A POSTCARD

Hey Gary Gregory,

You haven’t missed much in Tuccenen. Mr. Campbell gave us a dumb take-home science quiz. He was a total butt yesterday but it’s whatever. I found a new skate spot behind Baby World. Their dumpster’s got defective cribs in it. I laid a plank of wood on a curb back there and smithed it a couple times until I ripped my new wranglers. We’ll check it out when you’re back. Oh man, El Chorizo has a new item on its menu. Alejandro showed it to me and Tobacco yesterday. It’s called a “Crunch-slam Cheese-dita”. I don’t know how to spell it yet.

Guess that’s it. See you in four-and-a-half days.

Timber McSlurm, Jr.

PS: Sioux beat your high score on Channel Master.

SPIRIT THIS, SPIRIT THAT

Sunrise had very recently happened and the sky hadn’t noticed yet. Still, it was dressed in night. The light peeking over distant mountains shoved, forcing the dark to peel back and make way for morning. Water trickled in slow motion from dirty palms back into the flowing river called Sinsinawa. I often wonder where rivers like Sinsinawa come from. I mean, I know it comes from the Mississippi but before that? Oceans? Impossible. There isn’t an ocean anywhere near this river. I think it’s unnecessary to wonder where rivers end before learning where they begin. If what my father says is true- “To understand anything you must know how it started” then wondering where rivers end has no point. Pointless wondering is like having a pet cat. (If you need to spend more than several minutes deciphering this notion, stop wondering- it’s pointless.)

Water trickled in slow motion from dirty palms back into the flowing river called Sinsinawa. Morning continued to claim its day. It seemed that everything in nature was illuminating from within. It reminded me of the Walt Disney movie, Pocahontas, when she is singing a song. Spirit this, spirit that. Then she touches a boulder and a small tree and, at the very moment of being touched, they glow as if to symbolize life. If boulders and small trees had spirits, they would be extremely frustrated objects. For something as vibrant as a spirit to be living in something as inexpressive as a boulder or a small tree is outrageous. I guess it’s fortunate, then, that they do not have spirits. If you are willing to accept the concept that lifeless things can have an internal energy, you may as well get a cat or something.

It seemed that everything in nature was illuminating from within. The boy with dirty hands was satisfied with Sinsinawa’s water. He straightened his back, looking directly up and stretched his arms. The twelve-year-old had been away from home for twenty minutes now and he found tremendous fulfillment in his loneliness. The air was crisper in his small (now free) lungs. Before gathering his equipment and leaving the river, he glanced at the glorified sunrise and was reminded of Pocahontas. Unlike Pocahontas, however, Isaiah knew what was just around the river bend. Unlike past attempts, Isaiah had a plan and a destination. With this new plan, his ultimate goal would surely be reached successfully. His ultimate goal would be reached like an unanticipated fireworks finale over a small, sleepy town. What surprise would come over his father’s face!

Isaiah’s destination was to be found alongside Sinsinawa River. After collecting his things, his excitement caused him to skip. He started to make up a spontaneous tune while he pranced along. The beat of Isaiah’s song was a powerful, punk drumbeat produced by his stomps. The words were pulled out of thin air: “Sin… sin… Sinsinawa! Bamboozalaw!” This was followed with a series of violent “meow” sounds imitating an electric guitar solo. Isaiah imagined a very deep bass singer repeating the words “river, river, river, river” underneath the lead vocals and cued to the drumbeat created by his steps.

After a long while of dancing and hopping, Isaiah slowed his steps to a bored shuffle. As he walked past trees and plants, he pulled leaves and other green appendages from their life sources, never to photosynthesize again. Other than to have something to fiddle with, there was no purpose to this foliage violence. As his new home arose on the horizon, his objective became more and more tangible. With each step, he could see more of his safe haven. With each step he could feel his tight, dry face moisturize and stretch. With a smile and a burst of inspired energy, he threw his latest leaf, wiped his dirty forehead of sweat and sprinted to his fort. His loose backpack lifted and fell turbulently with each stomp. While he approached, he grabbed hold of the backpack arms to his side and pulled the old military bag into his back. The right side of the backpack had a patch with a backwards American flag. Next to this patch were several other patches including one that read “Alexander”. Isaiah’s Grandfather’s name was Larry Alexander and he was thankful for the passing on of one’s last name. ‘This backpack will be appropriate for any Alexander boy throughout any generation’ Isaiah thought often.

