The Beer Philosophers #1

(A series featuring two college guys stacking up their understanding of the universe in empty beer bottles. Have a beer. Loosen your tongue. It's good for the soul.)


"Have you got the hot nuts?"

"Dude, I was thinking."

"You've got to stop doing that. Unless it's about handing me the peanuts."

"I was thinking about pain."

"Really? I was thinking about pain too. Then, I burped."

"Dude, listen. Have you ever seen an animal in a trap?"

"A what?"

"An animal. Caught in a trap."

"Are we talking a live trap? A cage trap?"

"No. One of those nasty leg hold traps. You know. Snap! Foot nailed."

"Can you do that again? Your hand looks like a little Pacman."

"Exactly. A stainless steel Pacman."

"No. I've never seen one. Have you?"

"Well, not in person. Not for real. But on TV, maybe. I think. I don't know, who cares? My point is, what does the animal do? What do they do in the trap?"

"Well, I suppose they chew their leg off to free themselves. That's what they say, anyway. I have no idea if it's true."

"Exactly! They chew off their leg. Anything to escape."

"Yup. I guess."

"Do you suppose that hurts?"

"I would think it hurts like a motherfucker."

"Exactly! So, here we go. Imagine you had a scale. Put pain on one side and escape on the other. Which way does the scale tip?"

"The instinct to escape is stronger."

"Precisely. Now, what do you think a human would do?"

"Well, I certainly doubt many people could chew their leg off."

"I agree."

"But then again, there's that story about that trapped mountain climber who amputated a stuck limb with a rock."

"Okay. Okay. There are some tough fuckers who could do it. I'm sure. But I think most people would sit tight. If you sit still, it doesn't hurt nearly as much."

"Makes sense."

"My question is why?"

"Well. Let's see. Maybe they think they'll figure another way out. A painless way out."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe they'll just wait and hope for the best. The trapper might not be such a bad guy. It could all be a mistake. They might talk their way into getting free."

"Maybe."

"I could even see some people just pretending the whole thing isn't happening. Ostrich technique."

"So let's pull out the scale again. How does it shake out for humans?"

"Pain is stronger. A human avoids pain more than it needs to escape."

"Indeed. I think you're right. But does it make sense? What if some pain right now saves you a lot more pain later? Wouldn't you be better off to take the pain now? Chewing your leg off is better than ending up as the trim on somebody's fur coat. Yet, we don't do it."

"That's definitely true. We put off small things now and end up with much larger problems later."

"Which reminds me. I never rescheduled my dentist appointment."

"Better get on that."

"So, what I'm thinking is that humans tend to freeze in the presence of pain. Pain makes you hold still. It controls you. Especially if freezing is the only thing that takes the pain away."

"Okay. I think I see it. But what does it mean? Animals are better off?"

"I have no frigging idea what it means. But it's a terrible weakness. It can make us lambs. It can be used against us so easily."

"So what do we do about it?"

"Beats me. Thinking about it any more is too painful."

"I'm going to get another beer. Maybe you'll figure it out by the time I get back."

"Hey. Grab me one while you're up."

"Sometimes you're a pain in my ass."

"But it's better than escape."

"Huh. I'll get back to you on that."

Eat Sensibly, Tom and Julie

"So. What are they doing?" Julie said.

Tom leaned out the open window. Julie rested on the roof, toes upturned to the dying summer twilight. "Mom looks like she's going to fall asleep at the table. She spilled her whiskey."

Dad's voice sliced up through the quiet air.

Acid words.

Light from the kitchen below fanned onto the lawn from the open window.

"Did she see you?" Julie said.

"Yeah, she saw me. But her eyes couldn't even focus. She could've been looking at Frank Sinatra. Or an ironing board."

Booze eyes. Julie's term for it.

"Good," she said. "So what did you get?"

"They're still in the kitchen." Tom huffed his weight up onto the sill. Julie slid over. "I couldn't risk much, obviously," he said.

"I know." Julie flipped a page of the book on her stomach. "It's fine. I'm not very hungry anyway."

