Blue Sky Orange.
[The Kitchen, 2010]
Howl.
[Chris Mabry took this shot.]
100 Percent Organic and picked the same day.
Thanks Kate.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 10, 2010
Molly and His Chainsaw: A Short*
August 2010.
[*This was written in Ashalnd, OR during the Summer of 2010. Brooke and I had been discussing a newspaper article about a gardener who cut down a whole block of trees. We were discussing what would draw someone to that point. One afternoon, we each took 30 minutes and wrote a story. Her’s was an awesome first person narrative. Below, is what I wrote.]
Molly and his Chainsaw
The broken lightbulb’s caldera shook loosely in his weathered and unwashed hand. Night had descended on the three of them much sooner than they had expected. The evening’s breezes blew gently across his face, a face that at this time of the evening resembled his hands trembling hands.
“Come on man, just hit it.” Jackson said.
Jackson wasn’t his real name – it was actually Emanuel – but he adopted the name years before in honor of his favorite pop-star’s much publicized disgrace and ultimate death. He was an impatient man, and found himself once again waiting for a newbie to finally “hit” the bulb.
Molly had become accustomed to pressure, but for the past decade, it had mostly originated from his family. It usually began with his wife and then quickly migrated to their in-laws; they had been living with his family for the past 18 months. From there the branches lead to his children and then back to the in-laws. It quickly became a web of tangle. No matter how much pressure he was used to, this pressure pushed him into a realm that caused him to take pause. He visited his old friends, Jackson and Jermaine.
“Que es esto?” Jermaine interrupted Molly’s hesitation with the broken light bulb and Jackson’s rush to “hit it.”
Jackson responded angrily, “Hey man, speak English.”
The trio had met up after years of being apart. Molly had established a successful tree-cutting business, employing 8 to 12 employees depending on the season. Their market niche was the refusal to “top.” He had taken it on as a personal campaign. Any chance he had, he would hand out anti-topping pamphlets. He became known around town as a kind of crusader for trees – he’d show up to other work sites and beg them not to top. Unfortunately, his two friends had squandered their talents, first in the local bars and then in the quiet downtown back-alleys. Sometimes the squandering of their talents would spill into the streets. Their habits made street life and, more importantly, street drugs, available and accessible; their leisure time and lack of money made the cheap drugs attractive. At one point in the evening, Jackson referred to his situation as, “freedom.”
“Dude that guy just wrote a book about that shit.” Jermaine was already pretty high from the spliff he’d been smoking for the past 15 minutes. Somehow he managed to recall the MSN promotional headline that appeared on the screen of the public library’s computer monitor. The day before, his online job search quickly fell off track. He was excited to be using the computer, and the librarians were happy someone was actually using their under-funded services.
“Freedom. You know? What was his name?” Jermaine paused for a few moments, but became distracted at the realization that Molly hadn’t yet hit the bulb.
“It’s like concentrated weed, man. It’ll make you feel niiiiice.” Jackson too was eager for his turn and Molly’s hesitation only heightened his anticipation.
“Come on, Man.” Jackson rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.
Molly looked up from his now cramping hand that actually resembled a hoof more than it did a hand.
“Is it really like weed?” he asked raising his eyes from the yellow and black –smoke covered insides of a 60 watt light-bulb.
“Fuck yeah, but more concentrated.” Jackson urged.
As Molly raised the glass to his lips, the hollowed out glass opening quickly radiated orange. Then red. His mind raced to his estranged wife, his children, the in-laws, and the comfortable yet modest existence his heart desired for all them. As the smoke entered the back of his mouth, his throat, and finally in a painstaking needle-like manner, his lungs, he watched as images rushed before his eyes:
Image 1: his wife and in-laws standing on the apartment stoop yelling for him to leave the property.
Image 2: His tree-cutting crew who earlier that day abandoned him on the job, leaving him dangling in a harness from the branches of a Ponderosa Pine.
Image 3: His father shouting at him that he’d become nothing in the world if he attempted to leave his home.
Molly’s blood raced even faster as the meth residue moved from his lungs to his cerebral cortex, tapping receptors that had never before been touched. He stood abruptly, dropping the light-bulb, barely hearing the crash in front of him.
“What the fuck, man?” Jackson was pissed at Molly’s carelessness.
“Leave him alone,” Jermaine suddenly tried to be the voice of reason.
Molly darted to his work-truck, grabbed his double toothed chainsaw – the tool of his trade – pulled the delicate rope and began walking back toward his two friends.
“Holy shit.” Jackson stopped trying to separate the pieces of meth from the light-bulb’s delicate glass. He ran from the noise of the violently vibrating machine Molly now held in his hands. Jermaine sat back in his broken lawn chair and just simply said, “Do what you need to do.”
As the meth high resided, Molly found himself alone in the back of a police cruiser. In less than an hour, he had clear-cut a small patch of aspens, whose stumps now dotted the landscape. The handcuffs and the police cruiser’s metallic barred windows made it difficult for him to comprehend his situation. But when his eyes landed on the smoldering fire and the broken lawn chair, he began to understand.