Now stuttering The Who’s ‘My Generation’ to himself, Isaiah slowed his run to a speed walk. His speed walk shortly became standstill as he gawked happily at his old fort. Isaiah’s “fortress” was merely a fallen tree into the fork of a similar, dead tree that still managed to stand. Months ago, before the cold seasons, Isaiah stumbled across this natural provision with great joy. He had left his equipment to search out sturdy, medium-height branches and returned to stack them against the fallen tree until he had walls. The finished product was a strong, tent-shaped, wooden stronghold. With only a few weeks to enjoy it before it became too cold to walk the distance, Isaiah had spent much time thinking about the fort and utilizing his child-like optimism when telling himself that it was very much intact. Only now, upon his long return, has he confirmed that his castled creation was, in fact, very much in one piece. After tossing his grandfather’s military bag and carefully setting his aluminum lunch box on a rock, Isaiah crawled into the wooden construction. He sat Indian-style on the dry, grassless floor of the hut, listened to the sounds of the water and faraway animals for several minutes and examined the interior more closely. Satisfied with his surroundings, he then mentally examined his stomach. After this examination, he found that we was not quite hungry enough to eat his only rations.

All the sounds of walking through the woods were muffled under Isaiah’s deep thought. He thought about many things. ‘I don’t need to find water; Sinsie is right next to my fort. I need to find food; I only have those sandwiches.’ Isaiah also imagined, again, the look on his father’s face when he would realize Isaiah was no longer there. Surely, he wouldn’t panic; Isaiah had often run away to the neighborhood center for a few hours only to return (not so) secretly. Little did his father realize, though, that Isaiah now knew what was just around the river bend. Unlike past attempts, Isaiah had a plan and a destination. With this new plan, his ultimate goal would surely be reached successfully. As successful as an outrageous, untimely fireworks display. ‘Dad won’t know what to do’, he thought.

All the sounds of walking through the woods became more and more crisp as Isaiah stepped into a thick, green clearing. Hours had passed since departure and Isaiah’s pocketed watch face showed about 12:20 PM. It was an awfully slow watch so it was probably more like 12:45, Isaiah reasoned. His pocketed watch face was not a pocket watch; it was a childhood watch that was much too small for Isaiah now. He removed the useless, rubber armbands the night before leaving home this morning.

FIRE ALARM

The fire alarm is ringing and you’re sitting on the toilet.
Homosapien means human being and you don’t even know it.

Sure,
of course I’ll show you how
to blink your name in morse code.

Everyone on the bus is staring because you’ve got blood on your ears.
We’re in the chat room together sharing our deepest, darkest fears.

How
many songs did it take for you
to want to cut yourself on your arms?

How
many times did your dad save your life
by wrapping socks around your arms?

When did we all stop using MySpace to pledge allegiance to Facebook?
I know that there’s an expression on my face but I don’t know how it looks.

When
will you learn that you’re you and no
body else can be you better?

When
will you learn to ignore all the sludge and the muck
and make your life better?

THAT SIDE WAS MADE FOR YOU AND ME.

On Sunday, while walking to a public library in Franklin Park, Illinois, I approached a tall chain link fence that surrounded a large, empty retention pond. I had just been listening to “This Land Is Your Land” by Woody Guthrie and the following lines were really resonating with me:

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

I was feeling very possessive of the world around me and it bothered me that I was not allowed to walk where I wanted to. I didn’t really have to walk through the field. The walking time I saved was pretty insignificant. I tore my pants while climbing over the sharp wires at the top of the gate, got a lot of snow in my shoes and had to climb another gate at the other side. It was worth it. I felt like I was fighting injustice.

About an hour later, I walked into a restaurant called Mr. Taco. The young lady who was working looked a little irritated. While looking at the menu, I said “hello.” She said nothing. I stopped looking at the menu and asked her how she was doing. She shrugged and asked me what I wanted. Her shortness with me made me realize that I didn’t want to eat at Mr. Taco. I told her that I wanted to keep walking and left. Take that, injustice!

