerator. The Soviet press angrily denied that any working class individual could live in such "luxury" and they told Soviets to dismiss it simply as propaganda. They even called it the "Taj Mahal."

                                          Ap Photo
     This image represents the 'average American', it represents the national idea the American Dream. Our statement was essentially: "this is what it means to be American, even our working-class can live in luxury." This image illustrates the shift in what it means to be American: now represented by our material progress, and these images, these commodities are the new representations of our experience as Americans and are representations of our solidarity.
     "Later that same evening, Nixon was invited to appear live on Soviet television, an occasion he used to expound on the advantages of American life. Shrewdly, he did not begin his speech by touting democracy or human rights; instead he spoke of money and material progress....Americans had purchased 56 million television sets and 143 million radios...The members of the average American family could buy nine new dresses and suits and fourteen new pairs of shoes every year...and some 31 million families owned their own homes." (Botton 04)
     My aim with this is not to say how bad we are that we have purchased these things, or that we own these things. What this illustrates is the shift that occurred in our nation when Capitalism really took hold. These things, these representations of our experience as Americans have now become more important than our democracy and civil rights, and despite the apparent 'luxury' of the lower class, these commodities serve to distract us form our democracy and human rights and distance us even more from each other, yet somehow they remain the representations of our nation and it's solidarity. It begs us to ask, "Who is really in control here?" What does patriotism mean now? What images represent our national pride? Our flag? Or out televisions and lemon squeezers?
     Patriotism denotes ones love for their country and the ideologies it was founded upon. So, there is no patriotism in a capitalist society. We are not individuals living our own separate lives in this, what we have deemed, decent country, because this country is not truly governed or represented by the people or the people’s elected leaders and does not adhere to the ideologies we have chosen to be governed under. A government of democratically elected leaders has no control in a capitalist society because of the absolute power of currency. Money drives society, the government just makes the road system (but loves commission).  So patriotism is a facade in a capitalist society. What we’ve got is an untrue feeling of pride toward the idea of the uniting of other similar subjugated individuals who happen to live on the same soil and who’s lives are piloted by the same single minded few, represented falsely by the image of our flag...and all of our commodities.
     And the individuals who are actually in control have no interest in the united’s ideologies and instead subscribe only to one ideology, the ideology of unfettered profit, and are often not the same faces we see as our elected leaders (though sometimes they are). Not only do we not realize the lack of power we actually have, including our elected leaders, but we help further the system that oppresses us because we are the ones buying the goods from the self same individuals who don’t care about our ideologies or civil liberties, but instead care only of profit. Those in power (those who control currency and commerce) have done well to make it a national pride to own the things they are selling. We buy from them the things we think we need, the things we have been told and shown are all we need, that our things represent us in society, that our image is our things, and that our image, our outward appearance toward others we deem equal in society, is something we as Americans need care a lot about, and not much else. And  because of this, our want of their things will never wan. Status Anxiety is a powerful tool.
     Lets jump ahead a little further to our torn economy. I am not by any means an economist and have only vague notions of what actually 'went wrong'. But I do know a large portion of that is thoughtless consumer spending and debt, and I am able to pick out certain disparities in ideologies. Being that I work for a retail corporation I am whiteness to these particular disparities on a daily basis. We are all aware that we are in tough times, "dire times" some might say. People are losing jobs, companies are going under. So, where does a retail company fit into this? Truly, in these times, buying things like clothing (other than what is necessary) is undoubtedly a needless pursuit. The company knows this. But, the company needs to stay alive, it will not go under, so it continues to encourage spending and continues to subdue any notions of necessity. In the last five or so years there has been a significant shift in how the company makes money. They now find more profit coming from their "sale price" division rather than their "full retail" division. By this they are encouraged, and in this they put energy.
     Every year the store has a meeting to discuss where the company is at and headed, how the fiscal year went, whether or not we made any money, where that money came from etc. Some sort of regional manager will fly in and speak. They play a video with pop songs and fancy camera work that is meant to encourage us to do our jobs better and to display success within the company. A major disparity that is always present is this: the video always starts by discussing the challenging economy at the moment and that people are really hurting. It acknowledges the companies awareness of the "dire" economy. Later it moves into a section in which they had selected a few employees (always commission based) who have had a successful year selling. They praise mightily those employees who have found, despite our economic climate, ways to get customers to spend more money than they originally intended. They praise these employees for encouraging needless spending, the selfsame virus plaguing our nation. Everyone leaves the meeting excited and ready to sell, ready to try out the new phrases that will entice customer spending. A friend of mine who works on commission selling shoes told me something his manager expects of his employees (this is company wide) is to bring out no less than 8 pairs of shoes for every customer who wants to try a shoe on. They are expected to "sell shoes," he said.
