Rating:  1 out of 5 Bullets

The Sony Mavica MVC-FD7 was one of the first digital cameras that recorded the images onto a removable disc. Sadly that disc was a 3.5″ 1.44mb floppy disc. The MVC-FD7 was precided by the MVC-FD5 the only difference being that the FD7 has a 10x zoom. Both cameras boast an astounding 0.3 megapixels, so you might be able to print photos up to 4×6 if you’re lucky. The MVC-FD7 came out in late 1997 and was a hit in the American market selling at prices around $900.

Pros:

• 10x optical zoom
• Big screen for the era (2″ across)
• Looks like it came from the 90′s

Cons:

• 0.3 megapixels
• Boxy
• Slow
• Takes a 3.5″ floppy disc
• Menu hard to navigate

All in all this camera was probably pretty cool when it came out, but 15 years later who even has a computer that takes a 3.5″ floppy? Not to mention 0.3 megapixels, thats worse than cell phones made 7 years ago. The only reason to look for this camera would be to add to your silly hipster outfit.

Available at The Dark Room (www.darkroomofmontana.com), or by mugging that kid at the art show. 

Flying down the Deshka. -sk

Wild salmon so pink

River water blue propels

Clouds don’t cry, do you?

Her cheeks have always been tinged red. Apparently she has Erythema. In this case probably caused by some random childhood exposure to Herpes Simplex. It’s a rather beautiful name for a condition of this variety. Her entire mouth and throat so raw that she can’t eat, raw like a canker sore. She has been so sick for weeks that I can hardly believe what I am witnessing. I’m more than a little uncomfortable.

Rewind a few minutes.

Because she’s kind of a rock star, Angela has consumed her required day’s amount of medication at once, and she is drunk. We debate in the dark, outside the Knoxville House of Faith.

She slurs to me.

“Dave, we have to go in here.”

“No, no we don’t. We have no business in a House of God.”

“But listen! The church band is practicing. I want to see this. I want to see the beauty of these people in the moment, doing what they love.”

“I haven’t been in a church since my Grandma died like 5 years ago and there is no way I’m going into this one.”

“If you are my friend, if you love me…”

Ugh, she knows me.

She grabs my hand as she leads me to a pew in the back, and again as we move closer. The church band is indeed in the moment, but they do become aware of us.

“Everyone is welcome in the house of the Lord! What are your names?”

“I’m Angela and this is Dave.”

“Well my name is Jim and I’m the preacher here. What brings you young folks in here tonight?”

“I’ve been sick, I’ve been so sick for so long. I thought this would help.”

“Well that is so unfortunate and I am sorry. The devil has done this to you, young lady.”

I consider myself to be fluent in her body language. I can read that with this last comment, the preacher has upset Angela to no end. Things escalate so quickly at this point.

“No. I know why this happened. God did this to me. He did this so that when I wake up in the morning and take that first breath of fresh air, I would know how lucky I am because not everybody has that, and despite my illness, I do have that.”

This is her revelation from this sickness. She has voiced this several times during the previous week. She believes it. These people have their own set of beliefs. I look around now and see that a crescent of five people surrounds us. We have the preacher, his portly sidekick, and three elderly women. One of the women speaks, sternly.

Southern accent.

“God would never do this to you. Jesus took 39 lashes upon his back to relieve us of sickness. This is the work of the devil.”

Shouting, crying.

“No! The devil didn’t do this to me! It was God! He wants me to know that I am lucky to take that breath of fresh air because not everybody has that!”

I cannot believe how many times both of these arguments are repeated, both parties so steadfast. It happens so fast and I feel like I am watching from inside my head. It is all too surreal. Then the argument takes a sudden, sharp turn.

“I fucking know it was God!”

All three women simultaneously and audibly gasp in horror. The air feels a little more charged.

“We do not use that language in the house of the Lord!”

She has been so sick for weeks that I can hardly believe what I am witnessing. I am more than a little uncomfortable. The preacher now places a hand on Angela’s forearm. This is the first time I have ever personally witnessed Glossolalia, more commonly known as speaking in tongues. Some people believe it to be the language of angels. It’s gibberish. To me it’s silly, yet more than a little creepy.

Southern accent.

“Leave the body of this young woman! I cast you out demon! You do not belong here!”

He repeats these phrases and punctuates them with Glossolalia. I want to leave. I cannot believe he is attempting an exorcism. I try to drag her out but she is too intent on making her point. The three women take my lead and try to drag the preacher in the other direction.

“Jim, she ain’t gonna listen to you! Just let them go!”

This continues for the longest five minutes of my life. Screaming, dragging, exorcism, crying and confusion permeate. He breaks his grip and I drag her to the door. This whole time she is screaming her point between sobs. He continues his assault. As we approach the door I look around the room and notice there are a few people scattered throughout the pews. They look terrified. I also notice something about the preacher’s portly sidekick. He is the only person from the church that understands and possibly believes what she is saying and his expression betrays his sympathy.

As we back out the door I release her so I can explain the situation to two friends randomly passing by with their dogs. They look incredulous. However, I don’t have to say much for them to understand.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know… Angela.”

They try halfheartedly to convince her to leave and also gain their own understanding of what’s happening. I don’t think she even hears them. They are gone in just a few minutes.

I return to Angela as she is being forced out the door while they struggle to close it. They finally succeed and she continues screaming her personal mantra while pounding the door with a clenched fist. With the last contact between her hand and the door, a small piece of stained glass drops out of the window in the door’s center. This leaves an opening just big enough to frame the turned up, wrinkled sneer of one of the women.

Comic relief.

“We’re calling the law!”

We run back to her house and as we do, I wonder how these people will retell this event themselves.

::

Dave Lunn is an adult child and kitchen mercenary who adores french fries.

A dedicated photographer in the fullest sense, George Post has documented 21 consecutive years of the wild annual gathering Burning Man, which takes place in the harsh and surreal Black Rock Desert.  He commented for High Contrast Review on  the social aspects of photography, desert party shooting gear, night & multiple exposure photography, and community in general, and told about his current endeavors.

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Q1.) As a first time participant this year, I was struck with the stigma about photography. Over the years, has this always been the case, that people are encouraged to forgo photography? Or did it develop (no pun intended) as time went on and the event grew? How has your place as a photographer of the incredible event evolved over the years?

SCAN OF 35mm SLIDE, 20-SECOND TIME EXPOSURE OF THE 2011 MAN'S ARMS BEING RAISED (I call these images “Neon Angels,” because they remind me of the Snow Angels we used to make as kids. . .)

A1.) I don’t think all that many people “forgo photography;” in fact, with the proliferation of inexpensive digital cameras and camera-phones in recent years, more photographs are being taken by more Burners than ever before. But the social convention of “ask before shooting” has become more evident, and especially we professional Playa photographers have tried to abide by that. Many times it doesn’t even need to be verbalized; I frequently approach a photogenic person or group, hold up my camera and just raise my eyebrows questioningly. Usually the response is positive, but now and then people will shake their heads and hold up hands to block their faces, in which case I just turn my lens elsewhere.

It seems to me that Burners, like the general population, fall into three categories: “hams” who love to have their picture taken and are often in outrageous costumes; those “NoPixPlease” types who distinctly don’t want their picture taken; and those who don’t feel strongly either way. As the event has grown and the demographic has been swelled by 20- and 30-somethings, I think the number of NoPix people have increased proportionally, so it may seem that there’s more stridency there nowadays.

