stuffandthings
Portrait of the Artist.  #husband

Portrait of the Artist. #husband

Andy watched the shadows and light play on his bedroom ceiling. Outside there were street lamps. Tree shadows. Motion sensitive lights, tripped by branches in the wind. Or the neighbor’s cat. Or a burglar. Car head lights, white and causing the shapes above him to stretch and slide. The coveted yet rare brake lights would wash it all in a thin red, and cause it to slow.  An ancient animation. Andy watched the movement above him, but his thoughts were elsewhere.  He thought about his brother, 3,000 miles away in College.  He thought about him having freedom and secrets. He thought about how quiet the house was with only himself to talk to. He had little to say even before his younger brother had died, and less now that his older brother was off on the East coast reinventing himself.  Andy envied both his brothers.  Both of them free and remembered so fondly. So many photos of them around the house. Andy fought the urge to touch himself and thought about the Priest telling him that ‘the Angels are always watching…always’.  Andy loved his body and wanted to feel it work, yet he hated the power it had over him.  His hand moved towards his pajama bottoms and his eyes squeezed shut.  Death and College were two ways out of the house right now,  he thought…but all he really wanted was to make it to his next birthday. Just two months away.  He had heard his mother and father discussing a car for his 16th.  They felt sorry for their middle son, neither dead nor achieving.  He deserved a car.  Andy had already made plans.  He would start the engine and never come back. There had to be a place where no one could leave him  and the Angels were blind.  Andy felt his hand take hold of himself and he thought about engine of a used car. He thought about it sparking to life and then roaring as he shifted into a better gear.  Andy told the Angels he was sorry, and as his hand moved more quickly, he told the shapes on his ceiling that soon they would not have to deal with him anymore.  #nightwalk

Andy watched the shadows and light play on his bedroom ceiling. Outside there were street lamps. Tree shadows. Motion sensitive lights, tripped by branches in the wind. Or the neighbor’s cat. Or a burglar. Car head lights, white and causing the shapes above him to stretch and slide. The coveted yet rare brake lights would wash it all in a thin red, and cause it to slow. An ancient animation. Andy watched the movement above him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He thought about his brother, 3,000 miles away in College. He thought about him having freedom and secrets. He thought about how quiet the house was with only himself to talk to. He had little to say even before his younger brother had died, and less now that his older brother was off on the East coast reinventing himself. Andy envied both his brothers. Both of them free and remembered so fondly. So many photos of them around the house. Andy fought the urge to touch himself and thought about the Priest telling him that ‘the Angels are always watching…always’. Andy loved his body and wanted to feel it work, yet he hated the power it had over him. His hand moved towards his pajama bottoms and his eyes squeezed shut. Death and College were two ways out of the house right now, he thought…but all he really wanted was to make it to his next birthday. Just two months away. He had heard his mother and father discussing a car for his 16th. They felt sorry for their middle son, neither dead nor achieving. He deserved a car. Andy had already made plans. He would start the engine and never come back. There had to be a place where no one could leave him and the Angels were blind. Andy felt his hand take hold of himself and he thought about engine of a used car. He thought about it sparking to life and then roaring as he shifted into a better gear. Andy told the Angels he was sorry, and as his hand moved more quickly, he told the shapes on his ceiling that soon they would not have to deal with him anymore. #nightwalk

Helen sat in the booth alone. The Diner was what every Diner should be. A place filled with people from no place in particular who seemed familiar in ways Helen could not describe. The waitresses wore lipstick colors from comic books and the tiled floor had wear marks that looped around the tables and booths. Helen drank her iced tea and ate her french fries while she listened to the couple in the booth behind her. They were older than Helen, their voices told her so. And their words. It seemed they had met online and were now looking at eachother face to face for the first time. He asked her where she was when Kennedy was assassinated. Helen thought about her own answer. She was somewhere else. Parts of her in her mother, parts in her father, not yet joined. Maybe space. Maybe Heaven. Maybe another body where she had a life unlike her own now. Helen pictured herself as a man who worked in a factory and wore coveralls. He loved his wife and missed his grown children. He loved to build things from wood in his garage and believed that his dead parents were proud of him. He missed them when Kennedy was killed but was glad they avoided the sorrow. Helen ate her fries and thought about being a man and wondered if, in a past life, she could fix her own car and not wait in a Diner while other men repaired her radiator. #nightwalk

Helen sat in the booth alone. The Diner was what every Diner should be. A place filled with people from no place in particular who seemed familiar in ways Helen could not describe. The waitresses wore lipstick colors from comic books and the tiled floor had wear marks that looped around the tables and booths. Helen drank her iced tea and ate her french fries while she listened to the couple in the booth behind her. They were older than Helen, their voices told her so. And their words. It seemed they had met online and were now looking at eachother face to face for the first time. He asked her where she was when Kennedy was assassinated. Helen thought about her own answer. She was somewhere else. Parts of her in her mother, parts in her father, not yet joined. Maybe space. Maybe Heaven. Maybe another body where she had a life unlike her own now. Helen pictured herself as a man who worked in a factory and wore coveralls. He loved his wife and missed his grown children. He loved to build things from wood in his garage and believed that his dead parents were proud of him. He missed them when Kennedy was killed but was glad they avoided the sorrow. Helen ate her fries and thought about being a man and wondered if, in a past life, she could fix her own car and not wait in a Diner while other men repaired her radiator. #nightwalk