    Further, and this is the big one, the company has been on a mission to get customers to sign up for credit cards. These credit cards are a fascinating thing. The main goal (at least now) of capitalism is this: the most profit with the lest amount of work (cost). These credit cards are a god-send for retail companies. I need not go into the details of how people fall into credit card debt, it is a widely established thing. Consumer debt without a doubt is the most profitable industry in the world, because it comes so cheap. Companies literally do nothing and get paid for it. So, when a company who makes it's racket in superfluities is faced with a 'tough' economy, what is their best chance at staying afloat? Consumer debt. The least amount of work and the most profit.
     How do they market these credit cards? What do the card holders get in return? Well, for spending money they get points, which are equal to dollars, but only dollars that you can spend within the company and only on the companies goods. You can not use the points to pay off your debt. Another part of our video shows how many company "bucks" get issued and how much more we get in return. The average customer spends somewhere around $90 if they have a $20 company buck. So not only does the company reap the interest benefits of issuing credit cards, but they also make money by giving credit simply because consumer's are unable to stay anywhere close to the 'free' $20 credit when shopping. This is without doubt the largest disparity present; the company, aware of their products superfluity and the problems with the current economy, continues to encourage spending and consumer debt.
     Why does this work? Because, like Nixon displayed at the American National Exhibition, we have expectations that are nowhere near the line of necessity. We have learned to take pride in our display of 'luxury', our material progress, and we have been taught that our image in society is important and that our things, our commodities, personify us, and any denial to accept this, ironically, is deemed un-American: calling into question our patriotism.
     So, companies use the self same ideologies in which we believe against us, in their ability to commodity that which we believe in - democracy, human rights, freedom - into poor representations that only serve to distract and create disparity between ourselves and our original beliefs, and then these representations, at the surreptitious behest of those commodifying and selling, become what we think we need to believe in to show how American we are.
    This then gives us a false sense of involvement with our once held ideas and beliefs (our notions of patriotism) by lessening, or completely depleting, the time spent interacting with them in a genuine manner, and instead raising interaction with the false representations of ideas and beliefs that we have bought into, because we feel that the simulacrum, the commodified representation of our idea, is adequate. Now with our tidy representations in order, we are able to go about our days, unthinking, happy with all our things, all our representations of the right and proper way of life, knowing confidently that our beliefs are adequately represented. Then, amazingly enough, we use the rest of our time working to progress this system, which strengthens the hold of these leaders, many of us even work for them, so that we may continue to purchase these false representations of experience and further still their ideology - monetary gain for themselves. We name this our duty as Americans, to work for our bread (superfluities). They have successfully used our patriotism that binds us to pull us into their system with the enticing image of a life of objects that are symbols of status in society, and have effectively called it the American Dream.
     How is it that this plan was so successful? They are masters in this art because their weapon is what they have found we can not live without: what influences and dictates our lives and habits, what fosters and delivers the ideas we believe, and is itself representation - media and the image. This commodification of the image runs through everything we experience and seems only to take away from the real experience, from the real life. Where have you gone American, among this game of shadows?
     A further distressing aspect of this is that the government itself has given themselves over to this system. Think about how many current or former politicians have been at one point or are now major figures in Multinational corporations. They understand the game. Look at a commercial for the Army or Navy. They use the same representations of life: a good job, home, a car et al, to entice you to join. They do not talk about democracy or about our human rights, and they sure as hell don't show what you will actually be doing, or the effect of what you are doing has on those you are doing it to. They talk instead about what comforts of life you will receive when you are done and back safely at home. And this works. People join the Army and kill people for reasons they have no idea about, and all the better for the government not to have to explain, or lie as the case would surely be. They are not joining to fight terrorism or to protect our soil, they join because they want their school to be paid for or because it's 'job training' that will allow them to get all those things they have been taught to need as an American. It's only after they join that they begin to tout nationalist conceits of their 'American Duty', but still don't know whats being hidden. Its those who are ignorant that are ideologically malleable
     I would be a hypocrite if I were to pretend to be on the outside of this machine looking in, that is not the case. I grew up here, I was taught the same things, they are habitual. However, I am also not throwing my hands up or waving any sort of white flag. What I encourage anyone who reads this to do is simple: do not spend needlessly, think about what you are buying and why. Buy something that can relieve the dependency of a resource, like a bike; find the one thing you spend the most money on that you need the least and don't buy it for one year. Take steps toward that line of necessity and not away. Be steadfast and ask questions.