Many young Burners seem to think that the longtime “No Spectators” ethos extends to image-makers, but frankly, without us documentarians, Burning Man would never have achieved the world fame it enjoys today. A couple of years ago I was photographing an art piece with my digital SLR, on the open Playa way out near the perimeter fence. Some young guys were standing near it, and suddenly one of them came over to me and said, “Were you just photographing me and my friends?” I told him that I was not interested in them, that I was just photographing the art piece; he demanded that I delete the images, and when I refused he said, “I’d better not ever see that image in print or on the Internet.” I told him that, if I ever published the image, I would just crop or Photoshop him out. He accepted that, but grudgingly. So, yes, there is sometimes a “stigma” and anti-imagery sentiment.

In particular, many Critical Tits riders are upset about having to “ride through a gauntlet” of ogling men and especially cameramen in order to complete their annual topless female bicycle rally. There has even been a proposal to make it a women-only, no-cameras-allowed event. My reaction to that is simple: If you don’t want to attract guys and guys-with-cameras, put on a shirt! If a Theme Camp wants to hold no-camera or gender-exclusive events behind the flap of their teepee, that’s fine, but out on the open public Playa, it seems to me that there should be no official exclusionary constraints or restrictions. In small group situations, “ask before shooting” works, but in mass events such as Critical Tits or the major art burns, there is just no way to obtain prior consent from everyone who may appear in my images. In those cases I fall back on my role as documentarian and just take pictures at will, while trying to remain sensitive to privacy issues.

In the early years things were much more open. It was expected that attendees would be photographed, filmed, or videotaped; in fact there used to be language to that effect on the backs of the tickets. That all changed a few years ago when a video crew shot telephoto footage of naked female Burners without their knowledge or consent and put it up on a commercial porn site. In responding to that clearly sleazy invasion of Burner privacy, the Burning Man organization clamped down very hard and began requiring registration of professional cameras and the signing of a lengthy legal document which essentially gives Burning Man “veto power:” a 50% interest in the copyright of every still or moving image shot at the event. And in keeping with Burning Man’s long tradition of non-commercialism, the organization categorically does not allow the use of imagery from the event to be used for advertising. That part’s fine with me, but I do sometimes feel frustrated by the strictness of the contract. Suppose I get an email from, say, a magazine in Germany wanting to use one of my photographs in an editorial article. Often such sales are on a tight deadline, and if I were to wait until I receive official written permission from Burning Man, I would lose the sale. So I have sometimes just made the deal, provided the image to the publisher, and then later made Burning Man aware of it and sent in my 10% “tithe to the Man” when I receive payment. And the Burning Man staff are, in practice, much more flexible than the official language of the Contract would suggest. Last year they even held several meetings with image-makers about the whole privacy vs. copyright question, and they softened considerably the previously strict legalese wording of the contract.

As to how my place as a photographer has changed, in the early years of Black Rock City I was one of a mere handful of professionals documenting the event, nearly all of us male. As the event has grown, more and more freelancers, serious amateurs, and working-press image makers have joined the fray, including a great many women. Many of the younger shooters working at Burning Man are producing unbelievably beautiful and creative imagery, sometimes with inexpensive point-and-shoot cameras. So now I’m really just one of many—which is a good thing, since no one person can now even see it all, let alone document it. And we’re not the least bit competitive; we share information on techniques, equipment, and events. We laud each other’s imagery and projects and successes and publications. We’re colleagues united by a common goal: to document an ephemeral world-class event and create images-as-Art. For all of us, Black Rock City is simply a fantastically photogenic place where we can create unique images unlike anywhere else on the planet.

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Q2.) What kind of gear do you use? Is it always with you or do you sometimes leave it behind and just roll the point and shoot? What’s your shooting rhythm like at an event so long compared to a day-long or afternoon shoot in the outside world?

A2.) I like to camp on the outskirts of Black Rock City, around 4:15 on the next-to-outermost ring road. But I can still bicycle from my camp to the Man in 7 minutes if I pedal hard. I’m a lifelong early riser, and I like to get up at 5am and be out on the Playa by first light at 5:30 and work dawn, sunrise, and early-morning light for a couple of hours. Then I go back to camp for tea and breakfast, camp maintenance, and socializing. Throughout the middle of the day the light is fairly boring, but I ride around and do some straight documentary shooting of camps, art installations, and Center Camp events unless it’s too hot or dust-stormy. In late afternoon when the light begins to be rich and warm I will go out for “golden hour,” sunset, and twilight shooting, sometimes bringing a tripod on my bike so I can transition to long exposures for awhile after dark when Black Rock City really comes alive with colorful subject matter. I know that a lot of wonderful things are happening throughout the night, but at age 64 I just can’t do all-nighters anymore, so I generally try to have a late dinner and hit the sack by 11pm or midnight.

I almost always take at least one camera with me whenever I leave my camp. One year my girlfriend and I went “out on the town,” and she had talked me into not taking a camera. I found it quite frustrating. For example, dozens of Burners were gathered within the encompassing light and warmth of the Flaming Lotus Girls’ “Serpent Mother” piece and I felt helpless not being able to document photographically the magical sight.

Regarding photo gear, for many years I was using two complete Nikon film-camera systems. First, two manual-focus F3 bodies (one motorized and one not) and an assortment of prime-focus lenses from 24mm to 400mm. Also, an N90s body with autofocus 24mm and 85mm prime lenses and 35-70mm & 70-200mm zooms. I used the N90s system in a fanny-pack for most of my Playa shooting, but I distrusted the zooms for many nocturnal subjects such as illuminated art and big burns, due to their tendency to capture “ghosting” or internal lens-element reflections of bright objects and flames against dark backgrounds. So I preferred to use manual-focus lenses for those situations. My film of choice was Fujichrome Velvia 50 for its rich, saturated colors, fine grain, and crisp contrast.

I was a bit slow to switch from film to digital on the Playa. Even when I was making the transition in my commercial studio work, I didn’t want to expose my expensive digital SLR to the dusty conditions of Black Rock City, so I continued working with my Nikon film cameras. But once I had upgraded to a newer Canon digital camera system, I began taking my older Fuji FinePix S1 to Burning Man. I immediately embraced the advantages; digital is just so much easier, more flexible, and more immediate. However, I discovered that film holds better detail in very bright subject matter such as flames and sunsets, so I still shoot a few rolls of film at the Man and Temple burns.

MY CAMERA BAG AFTER THE 2010 BURN, SHOWING DUST AND ALSO CAMERA-REGISTRATION TAG

A couple of years ago I asked several of my DSLR-shooting colleagues about dust problems and was eventually convinced that it was manageable. The main danger, of course, is dust particles on the sensor chip, resulting in lots of dark specks on each and every image. After I bought a Canon 5D MkII for studio work, I began taking my older Canon 20D and 5D bodies to the Playa with a 17-40mm zoom and 50mm & 100mm lenses. I never change lenses in dusty conditions, but even so the Playa dust is so sneaky that I have to have my DSLRs’ sensors professionally cleaned every year after Burning Man. It’s not so expensive, actually; $50 for the 20D and $65 for the 5D, and in 2010 I also had to have the 17-40mm zoom disassembled and cleaned ($135). Compared to film, 20-40 rolls of slide film at $25 a roll for film, processing, mounting, and imprinting, even with sensor cleaning digital turns out to be much cheaper in the long run.