"Here. I got us two oranges. I know they've been sitting a while. But I don't think they're spoiled."

Something crashed downstairs.

They both flinched.

Not clear if the offender was mom or dad.

"Mom's still got some fight in her," Tom said. That was good for them. As long as she could totter on feet, they would beat on each other. When mom went down for the count, dad would come looking for more.

Tom smiled. But dad was afraid of heights. He never set foot on the roof.

"What do you have there?" Tom said, stretching out on the shingles.

"Medical encyclopedia. Did you know there's pictures of sexual intercourse positions in here?"

"Yeah, I know."

Julie ran her finger along the page.

"I'll take that orange after all," she said.

Harvest on the Vine

nature's window wide
outside-in to step inside
red sows our downfall

Unwell

But I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay a while and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired
I know, right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
      --Matchbox 20, Unwell

She watched the hands of the clock move.

Your heart is like pillows
that I divide
and sleep under lavender covers
where I never dreamed
of you
because you were my sleep
and I knew I could never be born
or die
because the stardust was you
and the emptiness you filled
was the universe
of me

Time passed since she turned off the television. All six hundred digital channels. And the book mark fell from the book when she set it down. But she didn't pick it up. She couldn't remember the name of the main character. Or why she chose the two books beneath.

The slickness of her thumb wetted trails on the cell phone. The time on the little digital screen didn't match the clock on the wall. The cell phone ran fast.

Not fast enough.

But I'm a child of the night
and always have been
and there's no afternoon reverie
for me
the night sky is black with the wings of ravens
and I can't talk to you
because you fed me to them
but I stitched their wings myself
and set them to flight
and as much as they eat
it only gives birth
to more soiled pieces
of me

She opened the phone.

Dialed because she would not save the number in her contacts.

But she did not press send. Her heart beat, and she breathed like falling down stairs.

No matter how much she wanted to cry, the tears only laughed and pulled away.

Why can't I just ask you?
Why can't I just tell you?
But I can't tell anyone, can I?
I tried to talk the ravens down
but I can't pet them into doves
they just bite my hands
and my fingers become spider webs
sticking to the thorns
so I can't shake them away

She tried to dial again.

But stopped and tossed the phone.

She jumped back into the six hundred digital channels and pretended she didn't know the phone was still on. Waiting.

Six hundred.

Two.

Three.

Four....

Game Friday: Alien Abduction

Summer's waning, folks. It's waning. (Except for my southern hemisphere friends. Winter's almost over, yeehaw!!) We'd better squeeze some last minute parties in.

Here is the game for today. What bad or unpleasant thing in your life can you blame on alien abduction? I'll go first:

Every night when I'm heading up to bed at a good and restful time, I'm the victim of alien abduction. They make me watch the end of movies. They make me start new projects. They make me have tortuous, over-analyzing debates. When they release me, it's like one o'clock in the morning. Sometimes later. It's not my fault. Alien. Abduction.

How about you? What do those interstellar bastards do to you? (BTW, we all buy industrial-sized cartons of Preparation H, so you don't have to go there. We'll just assume it. ;) )

Midnight Blue

In the early 1982, I heard a curious song on the radio.

I was twelve. My parents liked it too. I guess I wasn't old enough yet for that to kill the deal.

Here it is. Midnight Blue by Louise Tucker. Do you happen to recognize the melody?

(This fan video is actual better than the original, uber-hokey video from 1982. Some intense images...but that ending really turned my head around. Jesus shows up? Whoa. But I digress.)

Roll forward seven years. I was a freshman in college trying to take some good advice. I was getting out and seeing performances and lectures and extra things like that (I could have done more). I attended a Beethoven pianoforte concert, the instrument that Beethoven composed on. (The piano as we know it today wasn't quite invented yet.)

Anyway, along came a sonata in three movements. Pathetique. I was moderately interested. But when the second movement came, the adagio cantabile, my breath caught. I knew that! Thanks to Louise Tucker!