ALL ALLITERATIVE ALLITERATIONS

everything eloquently evades erosion.
calico cats carefully cascade, colliding.
where women watch wet wasps wink with wombats.
always assume all assumptions are awful, asshole.
“see saws suck”, said sawyer, sarcastically.
ravers rave, rowers row, ramblers ramble, respirators rest?
hateful haters hate henry’s hooters hat.
polish peasants proudly push pills.
lopsided loofahs lack lushness.
trespassing traitors tell tropical tales.
kelly keeps killing kittens.
okay, ostriches, openly ostracize oily otters.
“yellow yen? yes!” yelled yolanda.
backbones break behind bowling balls.

THE BLUE TILE

From: brandon schaaf [mailto:srandonbchaaf@yahoo.com]
Sent: Friday, December 22, 2006 1:30 PM
To: Reller, Rita
Subject: the blue tile

Dear Mrs. Reller,

 Although you may be unaware of this, I’ve been on a mission within the past few days. I’m not referring to finals. I’ve spoken with several HSE maintenance employees, Robert, Mr. Simmons and one of your secretaries, Naomi. I’ve followed radio transmissions,  index fingers and all sorts of advice. All of these have pointed me straight to you.

First of all, let me tell you about myself:

As a freshman in Hamilton Southeastern High School, I was rowdy. I served my fair time with detentions and suspensions. Unfortunately, the pattern leaked into my sophomore year as well. By my junior year, most of my act was pulled together by some invisible motivation or drive and I worked toward graduating according to plan. As a senior, I was discouraged at times, but I had focus and I put a new caliber of effort into my work. Although I had improved, I didn’t reverse the damage I caused years before and I didn’t reach my goal. This year, I’ve served my ninth and last semester in HSEHS. I’ve done great work and earned the grades I’ve received. I’ve also learned to deal with my embarrassment and insecurities. Now I’ll be happily graduating in May with the class of 2007. I’m so excited to be moving on to this new level of life. There is one question, Rita, that I suspect I will find myself asking over and over from the outside world:

“Why didn’t I do anything about that blue tile?”

You see, on the ground at the corner of the boy’s and girl’s locker room hallways, you can find a large patch of 1’x1’ tiles set in a pattern. Some are red, some are white and some are blue. The pattern is simple but exquisitely beautiful and carefully designed. One tile, however, is unfitting with the pattern.

Before I continue, I’d like to make it clear that this is not a senior prank.

I first noticed the tile in the beginning of my first year here and I’ve seen it every day for four and a half years now and with each passing of the blue tile, a burning in my soul grows and flickers. With the end of my time here so close on the horizon, I worry that the flame will burn forever if I do nothing before I leave.

I first considered taking matters into my own hands. After several close calls that I’m not interested in discussing further, I’ve decided the best thing to do now is to make an appeal to someone with the authority to make a decision and leave the result to them, instead of making my way over to the tile and smashing it to pieces myself.

Today is my very last day here and I realize that nothing will happen right away, but I am more than willing to come back if I can do anything to help. I will even be willing to pay any tile replacing costs, however steep. I can’t afford to put a price tag on quenching this flame.

Thank you for taking the time at the end of a busy semester to read my e-mail, Mrs. Reller. Please let me know what can be done about this. I’ve appreciated HSEHS and I’m grateful to be graduating from a blue ribbon school. (Whatever that means.)

Sincerely and seriously,
Brandon Bailey Schaaf

From: “Reller, Rita” <rreller@hse.k12.in.us>
To: brandon schaaf <srandonbchaaf@yahoo.com>
Sent: Mon, January 8, 2007 3:26:46 PM
Subject: RE: the blue tile

Good Luck to you and your future endeavors!!

Mrs. Reller

A STORY about a BIRTHDAY CARD, PLAGIARISM, a SCIENCE TEACHER and LICE

sometime, when I was in fifth grade, my mother and I were at a nearby target. she was there for something I wasn’t interested in so I went to the electronics section (probably to see if there was a demo for crash bandicoot I may be able to play). all of the video games were down for some reason, though, so I went to the second best part of target - the greeting cards section. I was flipping through the comedy cards, occasionally peeking over at the sexy ones, and I read one that was particularly funny to me. I now wonder if it was drawn by gary larson, the style was similar. it was of a man in a work-suit holding a birthday cake with lit candles in it and looking very stupid (overbite, lazy eye, mustache). he was in a factory with other work-suit guys and everyone else was looking very worried. above them was a sign for their factory, it was some kind of dynamite manufacturer. the sub-line read “UNFORTUNATELY, BOB WAS AS STUPID AS HE WAS THOUGHTFUL”. I quickly, with astonishing accuracy, committed the card to memory.

within the next few days, I had recreated the front of the card in class. I drew it all, wrote the sentence, and (of course) signed my name, claiming it as my own. I tried to “unintentionally” show people my masterpiece so that my peers could know how funny I could be and how good I was at drawing. one kid I showed the picture to was named alan. “hey man, show ms. lehnus! she loves funny stuff like this!”