I see the world through wide-angle eyes, so nowadays I usually just take the 5D with the 17-40mm zoom for most of my Playa work. Sometimes I also take a Canon G-11 compact for quick snaps and telephoto shots. For the big burns of major art pieces, the Man, and the Temple, I used to take three big camera bags and two heavy tripods on a home-made trailer behind my bicycle. Eventually that just got to be too much, so for the 2010 and 2011 Man and Temple burns I just used the 5D with 17-40mm zoom and the Nikon N90s system for a few rolls of film, and just one tripod and no bike-trailer. What a relief to be traveling lighter!

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Q3.) Your work I’ve seen thus far makes it clear you have an unusually sharp sense of movement and stability, particularly in low light. Can you describe one of the more involved or experimental shots you’ve attempted on the playa? Can we see it?

A3.) I always say that “the tripod sets you free.” Once the camera is on a tripod, there is really no limit to exposure time, and moving subjects often produce wonderful blur effects, especially if they’re colorful. The stability of a solid tripod also allows for registered (aligned) double-exposures; for example, I have sometimes exposed entire rolls of film just for the neon of the Man, then carefully re-wound and re-loaded the film to double-expose the flames of the Burn over the earlier neon image. In 1991, my first Burn, I even shot double-exposures with my 4×5” Horseman view camera by putting film holders into the camera twice. That was the only year I’ve taken that big, complicated, and unwieldy camera, though.

SCANNED FROM DOUBLE-EXPOSURE ON 4X5" SHEET FILM FROM 1991

Several times I have also captured time exposures of the magical moment when the Man’s arms are raised, traditionally signifying Readiness to Burn. I call these images “Neon Angels,” because they remind me of the Snow Angels we used to make as kids by flopping on our backs in the snow and flapping our arms up and down. I first became aware of this potential back in 1994 where I captured a partial “angel” quite by accident. Several times since I have managed to record the entire arm-raising sequence on a single frame of film, but the best yet is the 20-second exposure I shot in 2011 with the Man in his first-ever “striding” position.

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Q4.) As a burner of many a man, no doubt you can remember the days before dub step was a mainstay. What is your personal, impulse reaction to the impressive popularization and transformation of the event over the years, especially in terms of community and collective intent? What are your most optimistic musings on its future?

A4.) I see the organic growth of the event as an obvious development of its alternative-society potential. As a once-a-hippie-always-a-hippie rebel, I think American culture has become so banal, so crassly commercial, and so devoid of true Earth-based spirituality that an event such as Burning Man has vast appeal to anyone not distracted by the everyday opiates of mainstream media, big-box-store shopping, fundamentalist religion, and reality television. Sure, it’s hard to get to, tickets have become absurdly expensive, and it’s hot, parched, dusty, and noisy. But again and again I hear the phrase “life-changing experience” in reference to Burning Man. There’s a reason the Greeters say “Welcome Home” when you arrive at Black Rock City; it’s a place apart, where the screwed-up priorities of the Default World are replaced by something true and free and right. Put plainly, Burners know how to pitch in, help out, get things done, and still party hearty afterward. And I think that the annual commemorative Temples, begun by David Best in 2000, have put a spiritual bass-note in the experience.

Burning Man is certainly rather illusory, and it only lasts a week, but Burner Culture has begun spreading its positive message outward, with organizations like the Black Rock Arts Foundation, Burners without Borders, Black Rock Solar, and the various Regional Burn groups doing positive and beneficial work and creating amazing art throughout the world. (And for the record, I actually kinda like dub-step and all the other pounding techno music which pulses through Black Rock City all day and all night.)

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Q5.) When I attended this year, I learned that all the hyperbole I’d heard was true. The event is impossible to describe. It can be everything you want it to be. Cliches all prove true. How has being an observer and documenter of one of the more powerful gatherings in history changed and shaped you as a citizen of the earth? What have you learned?

A5.) A human figure in flames is a powerful metaphor for life richly lived. I think that’s why, from the very first Burn in San Francisco in 1986, a group of enthusiastic individuals has repeated the ritual again and again. But that’s just the molten core of what Burning Man is about.

As soon as I learned about Burning Man back in June of 1991, I felt it was Something Special. I determined to attend it that year, loved it at first sight, and I’ve gone back every year since. In the early years we knew we were onto something powerful, but only gradually, as the event grew and evolved, did we realize its potential for suggesting a new and different way for humans to be, live, and work together. We all take that with us when we return to the Default World. And really, I think of myself as something of a dabbler, as Burners go; I am self-employed, with a very busy work schedule and intergenerational family commitments, so the amount of time I can devote to Burning Man is limited. But those dedicated folks in the Burning Man organization and the many volunteers who live it 24/7/365 and pull the whole thing together year after year are a source of constant amazement to me, and I am extremely grateful to them.

Personally, in this era of global warming, I am not thrilled about the carbon footprint of the ever-larger Burns and the ever-increasing motor-vehicle travel involved in getting 55,000 people to Black Rock City for a week—and then getting them back home. There was an attempt back in 2007 to make it a carbon-neutral event, but I think that’s faded out. Frankly, it’s probably no worse than the NASCAR car-race circuit or huge outdoor music festivals such as Coachella. But the Burn itself has become very much a pyrotechnics display, with the Man himself often nearly invisible among all the fireworks. So sometimes I contemplate the eventuality of a non-Burning Man that could be recycled year after year. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it: to see the Man burn and collapse into a bonfire, and then to madly leap about the flames until they dwindle to embers, and then to return in the morning and help scrape up the ashes.

I took a friend out to Black Rock City in 2002, and as soon as we found our campsite and unloaded our bikes we rode out to the Man. She just kept saying, over and over, “Oh. My. God. I really had no idea! This is just SO COOL!!!” Her mind was being completely blown by every art piece, every costumed Burner, every weird and surreal and fantastic sight we saw as we bicycled across the Playa. And that was even before we reached the Man himself, perched atop a huge surreal white lighthouse in the middle of 400 square miles of absolutely flat alkali desert…

SCAN OF 35mm SLIDE OF THE 2002 MAN AND LIGHTHOUSE

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BONUS QUESTION.)  What’s up with the book you have coming out? Where will it be available? When?

ABQ.) My book is all laid out for the years 1991-2007; I’m currently working on the 2008 pages and hope to finish the last three years by the end of the 2011. My working title is “Dancing with the Playa Messiah: 21 Years of Burning Man Photography.” I do anticipate some legal discussions with the Burning Man organization; I will have to sign a long legal contract with them, and I may have to eliminate some photos which include nudity unless I can identify the subjects and obtain model releases from them.

Once it’s complete, I plan to pitch it to a few possible publishers, but if none of them bites I will self-publish. I have looked into Kickstarter as a possible source of funding, or I may just dip into my retirement fund. In any case, I hope it will be available early in 2012, well before the End of the World (as foretold by the Mayan Calendar). I am also considering both print and electronic versions. Many people have said they love the tactile experience of looking through a real book and wouldn’t want to give that up. But my book also looks great as a PDF on an iPad, with the ability to easily finger-flick from one page to the next and the ability to zoom in with the reverse-pinch screen gesture. So I hope eventually it will be available in both forms, probably both in bookstores and online.

::

George Post lives and works as a professional photographer in the Bay Area.  Have a look at his work from this world at GeorgePostPhotography.com or try to find him around 4:15 on the next-to-outermost ring road in that one.

This fall we all raised pigs on the farm where we live near Gainesville, Florida. On November 7, Brandon Sheard of Farmstead Meatsmith came and spent three days teaching us how to slaughter and butcher the animals. Below are notes from my journal and photographs from the slaughter.