This piece of music ranks as one of the beautiful melodies ever written. It still hits me, even after hearing it countless times. But this performance by Freddie Kempf is truly stunning. As one of the video commenters on YouTube said so perfectly: "Most people who play piano are capable of playing this song, playing it at this level however is truly amazing. It's in the subtleties [and] anyone who has tried to play it can hear this! Special performance, very controlled!"

I can't agree more. Of all the versions I've heard, this is the one performance where the pianist transcends everything holding him down. He utterly "gets it." It's a piece that can become very mechanical when you play it. It takes a touch of something dark and sweet to lift the melody and dance its slow melancholy waltz.

I also think this piece has one of the most genius, simple, and enchanting endings ever. Like the end of a fanciful reflection. The pieces of the daydream are laid to rest.

Respect, Beethoven.

The Clarity of Night's 4th Birthday!

On an August day, much like this one, the Clarity of Night was born four years ago.

I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted this blog to be. Readers were few, but as I made my way and filled more of this amazing space that blogging can be, friendships grew. I'd like to thank each one of you for what you've brought to me and to each person you have touched. You've made this a wonderful run. And I look forward to toasting you yet again next year.

As the sun reclines on many more days, look for my friend up there, the katydid. He and I will be here, settling in, to sing away the dark hours of the night.

Aim (Part 2 of 2)

She burned herself on the handle of the teakettle. Her mistake. She shouldn't have let the handle fall into the heat.

She poured fast, but the burn still set in. She pressed her palm against her stomach and let the pain fade.

He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken since he stomped his feet at the door and brushed the dust from his clothes. She glanced at him across the table, but his eyes hid behind thick eyebrows, downcast. He contemplated his hands. Or the olive wood pocked from three generations of meals.

The ceramic lid of the honey jar clanked. A thick ribbon of orange folded into the steamy cup.

A splash of milk. Almost too little to taste.

Milk soured his stomach.

She set the cardamom tea near his hands and took away the empty cup. She changed her mind. She didn't want any for herself.

"Will you sit with me?" he said, voice quiet. Not the usual ice. Not the usual deception and walls of the insurgency.

She blinked.

No explanation. Just the ghost of something in his voice.

Her fingers worked into the fabric of her dress. Nervous.

She sat.

"Will you have some tea?" he said.

She looked into eyes now meeting hers. Unaccustomed, she quickly gazed down.

Maybe he--

Maybe--

She flinched at the sound like a hollow slap.

Someone slashed a knife pain across her shoulder and hurled water in her face.

Her hand snapped to the pain, and she choked out a cry.

Why did he throw the tea at her?

Why did he throw the cup?

But the room floated in pink mist, and the tea didn't scald her. The liquid felt felt warm. Like a thick, salty bath. Red snaked down the fabric of her dress.

Terrified of his rage, her eyes shot up.

But she didn't recognize the thing she sat with.

It clenched its left hand on the table next to spilled tea. Its right hand perched on a leg, as if to lean and speak.

A pulse of red sprayed up the walls from a chin and a jaw. Nothing more.

As his body tension eased, the hands slipped from the leg, slipped from the table top, and her husband melted down and took his repose on the floor.

She opened her mouth, but the scream came from far away.

Beyond the ragged hole in the wall where the bullet continued on.

Somewhere in the bustling street beyond.


(Go back Part 1.)

Traveling Song

August heat cradle me
in rushing window humidity
and oil-smelling blacktop
where mirages evaporate
the tobacco barn roads

Back country speak to me
and cicada sung cemeteries
lamenting General Lee
and blessing the dearly departed
Confederacy

I don't want to arrive
maybe that August, but not now
the car and its gasoline
hums the miles
the miles
humming away the miles

Aim (Part 1 of 2)

His crotch itched, but the soldier couldn't scratch. He couldn't even contract the muscles in his inner thighs to squeeze it away. Goddamn heat. Goddamn sweat. He loosed a slow, controlled breath, and the change in his posture raised the magnified image in his riflescope. He breathed in, and the image wanted to fall.