Ashland, OR.
August 2010.
[*This was written in Ashalnd, OR during the Summer of 2010. Brooke and I had been discussing a newspaper article about a gardener who cut down a whole block of trees. We were discussing what would draw someone to that point. One afternoon, we each took 30 minutes and wrote a story. Her’s was an awesome first person narrative. Below, is what I wrote.]
Molly and his Chainsaw
The broken lightbulb’s caldera shook loosely in his weathered and unwashed hand. Night had descended on the three of them much sooner than they had expected. The evening’s breezes blew gently across his face, a face that at this time of the evening resembled his hands trembling hands.
“Come on man, just hit it.” Jackson said.
Jackson wasn’t his real name – it was actually Emanuel – but he adopted the name years before in honor of his favorite pop-star’s much publicized disgrace and ultimate death. He was an impatient man, and found himself once again waiting for a newbie to finally “hit” the bulb.
Molly had become accustomed to pressure, but for the past decade, it had mostly originated from his family. It usually began with his wife and then quickly migrated to their in-laws; they had been living with his family for the past 18 months. From there the branches lead to his children and then back to the in-laws. It quickly became a web of tangle. No matter how much pressure he was used to, this pressure pushed him into a realm that caused him to take pause. He visited his old friends, Jackson and Jermaine.
“Que es esto?” Jermaine interrupted Molly’s hesitation with the broken light bulb and Jackson’s rush to “hit it.”
Jackson responded angrily, “Hey man, speak English.”
The trio had met up after years of being apart. Molly had established a successful tree-cutting business, employing 8 to 12 employees depending on the season. Their market niche was the refusal to “top.” He had taken it on as a personal campaign. Any chance he had, he would hand out anti-topping pamphlets. He became known around town as a kind of crusader for trees – he’d show up to other work sites and beg them not to top. Unfortunately, his two friends had squandered their talents, first in the local bars and then in the quiet downtown back-alleys. Sometimes the squandering of their talents would spill into the streets. Their habits made street life and, more importantly, street drugs, available and accessible; their leisure time and lack of money made the cheap drugs attractive. At one point in the evening, Jackson referred to his situation as, “freedom.”
“Dude that guy just wrote a book about that shit.” Jermaine was already pretty high from the spliff he’d been smoking for the past 15 minutes. Somehow he managed to recall the MSN promotional headline that appeared on the screen of the public library’s computer monitor. The day before, his online job search quickly fell off track. He was excited to be using the computer, and the librarians were happy someone was actually using their under-funded services.
“Freedom. You know? What was his name?” Jermaine paused for a few moments, but became distracted at the realization that Molly hadn’t yet hit the bulb.
“It’s like concentrated weed, man. It’ll make you feel niiiiice.” Jackson too was eager for his turn and Molly’s hesitation only heightened his anticipation.
“Come on, Man.” Jackson rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.
Molly looked up from his now cramping hand that actually resembled a hoof more than it did a hand.
“Is it really like weed?” he asked raising his eyes from the yellow and black –smoke covered insides of a 60 watt light-bulb.
“Fuck yeah, but more concentrated.” Jackson urged.
As Molly raised the glass to his lips, the hollowed out glass opening quickly radiated orange. Then red. His mind raced to his estranged wife, his children, the in-laws, and the comfortable yet modest existence his heart desired for all them. As the smoke entered the back of his mouth, his throat, and finally in a painstaking needle-like manner, his lungs, he watched as images rushed before his eyes:
Image 1: his wife and in-laws standing on the apartment stoop yelling for him to leave the property.
Image 2: His tree-cutting crew who earlier that day abandoned him on the job, leaving him dangling in a harness from the branches of a Ponderosa Pine.
Image 3: His father shouting at him that he’d become nothing in the world if he attempted to leave his home.
Molly’s blood raced even faster as the meth residue moved from his lungs to his cerebral cortex, tapping receptors that had never before been touched. He stood abruptly, dropping the light-bulb, barely hearing the crash in front of him.
“What the fuck, man?” Jackson was pissed at Molly’s carelessness.
“Leave him alone,” Jermaine suddenly tried to be the voice of reason.
Molly darted to his work-truck, grabbed his double toothed chainsaw – the tool of his trade – pulled the delicate rope and began walking back toward his two friends.
“Holy shit.” Jackson stopped trying to separate the pieces of meth from the light-bulb’s delicate glass. He ran from the noise of the violently vibrating machine Molly now held in his hands. Jermaine sat back in his broken lawn chair and just simply said, “Do what you need to do.”
As the meth high resided, Molly found himself alone in the back of a police cruiser. In less than an hour, he had clear-cut a small patch of aspens, whose stumps now dotted the landscape. The handcuffs and the police cruiser’s metallic barred windows made it difficult for him to comprehend his situation. But when his eyes landed on the smoldering fire and the broken lawn chair, he began to understand.
Ashland, OR.
August 2010.