11/7 – The day before

In preparation for the slaughter, listen to Cotton by the Mountain Goats on repeat:

this song is for the soil
that’s toxic clear down to the bedrock
where no thing of consequence can grow
drop your seeds there
let them go, let them all go…

the butcher is here
life takes life
we must rejoice

11/8 – Before we begin

I wake up every hour, hot and achy. Thought it would be cold, but it isn’t.
You feel like you’ve been in an oven, Nic says when I hug her good morning, sleep still in my face.

Wake up to the sound of knives being sharpened: metal sliding over wet stone. The butcher is standing in the kitchen in his socks and t-shirt, lanky with hairy forearms. The butcher wears a wedding band and has fingernails like nuts or spoons. Smooth ovals I think about eating, pressing to the roof of my mouth, like a Pablo Neruda poem.
I want to watch people do things with their hands forever.
(this is not an occupation)

As soon as I met him I felt better. Dread dissipates when you can give it up to a professional: someone else will hold the gun. He is so nice and makes us feel like we’ve done a good job. That our pigs are: Very friendly. Good size. Nice pigs.

The night before the slaughter I have a sex dream. I have a dream about going back to my grade school. In the dream I lean my face against a girl’s soft belly. Do that again, she says, or maybe she sends me a text message.

11/9 – Morning

Where did he go, Maureen asks, after the first pig is shot. We drag the limp body.

Scurf is the layer of hair, dirt, and outermost skin. scald for five minutes at 145°F and then scrape off. You need a chain hoist, a 55 gallon drum with the top cut out, and a large propane burner, Brandon’s wife had written in her email to us, telling us how to get ready. Suburban girls try to walk tough, look like they know stuff, when they go to Home Depot. Cable sling, cable sling, I repeat over and over in my head, until I find it.

We eat liver in the barn, standing around the cast iron skillet. Tastes like it came out of a body, pasty and rich. The tiny slices of hanger steak and skirt steak, thin soft muscle with a puff of white fat. We eat the trotters: bony and greasy. Slippery tails with tiny tiny bones inside. Ears which crisp to bubbly skin on either side of a sheet of white cartilage. We are hungry and filthy, animals eating animals.

Before dinner I read the hog killing scene from Little House in the Big Woods:

“It doesn’t hurt him, Laura,” Pa said. “We do it so quickly.” . . .  It was such a busy day, with so much to see and do. Uncle Henry and Pa were jolly, and there would be spare-ribs for dinner, and Pa had promised Laura and Mary the bladder and the pig’s tail.

11/9 – Evening

Brandon is the midwife of death, Jasmine whispers to me as we hold each other
Brandon is the midwife of death, Jasmine says to the side of my face, as Brandon crosses himself and kneels on our dead pig, still convulsing, to bleed it out.
Helping the heart. Its last beats.

11/10 – After

I will never write about the slaughter. I will never write about the slaughter. I will never finish writing about the slaughter. When we eat the meat, I have to tell myself: This is the body of our pigs. The debt that can never be repaid.

After, we parse out the details, we make a story:
Pigs aren’t afraid of dying the way we are. Even after they hear one shot they aren’t afraid of the rifle, or the next shot. They do not mourn their fallen brothers.
They are not afraid of the same things we are: Dying or missing our loved ones.

The pigs are dead. We killed them, strung them up by the strong tendons in their trotters, scalded in a barrel and scraped all their hair off, and the outside layer of dirty skin.

waiting for the first shot/waiting for the last shot
waiting for the first shot/waiting for the last shot

::

For a closer look at the butchering process, as well a little history, take a moment to watch On the Anatomy of Thrift, a beautiful instructional film done by Farmstead Meatsmith (the butcher who Kristen mentions in this article), and Farmrun, an agricultural media company based in the Pacific Northwest.

It was the middle of the night when I loaded my pickup with everything I owned and left Louisiana. I drove for two days, not stopping to eat or sleep, or do much more than fill the truck with gas.

The sun was setting as I reached North Dakota and I remembered all the times I watched, growing up, as the last streak of light drained from the sky. Up north on that treeless prairie the sunsets were the biggest and longest lasting I’d ever seen.

It was dark when I drove past the farm, and my father’s grave, and parked the truck in the alley behind the Long X Bar.

“Eric, how the hell are you?”

“Haven’t slept or ate for two days, but I’m a lot better now that I see you.”

Peanut gave me a clumsy hug and ordered a round. His real name was Billy, but no one called him that. His dad had been Peanut for the same reason; they were both short.

“How’ve you been?” I asked.

He just smiled and raised his glass in part-toast, part-explanation.

“That you, Eric?”

“Holy shit.” I wheeled around. “Steve Leiseth.”

“We thought you were never coming back.”

I shrugged. “Guess I got thirsty.”

The three of us drank and shot the shit until they kicked us out of the bar. We went back to Steve’s place, nearly drank until dawn. When I woke up on the couch his kitchen table was crowded with empty bottles. They’d both gone to work, so I let myself out, climbed into my truck and drove ten miles of badlands back toward Whetstone.

At the other end of town I picked up the county road heading north toward the farm. The wheat fields were still green and bursts of wildflowers flared up in the ditches. That gravel road rose and fell with the swales, a jet stream of dust billowing out behind my truck.

When I came near the farm I eased up, slowing to a stop at the head of the old driveway. I stared up it a long time. Finally shifted back into gear and crept along, gravel popping and crunching under my tires.

Halfway up, the driveway splits an old windbreak whose dead trees and bare branches do anything but stop wind, and rises to the farmyard. The barn, bleached salmon pink, stood to the west. I drove past the homestead, windowless, its paint peeled to wood, and parked by the trailer.

My father had hauled the mobile home up there himself and that’s where I’d be staying from now on. Mom moved out two years ago, but it was still in the family and, after a little work, still livable too. She always talked of renting it out, but never took the time to clean it. The truth is she couldn’t rent it. She couldn’t sell it or live there herself after all that had happened.

Next to the trailer stood the old house, where all my ancestors once lived and died. Beside it, halfway buried in snow, my father drew his last breath. I could still see Grandpa smoking his pipe on the porch, sighting in his hunting rifle.

I watched the homestead a while, unpacked my truck, and carried everything into the trailer. I spent the day getting power and water hooked up, cleaned out all the rooms but my father’s. I hadn’t opened that door since he’d died.

. . .

I carried all the trash out to the burn pit in the middle of the yard. As the sun set I lit a fire and stared into the flames. Jessica and I used to build bonfires when we camped outside Larose.

After high school I’d taken off for the south because I’d never seen it and wanted to get as far from here as I could. I’d been working in Louisiana almost a year when I met her. We hadn’t been dating long when we moved in together. The daughter of a big oil man, Jessica would never need a job, but wanted independence, so she worked and rented her own place.

The wind hushed down by dusk, the only time I’d known it not to blow here. It was always peaceful in the calm. You could hear meadowlarks in the windbreak and sometimes see deer or antelope. As it grew dark and my fire faded I saw the pulsing light of thunder to the south. Steve lived on the rim of the badlands–a good half-hour drive, still I always knew what kind of weather he was getting. Aside from a pointed butte to the west and some scattered hills, this country was level. You could see forever while the earth curved away from and back under itself.