Willa loved the water. Each year her birthday candles were blown out in the hopes that she would grow gills and be able to live in both worlds.  Beneath the surface of the water she was weightless and free. She was fearless even in the lake at Camp. Day or night, she swam with her eyes open; her legs pressed tightly together as if she had a long, singular bottom half and a fin replaced her feet.  She loved the fog of the silt and the speed with which things would appear to her out of the murky water.  Fish. Felled tree limbs. Old tires. Boat motors.  It was a perfect world and she belonged.  Her brother, Mason, had watched her come into the world in the water. Hippie parents in a candlelit room and a tub of warm water. Mason watched her rise to the surface and glow as she took her first breath. He was only five, but he knew she was a fish of some kind.  He wanted rid of her as much as he wanted to be inside her.  Even at that age the dye had been cast with him. He was a strangely wicked boy with voices in his head and a curiosity that kept his father up nights.  Willa was nicknamed, ‘Mermaid’ and Mason spent many hours watching his sister swim. Or bathe. Or dive.  The older she got, the less she let him watch her. He had to hide himself.  He began to resent her modesty. After all,  he was the first to see her as a fish and he loved her in ways he was certain no one else ever would.  Mason told Willa, 14 now, to swim to the bottom of the lake. There was something there a young mermaid needed to see. Willa dove off the dock and made her way down into the silt. She passed nothing new until she saw the girl. Her legs were bound with rope and her head had been taken off. Her arms rose and moved in the current and a false fin billowed  in the dark water behind her. Willa barely made it to the surface without choking on lake water. Her brother leaned over the edge of his small row boat and told her that he knew she was a Mermaid. He knew she was real. He would let her live and not slay her if she let him watch. Everything. Willa closed her eyes and tried to pretend it was her birthday.  She wanted gills and she wanted to disappear.   #nightwalk

Willa loved the water. Each year her birthday candles were blown out in the hopes that she would grow gills and be able to live in both worlds. Beneath the surface of the water she was weightless and free. She was fearless even in the lake at Camp. Day or night, she swam with her eyes open; her legs pressed tightly together as if she had a long, singular bottom half and a fin replaced her feet. She loved the fog of the silt and the speed with which things would appear to her out of the murky water. Fish. Felled tree limbs. Old tires. Boat motors. It was a perfect world and she belonged. Her brother, Mason, had watched her come into the world in the water. Hippie parents in a candlelit room and a tub of warm water. Mason watched her rise to the surface and glow as she took her first breath. He was only five, but he knew she was a fish of some kind. He wanted rid of her as much as he wanted to be inside her. Even at that age the dye had been cast with him. He was a strangely wicked boy with voices in his head and a curiosity that kept his father up nights. Willa was nicknamed, ‘Mermaid’ and Mason spent many hours watching his sister swim. Or bathe. Or dive. The older she got, the less she let him watch her. He had to hide himself. He began to resent her modesty. After all, he was the first to see her as a fish and he loved her in ways he was certain no one else ever would. Mason told Willa, 14 now, to swim to the bottom of the lake. There was something there a young mermaid needed to see. Willa dove off the dock and made her way down into the silt. She passed nothing new until she saw the girl. Her legs were bound with rope and her head had been taken off. Her arms rose and moved in the current and a false fin billowed in the dark water behind her. Willa barely made it to the surface without choking on lake water. Her brother leaned over the edge of his small row boat and told her that he knew she was a Mermaid. He knew she was real. He would let her live and not slay her if she let him watch. Everything. Willa closed her eyes and tried to pretend it was her birthday. She wanted gills and she wanted to disappear. #nightwalk

Getting it done!

Getting it done!

Zeppelin and Agent Smith are gonna stay here while we take care of business.  #livingthedream

Zeppelin and Agent Smith are gonna stay here while we take care of business. #livingthedream

Flashlight and new phone = awesome.

Flashlight and new phone = awesome.

Made it home and have time to sit before leaving again. #gratitude

Made it home and have time to sit before leaving again. #gratitude

This morning.

This morning.

Emmett came in the back and did not stop to pet the dog. The animal was puzzled and followed the boy as he made his way upstairs. The dog noticed Emmett’s limp. He could smell the blood and torn skin. Emmett went straight to his room and was crying before he hit the bed. He did not know how he was ever going to survive junior high. He was broken. He was small. He cried into his pillow and thought about his grandfather’s gun.  The dog moved in circles at the foot of his boy’s bed. He could see that something was wrong, he could smell it and feel it in the way he was ignored.  The dog spun and spun as if the perfect place to lay down might appear if he kept going.  Emmett listened to the dog’s nails on his hardwood floor and pictured each tick..tick..tick… as a bullet. Each one making junior high more bearable..or at least, more brief.    #nightwalk

Emmett came in the back and did not stop to pet the dog. The animal was puzzled and followed the boy as he made his way upstairs. The dog noticed Emmett’s limp. He could smell the blood and torn skin. Emmett went straight to his room and was crying before he hit the bed. He did not know how he was ever going to survive junior high. He was broken. He was small. He cried into his pillow and thought about his grandfather’s gun. The dog moved in circles at the foot of his boy’s bed. He could see that something was wrong, he could smell it and feel it in the way he was ignored. The dog spun and spun as if the perfect place to lay down might appear if he kept going. Emmett listened to the dog’s nails on his hardwood floor and pictured each tick..tick..tick… as a bullet. Each one making junior high more bearable..or at least, more brief. #nightwalk

'Disco' Lobby

'Disco' Lobby

"Okay…you guys stay here. I’m headed to Century City"

"Okay…you guys stay here. I’m headed to Century City"