2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) by Nath Jones Page B

a midnight-blue
column of stretch-floral glitter.
    I got ready at a friend's house where our
dates would pick us up. According to ritual we did not start to get
ready until the dates were supposed to be there. Also in keeping
with tradition the dates were twenty minutes late. Doorbell. We let
them wait. I answered the door, and my date thrust a bouquet of
flowers into my hand saying, "I smell like bleach."
    Indeed he did. Apparently he had washed the
shirt that afternoon after forgetting about that pack of Big Red
gum in the pocket which, “Got all over my shit.” He did his best to
fix the problem and washed the shirt again with a lot of bleach.
Being a man after my own heart there was not enough time to wash a
shirt twice and also be expected to dry it before they came to get
us. So not only did he smell like bleach but his shirt was soaking,
sopping, saturated, silly wet. Everything else perfect: Pants.
Coat. Tie. And flowers. But, he stood there as upright and
dignified as anyone could possibly be in a freezing cold sopping
wet shirt.
    Definitely a date of mine.
    But who cares?
    So my friend and I put on our dresses,
collected our compliments, let the jealous roommate take pictures,
and headed out into the night.
    I was not particularly glad that some
faculty members were there as I was showing off my tattoo. There is
nothing I like more than putting myself in the position to be
judged. I realized almost immediately that my date was reflecting
on me. And perhaps not reflecting very well. Fine. If that's how
it's going to be, "Jack and ginger ale." Dinner. Speeches.
Embarrassing synchronized pledge stuff. Acknowledgments. Etc.
    And then the faculty left.
    Now, I'm never exactly sure
how I really want to present myself in any given situation so I
generally choose: out
there . Needless to say I'm scared to get
the pictures back. More than that, I'm scared of what other
pictures other people have. (The one with the chair, the one on the
table, the one under the hangers, the one—whatever.)
    Toward the end of the evening I really was
impressed when my date one-handedly held two glasses of beer and
drank from one while the other poured into the first. It was a
cascading fountain made of plastic cups. He explained that he
usually uses six glasses, and I wasn't so impressed anymore.
    My date and I, the two oldest people at this
dance, took a rather invigorating November swim to culminate the
evening. God love formal dresses, because if I had been wearing any
clothes I wear all the time I might have thought twice about
jumping into the hotel pool. But formal things are easily
disposable. I grabbed a pool chair and sat on it, sinking through
the air and water, as I jumped. He was right behind me. At this
point he informed me that I was not only the hottest date but the
coolest date. I wallowed in the oxymoronic paradox without mention
but my smile was not genuine and I didn’t laugh out loud until he
leaned over in the car, almost to nuzzle, and said quiet-carefully,
“Hey, you smell like bleach."

 
    INTERNAL
STRUGGLE
    It is a possession. I am possessed by it.
Creation is difficult. I imagine a steel taper, round but drawn out
to a sharp point like an icicle. This is inspiration. And then I
come naked and try to find a way to meld my body to it. I am round
and full of blood. I can wrap myself around the shaft of
inspiration but I feel this is not enough. I want to bring myself
to the tip. And there it is sharp. Very, very sharp.
    I am learning and so perforated by this
beautiful thing that my flesh is pricked, bleeding, and scarred.
There are holes in my feet from where I tried to climb and I have
only just missed being staked clean through.
    On the cloudy days when the rod lies before
me dull and without its glint I believe I can conquer it.
    There is time to learn balance. A few
moments more. A few moments I have spent in the place of that
spear. Writhing with it. Knowing it to be a weapon, stronghold, and
tool.
    But there