Jessica waitressed at the Sea-Side Grill, a restaurant and bar next to an old lighthouse on the gulf. She’d started telling me about some guy she worked with named Jack, and how she was so glad she had someone there to talk to. Jack came from a lot of money, too. He didn’t need to flip burgers, but it kept him busy. One day after work at the cannery, I was driving Jessica home through a rainstorm when I really blew up at her. She’d been talking about Jack since I picked her up.

“Why don’t you just dump me and go out with him?”

She paused. “What’s your problem? Can’t I have a friend who’s a guy?”

“Friend? That’s a cute name.”

“Stop the car.”

“What?”

“Stop the car.”

“Look, I want to work through this,” I said.

“No you don’t. I’m sick of your shit, you’re always jealous. Why do you have to be so insecure, Eric? Stop the goddamn car!”

I pulled over the first chance I could, by a cemetery at the side of the road. She turned to me.

“I don’t want to be with anyone but you. It doesn’t matter if I talk to another guy, I love you. I never know what’s going on inside your head.” She jerked the door latch and stepped out of the truck. “Figure it out, Eric.” The door clapped shut.

As she walked down the shoulder of the road I wanted to call to her, but I was numb. I stared at the cemetery. In that part of Louisiana the dead are kept above ground in white concrete tombs. Some are sculpted elaborately and crowned with crucifixes, but most are pretty plain. I never asked why they were that way, figuring it had to do with low elevation; the swampy ground causing bodies to rot in ways that weren’t pleasant. Despite the reasoning, it bothered me. I hated that the dead weren’t buried there, but out in the open for everyone to see.

That night we didn’t speak as I packed my truck. But her words came to me, driving through the darkness. I wish you’d just open up more. I didn’t know where to begin to do that. I hated how she always wanted to talk about our feelings.

“Tell me about your family,” she said once.

“My dad’s dead and my mom’s a nut.” I was wiping fog from the windshield and peering harder into the downpour outside. Jessica was quiet.

“How’d he die?” Her voice was small as her fingers caressed the back of my neck.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, snapping on the radio.

“Eric, I want to know.” She turned the music off.

I sighed. “It was a hunting accident.”

“I thought you said he froze to death.”

“I never said that.”

I wanted to tell her more, but wasn’t sure how or what and we were pulling up to the restaurant anyway.

“I’ll pick you up after work,” I said, rolling to a stop. But she was already out of the truck, slamming the door and running inside, her apron over her head as a shield from the rain.

. . .

A knock at my door jostled me to consciousness the next day. My neighbor, Donny Larson, an old cowboy with short legs, a long torso and a monster of a beer gut. Tough as hell, though. Despite his age, he still helped the younger men wrestle calves when branding time came around.

“Saw your truck from the road. Didn’t know you were home.”

“Just got in.”

He said it was damn good to see me back and that if I was interested, he needed a hand with some things around his place. “Got about a mile of fence that needs to be fixed. Still remember how to string barbed wire?” He laughed.

I went to work for him that morning. My dad’s best friend, he and his wife, Sheryl, were family to me. Donny bought me some beers in the bar at the end of the day and said he had plenty of work and could probably keep me busy all summer. He’d been looking for a good hand since his son joined the Army.

I slipped into the rhythm of working all day with Donny and drinking with Steve and Peanut all night. I tried not to think of Jessica. Until the day I stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Jack.

Seduced by memory and sipping to forget, it struck me that I was in the same chair my father had been in when he put a gun to his head. He’d shot himself during a blizzard, in his favorite rocking chair. I was already on my own, so I found him two days later. Saw the chair, his .357 and an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. A blood-trail led out of the room, down the hall and through the open back door into the snow. I still can’t believe one man could bleed that much.

He was face-down, five yards from the trailer and next to the old house where he was born. Dad had a bullet in his brain, but got up and stumbled out in the snow before it killed him. When he wasn’t too drunk to talk, he’d been kind of a poet. We belong to the snow, he would tell me. We belong to the snow. It never made sense. He loved talking in riddles like that. After finding him that day I stared at his body while the door behind me swung back and forth in the wind, hitting the trailer with dull blows.

Through the thin walls of the morgue I heard the coroner laugh. “Shouldn’t have bothered with the gun,” he said, “drank enough whiskey to kill any man.”

The coroner had never known my father too well.

Plenty of people went to the funeral, but no family. The old man had a lot of friends. I guess if you weren’t his kid or his wife there was no reason to hate him. I’ve never been to the cemetery to see him. Mom had already left when my father shot himself. Even so, after that day she was never the same. I think after everything, she still loved the man.

She only lived across the state line in Montana, and I wanted to see her more, wanted to help, but it was too hard. She’d left me with him when I was twelve. Half the time she didn’t know me now anyway.

Maybe this was how it happened, the day the old man’s head weighed one bullet more. The pistol was still in the house. I imagined him pulling it from the drawer; imagined it cold against his hand and cheek. The silent flight of bullet delivering death as his finger tightened. It would be easy. An end to all of this. An end to everything. To never again breathe, fight gravity, or live in this world of hard edges.

For hours I drank that night and thought of Jessica. I could feel the distance between us spread. Finally I lifted the bottle above my head until it was gone, stumbled down the hall, and went to bed.

. . .

Next day I didn’t have to work and slept late. My head was pounding when I woke, so I took a walk around the yard. The place was a monument of neglect; everything in disrepair. All the equipment, arthritic with years, slumped low to the earth. I walked around the grain bins, past the corral and stopped at the barn. Growing up I played in that barn when we still used it for livestock. Now the cattle gate sagged open, inviting a ghost herd to come and go as they please. A calf got out once, before branding, and we never saw it again. That was my fault, my father said, though he’d been the one to close the gate. You idiot. Why do you have to have your head up your ass all the time? Once he even blamed me for the drought, the dried out fields of dying wheat. He blamed me always, and I believed him.

But I didn’t stray there. I wanted to remember the better times. Like him teaching me to drive when I was twelve. Not yet tall enough to see over the wheel of the pickup, I looked through it. We bumped around the yard until I grew used to the clutch.

“All right, let’s take it on the road,” he said. “Just keep her between the ditches.”

I was scared that first time, didn’t think I could manage, but I did. I couldn’t believe how easy it was. We drove the gravel roads around the farm until I’d grown comfortable.

“That’s my boy,” Dad said, after I eased the truck up to the house. “Now you can help with the real work.”

Those were the kinds of memories I would choose from now on, though lately it was Jessica I thought of. The pictures kept flashing across my mind. Like the first time we spent the night.

“I’m so glad I met you,” she said the next morning.

“I’m the one who should be glad,” I said.

“Why don’t you ever talk about yourself, Eric?”

“There’s not much to say.”

“Yeah there is.” She rolled over on her side. “I mean, all we do is talk about me, or other things.”

“I’m from a farm in North Dakota. There’s not much to say.”

“Sometimes I feel I still don’t know you enough.” She looked back up at me. “Maybe you don’t even know yourself,” she said.

“I know I want to be with you.”

Jessica smiled and kissed me. Most of the time we spent together came so easily. We’d go to our spot, a little ways out of town where the road ended in the cypress. Near the slow waters of the bayou, watching kingfishers dive for fish, she’d massage my hands. That was her thing.

“People think back massages or foot massages are the best,” she’d say in her southern drawl. “But nothing holds a candle to a good hand massage.”

She’d rub the flesh where the thumb connects, then the palm, working between the bones, and finally up each finger. Every time, before she was done, I’d pull her in. Jessica was the best kisser. So gentle, it was almost a tease. Her hands, working carefully up and down my back, seemed only to hover. The sensation came from the air between us as much as our touch.

