Monday, May 25, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Sometimes, when I am bored and feeling lonely, I will visit my Blogger profile and click on bands and films that I have listed in my profile as favorites. I scroll through the results, fondly regarding the multitude of strangers with whom I have at least one thing in common. On occasion, I spot a handsome man, and holding my breath I tentatively click on his profile, peering into the depths of his interests. I only get a vague feel of his life, but I smile, and I feel my cheeks glow when I see that we both share an appreciation for Wes Anderson flicks and the crooning voice of John Darinelle. When I am feeling especially brave, I plunge into his blog, skimming his lately musings to see if perhaps my soul mate is out there, wandering the streets of London or Sydney or Tokyo. I close my eyes, and I daydream about the wonderful life I could have with a man that I have built in my mind based off shallow information. Then I close the window, and I take careful precautions to never look for these men again. I erase them from my mind; I forget about our imaginary courtship. I return to reality, straining my ears to catch signs of life that surround me. Off in the distance, there are warm bodies held close by their significant others, oblivious to the emptiness that plagues me on these nights.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The little white flags trembled, but they held themselves high, and tried to shout across the nation, but their words were ripped apart from the bellowing wind, and their tiny voices could not carry across the country, especially not to the flag way up in Juneau.
The flag in Davenport managed to cry out to the entire Quad Cities, and Rock Island’s inhabitant was surely impressed, but their exchange was cut off from the rest of the world, swallowed by the surrounding farmlands, and it wasn’t long until the cows and sheep and goats came and chewed their cloth to pieces and their wooden shafts to nubs.
Along the West Coast, the flags were stomped on, torn and tattered, and San Rafael and San Francisco’s flags hid in the sewers, and their words never traveled across the Golden Gate. Seattle’s flags could not overcome the rain and clouds and fog, and threw its words into the sea, and then came plummeting after.
The East was too prideful, so the flags whispered to each other, their words scrambled in their game of telephone. The South could never get along, and they let their words melt in the hot sun as they sat on their porches drinking sweet tea, and pretended they had nothing to say.
They tried to breach Canada and Mexico, but big men with large guns pushed them back, lining them across the borders. Some tried to swim across the Atlantic, but their words were garbled in the waters, and they wound up on the shores of Portugal and Morocco dumb and mute.
The flags grew in number, but they no longer held themselves high, nor screamed, nor whispered, for their necks were broken and their bodies were now homes for the rats and the worms. The cows and the sheep and goats were bloated, and the splintered wood and tattered cloth filled the farms and the abandoned words sunk into the soil.
The words took root and sprouted, and new red flags shot out of the ground, with steel shafts and silk threads. They screamed across the nation, and they reached Fargo and Augusta and Provo, and Juneau heard the loudest cry of all.
And the flags still shout, and tremble no more.