#11 A Love Story

There is a love story out there. It starts and ends with a girl and a boy. It’s a very grand, romantic love story, so let’s say that they didn’t know their parts in it yet. It is a story that owns many characters, each fulfilling their own benign, unique roles, unaware of what they were apart of. They are the same as you and me.

It’s a good love story, so it had a hook, a pillar which united them all. In this love story of ours, a Ferris wheel took on the role of fastening lives together. It is a monument.

But, there’s a twist. There isn’t a Ferris wheel. In the little town of Salisbury, there is not a Ferris wheel. Perhaps stranger than that, there was a Ferris wheel in Salisbury. It was a great deal.

People loved Salisbury. It was a novelty town, built right on the beach. People came from far and wide. They went to Joe’s Arcade Playland, they went to the fortune teller right on the corner of the circuit, they went to the open lot dedicated to one sole Ferris wheel. The little people, they went to Salisbury.

However, people stopped feeling that Salisbury verve. They no longer felt Salisbury was a part of them, and they a part of Salisbury. This is not a story of a conglomerate invading and pervading a small town, this is a love story. So it can be said family business failed not because of greedy nature, but of fickle nature. Time went on. A spirit is not corroded in one day.

The decay, of course, was gradual.

Gossip of the town had it that poor tide made summer homes disposable. Life and liberty allow the pursuit of happiness, but without an idle happiness, one does not have much use for liberty, nor does one witness life. One man bemoans his poor fishing season to their neighbor, the neighbor reevaluates their own relative prosperity as insufficient, and so the cycle becomes self-perpetuating. True discontent and complacency are mutually exclusive.

It would be dishonest to simplify it so, however. The bond between a man and his heart is complex. In this love story, one does not make the claim, “the fish are sparse,” and has done their job. There is more to be seen.

As Salisbury became more homely and less like home, the collective subconscious of those who had to live there during the good and the bad became self-aware. It was not of looking in a mirror and being cognizant of what is, it was absentmindedly chewing a pencil because it needed to be sharpened. The people who fully invested themselves in Salisbury, the resilient ones, passively adopted a pack mentality. If one were to make a value judgment on this hiving, one would also make a liar; hindsight ruins everything.

Vague, ambiguous generalizations do not inform the soul, so the love story has individuals as well. There is Kate, a Salisbury native; when you ask her what nationality she is, she answers, “Salisbyte.” She manages to rise above the humdrum of being just a local, though. Kate loves heights. She does not know this, though. She has never been higher than the top of the water tower, but even that is not much. Regardless, Kate is pretty sure that a height would be fun.

During a key moment in this love story, Kate stands in a large, abandoned parking lot for no other reason than to satisfy the linearity of life, though she thinks she is standing there to wait for her father to pick her up. She gets a suspicion that everything happens for a reason. Kate looks up and sees nothing. She knows this to be true.

Important events happen in threes, but an exception can be made when the second of two is especially important. A boy named Dan and his family move into Salisbury, right at the very moment of Kate’s revelation.

Dan is misty-eyed and mystified by what he sees, as he watches the town's exoskeleton shudder before him. The success and heartiness of life rots radially from the center of town. The town limits are defined by different kinds of borders; some are formal, and some are imaginary. The Now Entering sign is followed by an Out of Business banner, but that is only after several miles of one star motels and novelty shops. Dan reconciles his childhood dreams with reality. He had left childhood behind in his little cul-de-sac without realizing it. The final thing Dan notices before he makes the turn onto Chapel Street is a large, dilapidated parking lot.

The love story progresses at a slow pace, gathering its materials into the right spots for ready access, just as the computer readies itself during bootup. A computer takes seconds to do this; a love story takes years. The computer reaches its login screen; Kate and Dan meet.

“Hi I’m Kate and I love. What do you do?”

“I’m Dan. I suppose I just do.”

The initial spark is there; the computer mouse jitters to action as it decides what gateway is in want of exploration.

“Oh, well that’s neat, I guess. I don’t know really what to say to that. So, I’m not gunna say anything at all. Bye!” And so Kate ran off to the other side of the playground; the computer mouse lingers on the recycling bin to make sure it is empty, and satisfied, hovers on to the next task.

This love story is a digital alarm clock; it progresses at a linear pace, and contents itself on doing so. And if somebody comes along and interferes with its path, it is not aware, and is fine with whatever the outcome. Thus, it can be said that it is content with ignorance.

Dan has a relationship with his father, in so far as that a relationship is defined by its own existence. His bond with his father is not of note, nor is it negligible. It simply existed. In our love story, Dan’s father is the one who brings the Ferris wheel. The thought is not more important than the action, but it is important.

“Hey, Dan. Do you remember the Ferris wheel” - “in Stanley’s lot?” - “yeah that one. When you were a boy?”