. . .

Hearing an engine brought me back and I turned to see Steve’s truck bouncing up the drive.

He slid his lanky body out of the cab. “Came by to see if you wanted to shoot some stick.”

We got in his truck and drove to the Long X. It was somewhere after midnight when Steve finally dropped me off at the farm and I staggered into bed.

The next morning I worked with Donny in his north pasture, re-stringing the last of the wire that had come loose on the west forty. He held one end taut while I worked the pliers to wrap the other post and twist the metal back onto itself.

“You never told me about Louisiana,” he said.

I looked over at him, then back to the pliers. “Rained all the time. It was pretty though, in its own way. The people were nice enough.”

“Meet any women?”

I could feel his stare as I worked the wire. “Went out with a girl for a while.” I walked over to his pickup for the staples and hammer.

Donny laughed. “Your lady friend have a name, Buckwheat?”

I started hammering the staples into the post. “Jessica.”

“Make sure those are tight.” He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow with a massive forearm. “So, what happened?”

“Well sir, it didn’t work out. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, stringing barbed wire with you.”

He grunted. “Just like your old man. Never wanted to talk much either.”

I shot Donny a hard look and he straightened up.

“Hell,” he said. “Let’s get this done, I’m getting thirsty.” He knew better than to say I was anything like Dad.

At the end of the day we drove to the Long X. Donny and I talked about which fishing holes we’d hit when the work let up and one beer a piece turned into half a dozen before we went our separate ways.

. . .

I’d been back two weeks when I decided it was time to see Mom. She lived in Sidney, collecting welfare to support her drinking. We had nothing to say to each other anymore, so these visits were rare. I’ve never figured out what inspired me to see her in the first place, the few times I did.

“Eric,” she said casually when she opened the door. The woman never seemed surprised to see me.

“How are you, Mom?”

“Oh, come in and sit down, won’t you?”

I walked into the small, one-story house she rented from some man named Walker and cleared a chair. She sat down and lit a cigarette. Her face had that glazed look and I could tell she was drunk. She gazed through my eyes at something somewhere behind me.

“So how’ve you been?” I asked.

“Good son. Real, real good.”

We talked about dumb things: the weather, her best friend Molly–another drunk–and how it’s so sad Mrs. Johnson’s dog was just run over. After a while she went and got something from the kitchen and sat back down on the couch across from me. Mom opened a bottle of pills–I didn’t ask what kind–and popped four or five.

“So son, you married now?”

I shook my head.

“Girlfriend?”

“I was living with a girl in Louisiana for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

Her eyes seemed to focus, as if she weren’t drunk, and for the first time she actually looked at me. “You were always scared growing up. You always thought you were stupid. I guess if someone like your father tells you that your whole life, you might start to believe it. But you are good enough, son, and you are smart.” She laughed. “I remember all the friends you had growing up. You’d be best buddies for a while, then you’d stop playing with whoever your friend was at the time cause you were scared they thought they were better than you. And all those girls in school.” She laughed louder and took her last drag. “But you’re smart, son, and good enough. You have to let yourself believe that.” Her voice trailed off and she started mumbling as she fumbled for another smoke.

After a while she got on about how she wanted to move to Oregon and all the things she’d like to do in life, which she never will, but still tells me about every time I see her. I interrupted in the middle of it, told her I had to leave, and that I’d be back for another visit some time soon. I let myself out, got in the pickup and drove back toward Whetstone.

Fumbling with the knob on the radio, I picked up a Sidney station and some new rock song came crackling through the speakers. The way home took me through the badlands–a labyrinth of canyons, carved out by wind and water. Different colored stripes painted the cliff walls. Each layer marked its own eon: red, black, gray and brown. The landscape was covered in sage and studded with small cactus, the clay earth split in a spider web of cracks. I drove near Steve’s, but didn’t stop. I was in no mood to talk.

In the beginning, before everything got so serious between me and Jess, it was perfect. We just wanted to be together and when we weren’t we couldn’t stop thinking about each other. On coffee breaks she’d write me poetry on the back of used guest checks. Come to think of it, she always did that, up until the night I left.

Before Whetstone, the road twisted up out of the canyons, leveling off on the prairie. The horizon stretched around me, only a few flat-topped buttes giving rise to the landscape. I searched the empty country. Distances had spread and I was small and lost in a wilderness of space.

In the trailer I filled the sink with water and started on the dishes. I rarely thought of Mom, but it was hard now after just seeing her. One of my earliest memories was a fight she had with Dad in the kitchen. I was watching from the hallway across the living room.

“I can’t believe you,” my father yelled.

“I didn’t mean to do anything,” she said calmly.

“Didn’t mean to do anything,” he mocked.

My mother started walking from the kitchen, back toward the bedroom. Maybe she’d been coming to protect me.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you.” She was halfway across the living room when my father ran over, grabbed her arm, and swung her around.

My mother sighed, folded her arms and waited. Dad was at a loss, so he did what came naturally. The next thing I knew my mother was on the floor, holding the side of her face.

“You bitch,” he said.

I hated myself for not doing anything, but I couldn’t move. I could only watch.

“I didn’t mean to lose your goddamn knife.”

“Don’t talk back,” my father boomed. He crouched down and back-handed her again. She lay motionless, and my father looked at me. Red faced, eyes hard as stones. He stared a long time, turned, then hurried out the door. I heard him start his truck, rev it loud, and drive away.

I ran to my mother.

“Mom, get up,” I cried, shaking her.

Nothing.

“Mom.” I rocked her as hard as I could and after a long time she moved, slowly, until she was sitting up on the floor next to me. She hid her face with her hands and her whole body shook, a thin red trickle seeping from under her palms and down her chin. I ran to my room, slammed the door behind me and crouched with my back to the wall.

But I could still hear her sobbing.

. . .

Finishing the dishes, I paced the kitchen a while, walked over to the phone and called Peanut and Steve.

They brought their own beer, though they knew I’d have some. But Steve always drinks Old Milwaukee and with Peanut it’s Budweiser. I had a cheap bottle of wine that night.

“Let’s go to the bar,” Peanut said after a few hours.

We got in his truck and drove to the Long X under a sky shimmering with northern lights. We wanted laughter. To ache with it. That was all.

Lynrd Skynrd blared out of the juke box as we walked in and found our way to some stools. We ordered beers and got into a game of stick. It’s what we lived for–a few drinks, a game of pool, and some noise on the juke.

“Hey, Peanut,” the bartender said, “got that ten bucks you owe me?”

“I’ll have it tomorrow.” Peanut smiled.

“I want it now.”

“Ain’t got it,” said Peanut.

“Maybe I’ll just take it out of your hide.”

“His hide,” Steve puffed, “you’ll still be getting ripped off.”

We laughed. The bartender gave out a free round and we racked up for another game. I don’t know how it happened, but sometime that night, Steve and I, up at the bar, started talking about growing up and how our old men beat us.

“Remember when I came over one time and your dad still kept wailing on you?”

I took a drink and stared at the wall.

“Beat you up right in front of me,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Still haven’t been out to see him?”

I turned to face him. But he wasn’t backing down. So I finished my drink, ordered another round, and went over to the pool table to rack for another game.

. . .

Donny and I were digging up a rotted post that had sagged too close to the ground, when I glanced up from my shovel and saw a coyote cross a clearing to the west.