Encouraged Reading and source material:
Botton, A. (2004) Status Anxiety 

Posters and Patriotism: The Commodification of Experience. Part I

      It goes without saying that the image is omnipresent and can refer to and be many a varied thing. What I want to consider is the image as representation of experience, the commodification of the image, how our lives are affected by the image, how our lives are an image, and what that means.
      At the moment I want to look specifically at the image that is created to remind you of actual experience. The representation or simulacrum in place of an actual whole physical or mental experience. Imagine a poster. I have on my fireplace mantle a large still image taken from the popular New Wave film Breathless, framed as a poster for the purpose of display (for reasons we will soon get to), the title and credits in french. The image is a film-still, further promoting the idea that this is simply a frozen moment of the full experience with which I have previously interacted. This is a commodified representation of the film itself, and that it uses an actual still from the film is evidence that it is meant to be both reminiscent and promotional, more so the former than the latter, due to it’s already staggering popularity, it needs little promotion. It is there so that when looked upon it may conjure an emotion or memory of the film itself.
      The commodified image representational of an experience, whether it be a poster, a DVD cover, a book of art pieces etc, is there to conjure, when looked upon (on a daily basis), the memory of the experience which one may have had with the representation’s whole. In the case of the poster, sending me back, internally, to the watching of the film. Forcing me to remember the faces, the patchwork mis en scene, forcing me to remember Michel running helplessly down the street after being shot, to remember whatever it is that I remember about the film.     
           A poster itself is not objective, it displays an opinion. There are thousands of frames in a movie, thousands of images that might represent the film. To create this poster, they had to choose one. One frozen moment within thousands and ask that that image stand as an iconic representation of the film. So, in the selection itself lies an opinion, a statement.  And there are generally two purposes to consider. How do we want to market this film? Or how do we want this film to be remembered? An image that is created prior to the release of the film is created less with a simulacrum for the underlying idea or intent of the film and more with the most profitable representations and images that are within the film: famous actors, directors, et al. This pre-release image is purely to drive commerce, to fill seats, and rarely are these images (especially now) simply stills from the film, as this would not serve its ultimate purpose.
      On the other side of the coin, a poster created after the movie has been out is generally memorabilia - it is: how is this film or how do we want this film (experience) to be remembered? Sometimes this image will represent, to its best ability, the underlying idea of the film experience. And often this image may simply be a still from the film; some popular moment from the film, and sometimes it is wittily both. This is especially prevalent with films of cultural significance. Why create art to represent the film, which is a popular film, when an image from the film will suffice in drawing nostalgic emotions in it’s viewer, and if the right image is chosen, also represent the intentions of the films creator(s)? It is the living with these post-experience images that I want to take a closer look at.
     With this indelible image displayed in my home, beautifully framed, presumably for the next many years, the possibility is there that in a way it could kind of become the film. This is an unfortunate thing and one of the inherent downfalls with commodified images. This happens because there is no way that that image can make someone, or myself, feel exactly again as they (I) did when they watched the film, or had the experience. It is only capable of generating a memory of the experience, which is not the experience itself. When it can become a problem is when we accept this image as a worthy representation, a good stand-in, even though it is insubstantial. We are taking a usually inadequate (at least if the work is any good), representation of an experience and purchasing it to hold at bay any desire we have for the whole, that can not be immediately met. And it is possible that as a result, I would argue, it can take away from the experience, simply as it is a daily interaction that can be taken in place of the full experience; It hangs on our wall and is in our daily orbit of interest.