Even though the alarm clock goes off earlier than anticipated, sometimes, it must be met with and received, no matter how ill the state of those who set it in motion; the Ferris wheel’s return was conceived much too soon. That night, Dan had a dream of construction and tragedy.

The love story that is out there, that is being dreamed of and experienced always, continues its course by seeing Dan and Kate have a chance meeting while walking down the strip.

“Hey, Kate? Do you remember a Ferris wheel being here?”

Love is a dialog of the heart finding itself in two separate bodies. The soliloquies in between are that which feed it, and the apostrophes are that which temper it. Dan and Kate build a Ferris wheel in the empty lot.

It is a fantastical goal, and they know it. They are building the Ferris wheel for the same reason Shakespeare wrote. They do not know what they would do if they didn’t, so they did.

The Ferris wheel was built from plywood and rocks and gears and various machinations that the couple were only just sure might work. It did not matter. If it succeeded, then Kate could find out if she liked heights or not, just to make absolute sure, and Dan would have the approval of his father. If it failed, they still had each other. And if nothing comes of it at all, stories of their feats will be passed on for many years, becoming so versatile as to teach any desired moral. In many, many, many generations, it would become known “as old as the English language itself,” as the word love is known now.

As it was made clear before, it shall be made lucid now. This is a good love story.

Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy, Kate and Dan. They were content just to have each other around; they did not want anything more, or expect anything out of each other. They were sitting on carriage number four of their Ferris wheel, which was half built, and made entirely by their hands. It was such a sight to see, that it attracted people far and wide to little Salisbury. Salisbury was prospering, once again as it rightly should be, because of the ambitions of the girl and the boy. And they lived happily ever after.

Yet, once upon this time, in the day as it is right now, there is a girl and a boy, Kate and Dan. Dan did not feel valued or loved by Kate, and he asked too much of her. He fortified his insecurities in himself with his neediness and attachment to Kate. Kate genuinely loved Dan, but she did not know how to express it. Kate wanted to reciprocate in any way she could, but all she could do was treat him coldly. She did not mean to. It hurt her as much as it hurt him.

They were sitting in the second carriage of their complete hand-built Ferris wheel in the middle of a wholly abandoned parking lot.

They looked at each other, and they were not sure what they saw in the other’s eyes; did Kate see disgust; did Dan see pity? It does not matter. At least they had each other.

Kate looked out beyond the seat of the carriage. She did not see much else than desolation, except for the blue ocean a few hundred yards away. As she looked out to it, she heard Dan mumbling, “…this is like a love story…”

#10

A Mild Dream

I wonder why I yearned insinuation

When we were already weary

With all of your naivety

You could only cultivate brevity

We were never meant for longevity

You quietly appealed for sacrifice

Sacrifice is to make sacred

By letting go what is most revered

A desperate remedy to make whole once more

Intention without appreciable heart

Oft produces tension which pulls apart

You did not distinguish

What was sacrifice, and what was running away

I sacrificed

More than that

I became less selfish

I let go of you

#9

I do declare the situation to be a horrible mess. The problem is not that she was communicating with me again, which in and of itself has caused many a problems for me and my family, but of what she was actually saying to me. “My soul has an emptiness to it, as the ocean has its depths,” she says. I thought of it as perhaps ironic, coming from her. Maybe even clever, the sly rat. Of all the things she could speak out about, it would be the simmering of the soul. This was troubling me, being a man of appreciable rational. I know the nature and right societal places of some things, and a lady such as herself should not be having these kinds of problems. I sat down next to her containment cell.

“Listen sugar, I reckon something is wrong. That is fine; I can understand that. Every soul is its own cage - I can conceive of that within my ownself. But you cannot be doing this to me again, Miss Shelley Parkfield. I cannot handle you all by myself. I go around telling folks about this and that, they are going to think that I am off my rocker. I am not going down that road again with you, darlin’. Please, listen to what I am saying to you. Understand. Sympathize.”

In all of this babbling, she did not display the least amount of outward emotional investment in what I was saying. Her stoic nature unsettled. She just sat, staring, staring. Her big, obsidian eyes downright bore into a man’s soul. They alluded to a deep, archaic knowledge of things. I now figure that whatever was there before long made for greener pastures, leaving nothing but those placid husks in its place.

“Open the door,” she said, her voice neutral and even.

Her voice also carried soft tones to it.

Everything she said had a soft, airy feel to it. It was the voice of an android accented with honey. I reckon the nature of the allure came from some kind of psychological comfort thing. It harkened back to something long forgotten, if you’re catching on to what I mean. Maybe it was of your momma’s sweet little nothings being cooed into your little kid ears, as your world fell apart from around you for the fourth time since breakfast. Or more than that, perhaps it was just a promise of innocence lost, returned. Whatever it was, it had a deeply personal and profound affect. I am sure it was more perceived warmth of spirit than any kind of mysticism.