“Hey,” I said, but he’d already spotted it.

“Don’t see them too much anymore.” Donny winced, throwing a mound of sod on the ground. “Don’t even hear them howling like we did in the old days.”

“Me and Dad used to hunt them around our place,” I said. “They never got any hens on our watch.”

Donny smiled. “We used to hunt them when we were your age.” He gazed into the distance. “Used to fish all the time, too. Go to dances and chase women.” He laughed. “That’s how he met your mom.”

I went back to digging.

“Hell of a guy.” Donny scratched his sun burnt neck with fat, leathery fingers.

I looked over at him and his grin slipped.

“Doesn’t mean I liked the way he treated her sometimes.”

I hacked harder into the sod. Donny walked over to his pickup, lifted the new post and, throwing it on the ground beside me, turned back for his shovel.

“Just cause a guy’s a good friend, doesn’t mean he’s a good husband.” He paused. “Or father.”

I didn’t look up. Kept my eyes in the dirt.

“So what happened with the girl? You just get bored?”

My jaw tightened, sweat beading up on my forehead.

“It’s a lot of work,” Donny said. “The work never ends. Everyone’s got faults, you just got to find someone whose faults you can live with. Someone who can live with yours.” He lifted an old, worn out boot and sunk his shovel into the earth. “You’re a smart kid though. I don’t need to tell you that.”

Donny cleared his throat. “You got work lined up for when you’re finished with me?”

“I’ll find something,” I said.

Dusk settled as we buried the new post. By the time we finished, the moon was lifting from the horizon toward the stars overhead. Donny offered me a beer for the road and gave me a funny smirk as I slid behind the wheel of my pickup and drove home.

. . .

The Whetstone Cemetery is small and plain and doesn’t seem to hold enough bodies for the number of people who have lived and died there. My father’s grave is near the back, in a lot next to my grandparents. As I walked toward it, past the graves of people I’d either known or knew the descendants of, the ground beneath me felt loose.

At the corners of the three tombstones, brown grass and weeds blew in gusts. Next to my father’s grave-marker a gnarled juniper twisted up out of the sod, stunted by wind and drought.

Mark Olson

May 21, 1949 – Jan 8, 2005

As I stared at the grave, my legs began to shake and I wasn’t sure they’d hold me. The air was heavy and I felt choked as every muscle in my body tightened.

“I hate you,” I said, the words falling like stones.

I thought of the time we threw a rod in the tractor, ruining the engine. It was a bad motor, but I was the one driving. There, in the middle of the field, he swung at me. “You idiot,” he said. That was the time he knocked my jaw loose.

A thousand memories rushed at me. Ones I knew and ones I never let myself know.

I was crying. “You fucker. I hope you’re burning in Hell right now. Burning forever for all that shit.”

I paused, not knowing if I could go on.

“Goddamn you.”

I looked up from his grave, out over the hollow prairie.

South was the distant seam of horizon where the badlands began. I turned from him, walked past the other tombstones, and back to my truck.

. . .

In the trailer, I moved down the hall to his room and turned the knob. It was the same as I remembered. His unmade bed. The dresser. His watch still ticking next to the lamp. My father had never hung anything on his bare, white walls. Walking over to where the dresser sat next to the window, I dragged it across the room and pulled it down the hall. In the kitchen, the legs of the bureau scratched gouges in the linoleum as I jerked it out the front door and across the yard.

I walked back inside for the table and lamp. The mattress was next.

In the barn I found my grandpa’s sledge hammer and an aluminum gas can. I set the can by the fire pit and carried the sledge inside. My body ached from swinging that hammer, breaking the bed frame apart, splintering the lumber into kindling.

I stacked everything from Dad’s room in the middle of the yard, doused the pile with gas, and dropped a match on the dresser. The flames spread like wind. Across the mattress, bed frame, lamp, and table. As smoke poured into the sky above the farm, the oily smell of my father came to me for the last time.

. . .

At the end of the next day I told Donny I wouldn’t be working for him anymore. He didn’t ask why, just paid me the cash I had coming.

“So where you headed?” he said.

“South.”

At home I packed my belongings and loaded them into the bed of the pickup. It was nearly dark when I looked from the homestead to the trailer and climbed behind the wheel of my truck. In the reflection of the rear-view mirror I knew the farm was fading into the distance, but I never looked. The driveway ended at a T. To the right the road pointed toward Sidney. But I turned left.

It was nine o’clock when I veered south on 85 and midnight as I crossed into South Dakota. The sun was rising the next day when I bridged the Missouri into Iowa. I remember how the light hit those stretches of corn, so green with life. That afternoon the road rose up over the Ozarks and dropped me gently onto the flats of southern Arkansas. The sun was low and full in my face when I read the sign welcoming me to Louisiana.

I rode through the bayou, passed stands of cypress growing straight out of the water, their naked branches draped with Spanish moss. The road wound through green, spongy meadows, back through the swamp, out over an open marsh, then in through the cypress again. That’s the way it is there. The place can’t seem to decide if it wants to be made of land or water.

I drove by a cemetery, above ground like every cemetery I’d seen in Louisiana. This time for some reason it didn’t bother me, seeing the tomb-like graves out in the open. It somehow made sense that they were that way.

As I drove into the outskirts of Larose the telephone poles looked like crosses, lined up and diminishing into the red of the sky. Streets grew more familiar the closer I came.

Jessica’s car was parked out front when I pulled up to the house. The kitchen light was on and I could see her, but her back was turned. She never saw me coming as I walked up and knocked on her door.

::

Iver Arnegard has published fiction, nonfiction and poetry in the North American Review, the Missouri Review, Gulf Coast, Willow Springs, and elsewhere.  He teaches creative writing at Colorado State University-Pueblo.

Editor’s Note:  This is the third installment in an experimental narrative.  Normally, as readers, we glaze over things we can’t understand, unless there is some sort of reward involved, such as power, grades, or pay.  In entertainment time however, we tend to want captions below exotic photos, and artist statements beside abstract paintings.  We want to hear the artist talk about what he meant to convey, and what his thought was before he created a seemingly cryptic piece.   Throughout the history of literature, pieces like this, such as Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, for example, have been appreciated mostly only once some sort of non-coded message accompanies them.  So, we asked Mr. Sønju for a sort of prelude to Paralogia, which includes a variety of intentional fonts and colors, and this was his reply.

Image by AT Sønju. Click to view detail.

This might be helpful: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shorthand. There is nothing here that is necessary to ‘solve’; one might look at the page as you would any other piece art; there is does not necessarily have to be anything to clue you directly to the meaning of events or images before you, your experience is determined by how you choose to perceive a piece and the associations you make between the symbols presented.  An experience outside one’s own direct senses is by nature elliptic; the process of recollection is not necessarily linear. Any story you come across has ended, or is in the midst of things. I write this as it comes to me, then refine; I only know as much as the character(s).

So, without further adieu, take a break from Cuevana, turn your phone off, then try your hand at:

Paralogia; Mobile Patrol Experiment.

You won’t be disappointed.  (If you need Adobe Reader, go ahead and cruise here.)

::

Alyosha Tristan Sønju is a regular contributor to High Contrast Review.  He is a student at the Center for Digital Media in Vancouver, BC.  To see more of his work, check out his website.

