2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) by Nath Jones
Authors: Nath Jones
Tags: Millennium, female author, zine, midwest punk, y2k, female stories, midwest stories, purdue, illinois poets, college fiction, female soldier, female fiction, college confession
Ads: Link
though it didn't matter at all that there was no way to
see who was coming.
I thought about James Dean, an Indiana boy,
driving too fast on California roads. Maybe he grew up that same
country way of seeing everything at once when there is nothing at
all to look at.
Not used to being blinded by
possibilities.
We got to the top of the mountain and drove
slowly, looking at the monks, with our radio turned down so as not
to disturb them with their quiet sandals in their dry garden.
Hunching over joy of prayer. Supported by a rock. Looking toward
the ocean. In straw hats.
My sister's teeth-baring wave to a friend.
All of them believing easily in the overexposed heaven surrounding
them.
I was sullen. It was intolerable. This is
not the earth.
Indiana, grayed and gluttonous, is the
earth. Damp snow-melt days with wet intruding on your skin. Sloppy
average khaki-green living out rental contracts in sub-suburban
sprawl. And all the fat American cars.
“ Show me heaven there.” I
felt like screaming at the hummingbird and his broad-brimmed work
hat. How far away from this sanctuary can your belief survive? And
for how long in a jar full of acetone and butterfly
wings?
I could have cried.
When we drove down she went faster. And I
was even more afraid of all the sunlight I couldn't catch.
Isn't it funny how little we can do for ourselves?
WHISTLING WOMAN
You always had to laugh so hard. I never
understood it. And it was only later that I noticed how haunted you
were. Fighting, I guess, with quick knives against your throat and
fast ideas away from bitten nails. A little too far. A little too
hard.
I've never understood why I have to use my
best manners in the homes which break the most rules where the
meanest adults live. But I did take my shoes off and kept my napkin
in my lap. And that was okay. I was fine being respectful of adults
until I understood who was doing those things to you. But I never
said a word.
Don’t! You can’t! Get back here! Stop it!
Get down from there! Quit! I dare you.
Was it really fun we were having? They call
it acting out. Maybe it was resistance. Maybe it was hoping someone
would notice the injustices of our child-lives. But everyone was,
so who would notice? I just remember whipped cream-smothered
laughing and staging a fall from a third-story window. Remember
that? That was funny. Wasn’t it?
We were just kids, you know. Nothing better
to do than to believe what we were told. What we were raised up in.
What we saw of our tiny pinhole camera worlds. So I don't know how
to remember those awful times. Because they weren't so awful then.
They were just our lives—yours and mine—and friends forever doesn’t
really have to mean anything. They were just our lives. Now they
are textbooks and psychology and discussions behind closed doors
and fingers pointed with blame and dark walks through hollow selves
toward forgiveness. But then those whip-cracks of savagery were
good enough for us to call best friends with the peanut butter
sandwiches and the new tennis shoes once a year.
Now, after what you've told me, I'm glad to
remember back further to this dead working woman in our
mother-bones. She knew we'd be along. So she was happy enough.
Laughing so hard and whistling so loud without words, without
anything for him to really blame her for. Don’t tell! Please, just
don’t say anything. What if he finds out? What if someone finds
out? So no words. Just whistling. Just laughing. Just our lives.
With so much hard hope. And our entire friendship welling up proud
without tears in her whelped-whistling work.
ACOLYTES IN
TENNIS SHOES
I was recently given the opportunity to read
at a friend's wedding. I approached the pulpit, which was settled
nicely behind an arrangement of chrysanthemums, and stood. After
the ceremony several people asked, "Were you laughing or crying
there?" And the bride has called this morning with the same
question.
I really wasn't doing anything. It was
see who was coming.
I thought about James Dean, an Indiana boy,
driving too fast on California roads. Maybe he grew up that same
country way of seeing everything at once when there is nothing at
all to look at.
Not used to being blinded by
possibilities.
We got to the top of the mountain and drove
slowly, looking at the monks, with our radio turned down so as not
to disturb them with their quiet sandals in their dry garden.
Hunching over joy of prayer. Supported by a rock. Looking toward
the ocean. In straw hats.
My sister's teeth-baring wave to a friend.
All of them believing easily in the overexposed heaven surrounding
them.
I was sullen. It was intolerable. This is
not the earth.
Indiana, grayed and gluttonous, is the
earth. Damp snow-melt days with wet intruding on your skin. Sloppy
average khaki-green living out rental contracts in sub-suburban
sprawl. And all the fat American cars.
“ Show me heaven there.” I
felt like screaming at the hummingbird and his broad-brimmed work
hat. How far away from this sanctuary can your belief survive? And
for how long in a jar full of acetone and butterfly
wings?
I could have cried.
When we drove down she went faster. And I
was even more afraid of all the sunlight I couldn't catch.
Isn't it funny how little we can do for ourselves?
WHISTLING WOMAN
You always had to laugh so hard. I never
understood it. And it was only later that I noticed how haunted you
were. Fighting, I guess, with quick knives against your throat and
fast ideas away from bitten nails. A little too far. A little too
hard.
I've never understood why I have to use my
best manners in the homes which break the most rules where the
meanest adults live. But I did take my shoes off and kept my napkin
in my lap. And that was okay. I was fine being respectful of adults
until I understood who was doing those things to you. But I never
said a word.
Don’t! You can’t! Get back here! Stop it!
Get down from there! Quit! I dare you.
Was it really fun we were having? They call
it acting out. Maybe it was resistance. Maybe it was hoping someone
would notice the injustices of our child-lives. But everyone was,
so who would notice? I just remember whipped cream-smothered
laughing and staging a fall from a third-story window. Remember
that? That was funny. Wasn’t it?
We were just kids, you know. Nothing better
to do than to believe what we were told. What we were raised up in.
What we saw of our tiny pinhole camera worlds. So I don't know how
to remember those awful times. Because they weren't so awful then.
They were just our lives—yours and mine—and friends forever doesn’t
really have to mean anything. They were just our lives. Now they
are textbooks and psychology and discussions behind closed doors
and fingers pointed with blame and dark walks through hollow selves
toward forgiveness. But then those whip-cracks of savagery were
good enough for us to call best friends with the peanut butter
sandwiches and the new tennis shoes once a year.
Now, after what you've told me, I'm glad to
remember back further to this dead working woman in our
mother-bones. She knew we'd be along. So she was happy enough.
Laughing so hard and whistling so loud without words, without
anything for him to really blame her for. Don’t tell! Please, just
don’t say anything. What if he finds out? What if someone finds
out? So no words. Just whistling. Just laughing. Just our lives.
With so much hard hope. And our entire friendship welling up proud
without tears in her whelped-whistling work.
ACOLYTES IN
TENNIS SHOES
I was recently given the opportunity to read
at a friend's wedding. I approached the pulpit, which was settled
nicely behind an arrangement of chrysanthemums, and stood. After
the ceremony several people asked, "Were you laughing or crying
there?" And the bride has called this morning with the same
question.
I really wasn't doing anything. It was
Similar Books