The man who was his target sat at a table through the windowpane. The man was waiting for tea. A small, empty cup rested within reach. Maybe a spoon. The rise and fall of the crosshairs moved up and down the man's chest. The soldier didn't waste energy keeping the crosshairs nailed. Not yet.

"Negative on the target," the spotter laying close to his left whispered.

The woman passed in front of the window again. The wife, presumably.

To the fire in the stove.

To the shelves.

To the cabinet where she stored honey.

"She may leave," the spotter said.

The soldier barely moved his lips. "I'm keeping it sharp."

"Wind is still negative," the spotter said. "Three hundred and fifty eight yards."

The woman bent, clearing the shot.

The soldier stopped his exhale.

In five seconds of holding breath, his heart would respond. His pulse would begin to pound. In the moment of near stillness, the soldier welded the crosshairs one tick left of where the target's sternum would be. The .50 caliber would cut him in half anyway. Only his shoulder, cheek, and fingertip touched the gun.

The soft trigger firmed.

But a blur of brown and white fabric flashed into view again.

"Negative," the spotter said. "Target not clear."

The shooter resumed careful breathing, restoring oxygen to still his cells again.

"She's pouring the tea," the spotter said. "She's pulling a chair."

Another slow-muscled breath.

"She's going to sit across from him."

The soldier willed his heart to slow.

"Negative on wind," the spotter said. "Three hundred and fifty-eight yards."

More blur. The target was blocked.

The soldier spoke through another thin breath. "Negative on the torso. Headshot. Positive on a headshot."

He could see the target's face and salt and pepper beard over the woman's shoulder.

The shooter raised a sliver.

The crosshairs passed beard.

Passed lips.

Passed a crooked, baked nose.

The soldier cleared his mind of everything but calm and the crosshairs. The peace of not needing to breathe. He dug his aim into the first deep wrinkles of the man's forehead and firmed the soft trigger.

In a moment, the flow of motion would rock it back.

The grand release.

Like giving birth.

In a.

Moment.

Game Friday: My Parents are Going to Be So Mad!!

Has this week been long? Is it just me? Is it you? Is it me? Is it you? Is it them?

Put a fork in it. It's done! (Well, almost.)

Time to ease into the weekend festivities. Here's the game for today. In comments, tell us about a time when you did something "bad" as a child and got caught. Let's hear about some of the mischief you caused!

I'll get it started here. When I was 9 or 10, I decided for no apparent reason that it would be cool to light a tissue on fire in the bathroom. You know, just a spur of the moment kind of thing. Well, as soon as the lit match hit the tissue, it went up in a fireball. I had no choice but to drop it. Something like a feathery, smoking meteorite floated down to the bathroom rug and proceeded to melt and blacken a patch of it. Whoops. No hiding that. Mom didn't know what to do with me when she saw it, so she sicced dad on me when he got home. I got reamed because "I almost burned the house down." My father was given to exaggeration. I tended not respect his reactions and lectures because of it.

Dive into the comments and prepare to dish!

Anyone Home?

Ever wonder who's knocking on your door when you're not home? We especially do when it comes to our cabin in the mountains.


Deer me. Nobody home? It's so fawn when those wacky humans are around. What am I going to doe now?




Missed them again? I can't bear it. What a boar.

We hang out in an interesting neighborhood. Can't wait to see who shows up for tea.

The Forest

You stand on the sunlit rock and watch me crouch in the ferns. The plants are matted. Fronds torn. You saw the raw signs of disturbance when you crested the trail.

"It's another one," I say.

You don't approach. Not yet. "All of it?"

"Mostly. But this deer is missing one of its front legs. And part of its chest."

It doesn't mentally match the other fresh remains you found. "So that makes six? Including the three skulls we found?"

"Yeah. Six."

So many. Impossibly many.

"I don't think coyotes did this," you say, still not approaching my pained expression. "I know we heard the pack last night, but--"

"No, I agree. They left the back end untouched this time. Coyotes don't do that. They start eating from the back end. Something attacked this one from the front."

You shiver at the thought of silvery moonlight. "The coyotes sounded like they were crying, anyway."

"I know," I say. "I know."