“really?” I asked. “she’d like it?”

“yeah, totally. maybe she’ll put it on her door.”

I agreed with him and decided I’d show it to her. the next class was hers. I showed it to her. she asked me if I drew it myself, if it was my idea. I (of course) said yes. I’m awfully funny, after all. (and good at drawing.) she said “brandon, this is very disturbing. I’ll call mr. cronk, why don’t you head down to the office?”

‘right to the principal? is it really that serious?’ I thought - well, it turned out to be. he told me how concerned he was. why was a fifth grader drawing a comic panel that clearly implied a horrific accident? an accident that would surely kill at least four people? he unsuccessfully called my parents. (this was before they figured out the trick I was using [without blatantly lying] to make sure nobody at my school could get a hold of my family.) I was suspended for a week and I never admitted to anyone that I was taking credit for another’s copyrighted work.

during one of my days of suspension, I was especially bored and absolutely had to get out of the room. I had used up all my chances of going to the bathroom again so I tried to think of a lie that could get me out of there. I scratched my head while thinking and it gave me a great idea. “mrs. watters?”

“yes?”

“I think I have lice. can I go to the nurse?”

“what? uh… yes, brandon, you may.”

“thank you.”

‘holy cow! I’m a genius!’ I thought to myself. turned out I was a genius who really did have lice.

HANDS ARE SMALL BUT TOUCH IS BIG.

TRAVEL WITH THE MOON

just follow it, dudes.

DREAM (NIGHT OF SATURDAY NOVEMBER 13)

I was riding my bike home. it was miller time, families were settling down for the evening. the sun was setting and casting beautiful, warm colors all over the sky. I turned into my neighborhood and got off my bike in front of my house. but wait - was it my house? this house was a different color than my house. my house is brown, this house is sea foam green - my favorite color. ‘did our landlord paint our house while I was gone?!’ I thought to myself. I realized I had made a mistake I never make, I was on the wrong road. I lived on the next block.

as I walked up the steps to my home, I heard a car’s tires shriek and a woman scream. I dropped my bike and ran to 10th street, just several feet away. there, I saw a woman lifelessly laying on her back. tangled with her was a man in a police uniform. an empty car was parked in the road just a yard away from the two bodies.

the sun wasn’t setting anymore. now the sun was high and behind me. I leaned over them, purposefully casting my shadow over their faces. if they opened their eyes, I didn’t want the bright light to shock them. “julie? officer?” I said a few times, hoping they would respond somehow. a female police officer walked to us nonchalantly. she lowered to her knees and inspected the bodies for a moment. I noticed then that both of their heads had been busted open and their brains were visible. the female officer immediately realized what had to be done. she started removing the brains of julie and instructed me to do the same with the officer. afraid, I watched as julie’s brain came out of her head in the female officer’s hands. the female officer moved with a confidence that gave me confidence. I lowered to my knees and put my hand in the skull of the man and removed the last small handful of brain matter - it was all that remained. it felt much like removing the innards of a pumpkin, soft and wet in my palm. I touched it with my thumb and looked at it for a long moment. when the female officer and I had finished removing the brains of julie and the policeman, the bodies rose to their feet and began speaking. julie sat on the parked car’s hood and the policeman started pacing around. they each had blank stares on their faces, spoke monotonously and did not make eye contact with anyone. while watching them move and speak, I watched the large holes in their empty heads. I soon realized that they also seemed not to have any inhibition or ability to keep their thoughts silent.

the policeman said something that he was apparently ashamed of. then, after only one second had passed, he said “that was so obvious. it’s so stupid that I said that.”

julie was farting a lot and saying “oh no, that’s embarassing.”

I glanced over and the female police officer was transcribing every word the two brainless victims said in a steno notepad.