     Another, and I might say even more curious example is of another poster I own. It was marketed as a collectible piece of artwork: There were only something like three hundred made, and they were all made by hand, screen-printed, it is a great design and also beautifully matted and framed. The curious thing is that the image is the same exact image that adorns the box cover for the DVD. This poster was made AFTER the film was created and released in theatres, but was made for the purpose of selling the newly released, high quality DVD of the film. This poster is not a nostalgic reminder of the film experience using unaltered images from the film that would elicit detailed memories, the posters sale satisfying the sole purpose of it’s existence. It is a poster created to market and foster the further sale of the DVD of the film, the sale of the poster being in addition to it’s ultimate goal. And making only three hundred and making them by hand is simply a brilliant marketing trick, generating desire through exclusivity. So the poster is an enlarged representation of a representation of a film experience. However, one could argue that it being a Criterion Collection release, the representation is more ‘artistic’, reason being that the label takes time and care to create interesting designs, but this is a pointless consideration and they don’t always (or arguably ever) do well to represent the ideas of the film experience. Even though this image is twice removed from the film, standing as representation, I would not argue that this particular image has the capacity, as compared to the other, to take more away from the experience of it’s respective whole because it is an original design that was inspired by the film, to entice people to watch the film, and not a simulacrum of the film to represent the experience. My experience with the film has not been enhanced by the owning of the poster, and this can be said for both images in both cases, but being that I love these movies, and watch them for the full experience often, they have not taken away from the experience either and I would never take them down. And this can be argued for anyone who has an image of something they love. It's the possibility and the idea that is important. I would say however, of the images, they can create a sort of disparity between the owner and the original whole, as the images are inadequate representations that are more often interacted with than the piece itself, and can even foster ideas that were not of the intent of the artist if the original piece is replaced by this representation, or seen by an individual who has never experienced it's represented whole. This is an important distinction because this inadequate representation, if accepted as an adequate one, can become a dangerous thing when applied to other aspects of life, and is not nearly as easy to remedy. Once framed and hung, we find an interesting shift has occured, the commodified image now becomes a representation not just of the film but of the owner as well.
    The interesting thing about art is that it is so easily commodified, it can’t help but be commodified, because all good art leaves a strong impact. It removes you emotionally and mentally from your normal surroundings, it is something exceptional that needs to be witnessed, felt; and all those who like art have been moved by it at some point; meaning removed from normalcy and suspended or placed into a separate reality, or often given a better understanding of ours. And this shift in perception, this being-moved, is not something that is experienced constantly and consistently, it can not be something that is experienced constantly and consistently, as modern life does not allow it. In the society we have created, we have made sure that we can not experience the effects of art on any sort of perpetual basis. So then this moving experience, this shifting of perception creates a particular void, and this void can be filled in one of two ways: the full experience again, or representations of the experience that we can deem acceptable. We are not happy without experiencing this art but can not exclusively experience it in it’s natural form, so when not experiencing the whole art we look for simulacra of the experience that fit nicely into the living spaces in which we occupy (often in the form of images). We seek these representations to fill the void because we know they are out there, because the main facet of our society is capitalism. The commodified image then flourishes in a social environment like ours, one that makes such demands on our time but makes easily available the representations of our interests at a small cost.
     These experience-simulacra, since they now fill our living spaces, become representations of ourselves; declarations of our taste, intellectual level, or our ideas and beliefs, etc. These representations then falsely become as important if not a little more in our lives than the experience itself, since now this representation is a part of us - this represents the experience and myself - as socially, we are our tastes. In this, capitalism and the commodified image remove us from the actual art, until we can find the time to experience the shift again. But we are less likely to seek out the experience again because of our modern fragmented nature and because we have, what we have deemed, acceptable representations of the experience all around us, negating the need to spend the time with the real experience. A better example than a movie poster might be a book of paintings. The representation, even if in color, can never be an acceptable way to experience the painting, yet the painting might be half way across the world, so it is accepted. Because the commodification of an experience with a piece of art makes the representation itself representational of both the experience and an individual (the consumer, the purchaser), then commodification of an experience - especially with images - works great on Americans, who are concerned with the idea of identity, individuality, and self-image, and who are fed a consistent diet of images via our myriad media outlets. Thus we are all slaves of the necessity to personify ourselves through the things we consider to be interesting, making us children in the game with giants in a commodity based society, powered solely by commerce and currency. Once they have sniffed out our desire to represent ourselves through commodified objects, the sky is the limit, and they need only to keep reminding us how right we are.

to be continued........