“You’re safe. It’s fine, I’m not how I used to be…how I used to be…back then. Back before the sour apple…” she stopped. Now, you must understand, this here pause of hers was not quite long enough for me to make note of it at the time, but it was long enough so that I now suspect that she was trying to regain her composure. “Sour apple rehabilitation. I am told that it has a ninety percent succ- oh yes, thank you. See? It’s fine. Relax.”

She began to approach me. Her gait was more of a cautious waddle than anything else. Her front was taking one step at a time, each step deliberate. Her rear was making due with its mechanical grace, each step stunted.

“Eat a pellet, make a pellet,” she sighed audibly, presumably for no other’s benefit than mine, as she maneuvered through her own waste. Piles of defecation. Crystallized urine. Nobody had bothered themselves enough to clean her cage in weeks. It was an evil thing to do. Seeing her like that broke my cold heart up like the sun breaks the night.

“Miss Shelley Parkfield, you are in quite the rut here. I do not know of matters of the heart, for I am but a southernly gentleman, but I do know of matters of cleanliness. If I may, Miss Shelley Parkfield, may I clean your cage?”

She did not feel so compelled to respond to me direct-like. Instead of articulating however she so felt on the issue, she did not say. She reached the front of the cage. The door was utterly open and useless as a defense, laying flat against the ground. I do say that I fidgeted a little, when she put her first paw on the threshold of cage and freedom. I did nothing. She put the other. I reckon that I should be ashamed of not moving to stop her, but shame only gets a man so far. When she had assured herself that her shenanigans were not facing any threat, she did about the damned nearest last thing I figured she would do. She stretched her torso out to a great length, and she began to sniff. I suppose that folk of her type have a higher predilection to appreciating inhalation than humans do.

By any rate, when she had her fill, she peered up at me. It was slow, but it was particular. She took her time. She had wanted to me to know just exactly she was up to at this point. I matched her look, not straying in the least. Her eyes had the same illustrious sheen they had, from all of those years ago. I did not know what to say. There she was, stretching about half of her mass into freedom (and supporting it all as well, mind you, she was a girl of considerable girth) well aware that she could break free at any time, but instead, all she did was look at me. I felt dizzy, like I was punched right in the head. I tried to speak, but suddenly I had cotton mouth. Opening my mouth and flexing my tongue here and there was unproductive.

Now, do not misunderstand me here. I want to get on even grounds - it’s my job as story teller to tell the tale whole, as it happened. It was not love, for I do not know what that is, but it was of the shock of seeing her eyes whole, for what they really are. Shelley and folks of her kind do not have pupils. I got down real close, and it was one solid mass. I have since learned from a preacher friend of mine that they aren’t blessed with the same plethora of color vision as man is. That is neither here nor there, but it helped me understand her world a little bit better. It helped me conceive of her worldview a bit more, if I may be so bold.

She peered into my eyes for just a few moments before retreating back wholly into the cage. Her gaze remained steady on mine. She held out for just a few more seconds before determining how exactly she was going to pursue conversation with me. She blinked, then began.

“My great aunt Mitzi-doma used to tell me tales. There were great tales, there were little tales, but they all held significance. It was tradition. It was telling stories that would inform our decisions later in life. Sometimes, what was being said didn’t matter as much as what was not being said. Other times, it was merely the togetherness that served a purpose. Purpose,” she blinked again. Before this encounter, I had not seen her blink once. In the time it took me to assimilate this into my cognitive perception, she had ruminated where to go next. It was the most indecisive I had ever seen her.

“Coprophagia. What purpose does this serve, eating our own defecation? I am told that it’s a resonance of times long gone. Mitzi-doma explained this as a way for us to remember our past. Years ago, we were a carnivorous tribe of people. We were feared, we were revered. We were at the top. We saw everything below us as dung, not worth anything. So we ate them, knowing that that was the ultimate gift conceivable. Not a token sacrifice, or any nature of agricultural offerings, but their bodies’ itself.

Over time, our food supply dwindled. Hamsters were our favorite, and for unspecified political reasons, they migrated south. We were soon left with either the undesirable gerbil to feed on, or starve. My kind are a versatile people. We can understand when the climate has changed, when the game has changed. We adapted. We became vegans, for what essentially came down to PR reasons. It was a complex situation with a beautifully simple solution. The hamsters would only return upon being respected and treated as equals. That way, we could work together for a new future. We needed their horticultural technology, for all we had were weapons of war. To this day, we eat our own poop to remember the horrors and injustices we inflicted on our hamster friends in the past.”

I now understood. My guinea pig wanted me to return the hamster to Petco. The crazy fucker.