Photo: Aimee Gaines

It’s the night of All Saints in a village in central Haiti, five years after the earthquake. The night is filled with noises, tree frogs, crickets, dogs barking in the distance, the sound of church bells, all intermingled with the sound of a Vodou ceremony, drumming, people dancing, shouting intermittently. Two Vodou priests, an old man, and a young woman-a Hougan and a Mambo are standing in an area away from the ceremony.

THE MAN: Wat you doing out here? Everything is happening over there.

THE WOMAN: We are not really a part of this.

THE MAN: You doing de An Vwa Mo, ah cleansing ceremony. And we not part of it? Why den? For who?..

THE WOMAN: No one in particular. This is for all of Haiti, and a kind of lure.

THE MAN: Lure! Wat you fishing for? Wat you trying to catch?

THE WOMAN: I need help, securing the pieces for an Aret, Papa.

THE MAN: Pieces for an Aret? Ah knew you had something…why all de mystery? Wat you trying to bring? …

THE WOMAN: Guede, Papa. You know…bring him here…

THE MAN: Bring Guede here? No one tells Guede…and no, ah don’t know. You trying to trick…Guede have two faces, one looking at de dead, and de oder looking at de living? How you going to trick dat?

THE WOMAN: I’ve all this in hand, Papa. Don’t worry.

THE MAN: Is dat fire in your hands? Is dat fire in your mouth? Dis looks like…like de ceremony from de Bois Caiman. Why Guede? And where did you find ah black pig for de summons?

THE WOMAN: A friend found one for me; in the mountains, near the Dominicans. They didn’t obey the Yankees, didn’t kill all their pigs.

THE MAN: You resourceful, I’ll give you dat. Listen…

THE WOMAN: Just do two things for me, Papa, and I’ll be in your debt.

THE MAN: You already in my debt. Ah raised you, remember? But debt, nasty word, leaves a dirty taste on meh tongue.

THE WOMAN: Let’s call it a favor then, one that I’ll … You must act as the Houganikan, the master of ceremony. When Guede comes, keep everything going…help keep…

THE MAN: So you going to be where? Doing wat? Ah should say no to dis and watever else you have in mind.

THE WOMAN: Send me to Les Invisible, to the place of the Loas, at the Crossroads.

THE MAN: (laughing) Tricking ah trickster? Ha ha ha. You so crazy, child. The Crossroads between the living and the dead. You want to walk among spirits as if you in your back- yard. (Still laughing) De temple of Guede? De place of all souls.

THE WOMAN: Yes, Hougan. Why so surprise. This has been done before.

THE MAN: Don’t call me that, I’m no ones Hougan. The Hounfor threw me out, accused me of being ah Bokur, accused me of casting curses, harmful spells, ungrateful… Can you believe… Me! Me! I had no idea dat dis disease called politics…

THE WOMAN: Listen to this night, Papa, feel it. (She pauses. The drums are blazing. She breathes deeply and spins around. She dances to the music.) Can you sense…

THE MAN: Dey accused me of dabbling in de Petro for money. (A long pause.) You listening to me?

THE WOMAN: Yes. I’m listening.

THE MAN: No. You not. Your mind is someplace else.

THE WOMAN: I’ve a confession, Papa.

THE MAN: Ah confession? You sound Catholic. Do anyting, den confess to a man. No consequences…

THE WOMAN: I’m responsible for the rumors about you and the Petro.

THE MAN: You wat? I raised you…you don’t believe…

THE WOMAN: If two little words about you could…they don’t deserve your loyalty, your dedication…

THE MAN: Why! Why did you? Dat was my life.

THE WOMAN: (Another long pause.) All that can be undone. I needed a Babalowo that I can trust.

THE MAN: Ah man’s reputation can’t be rebuilt like ah old house after ah hurricane. Such damage can never be repaired.

THE WOMAN: I knew you would refuse to come if I just ask. Since Mama died you been cooped up…

THE MAN: How did you know ah would come down here?

THE WOMAN: Don’t ask me how. I just knew you would. Like I know how I’ll make peace with your Hounfor when we finish with this.

THE MAN: Wat’s happening to you? Ever since dat quake and your friends died. Wat’s your whole plan?

THE WOMAN: Just a quick trip to the Temple of Guede, that’s all.

THE MAN: And wat for? Wat you going to do dere?

THE WOMAN: Locate the bits and pieces of times past, our mythology, our…

THE MAN: And wen you find wat you looking for.

THE WOMAN: Bring it all back, help us form an Aret, something to satisfy the spirits, bring an end all this suffering, for women, for girls, for all of Haiti…

THE MAN: Quite de task. You speaking about dis as if you think… it’s all so easy? You can’t bring all dat back in ah basket, girl. Baskets have holes. Most of us walk long and never look back to see wat we drop.

THE WOMAN: I’m looking back, at Ashe Fatima, and Boukman. They did what I’m trying to do… They sent Toussaint Louverture to de Temple of Guede, even rumored that he spoke to the Taino Queen, Anacaona. That’s why I’m always looking back.

THE MAN: So if you always looking back how you recognize de present? Sure way to trip and fall on your face, not watching where you going.

THE WOMAN: I’m so sure about where I’m going I don’t need to keep my eyes on the ground. Toussaint went back to speak to the Taino Queen. Why not…

THE MAN: Yeah. Ah know de story. He never told ah soul wat she said. He came back empty handed, with only dreams. You see where dose dreams landed him, in ah icebox on ah mountain in France. So wat you…

THE WOMAN: You think there’s something wrong with dreams?

THE MAN: Nothing wrong with dreams. But you should be careful where you let dem take you. In some places dey believe all existence is de dream of ah god. So you see?

THE WOMAN: Yeah. In our case, that God must be deep a nightmare. We are abandoned; left opened to all kinds of attacks, spiritual and otherwise. They come at us like stinging flies. We need a Lave Tet. (She pauses.) We need to revive … we need to resurrect…

THE MAN: Resurrect? You think de ancient spirits went to sleep, is dead? Dey here with us, right now, in de air we breathe, in de rocks; and de animals we eat and sacrifice. And don’t forget in plants, and de dirt we came from, and de dirt we’ll return to.

THE WOMAN: I know, Papa, I know about the spirits. They feel neglected. They mad as hell and crazy for our attention. Causing all kinds of mischief. I see it plain.

THE MAN: Especially de eternal spirits, Toussaint, Christophe and Dessaline, de ones who died with de sent of power in deir noses, destiny just outside of arms reach.

THE WOMAN: Yeah, I know what you mean. Something has plagued me ever since I visited that fort where they murdered Toussaint.

THE MAN: You went dere. Why would you go to such ah place? Bad juju…

THE WOMAN: The place is a museum now. I heard they had his skull sitting on a shelf, so I decided… I just wanted to see how barbarians celebrate…

THE MAN: Well was it dere, did you see…

THE WOMAN: I entered the place with this urge, this plan to…but this old woman in an ill fitted dress kept following me around as I searched. You know how some shopkeepers follow you with their eyes the moment you enter their store?

THE MAN: Ha ha ha. Yeah, I know. Thieves always think everyone else is ah thief. You should have knocked her down, grab de skull. His essence is still in it, return it to Haiti. Dat would have caused an uprising, an international incident, ha ha ha.

THE WOMAN: Oh yeah, and they could have caught me; put me in jail. I’m glad his skull wasn’t there. The French never relinquish their trophies easily.

THE MAN: Too bad you didn’t find it. That could have caused all kind of…

THE WOMAN: I read something about Toussaint’s last words, written by a doctor, the last man to see him alive. The doctor said Toussaint mentioned something about the Taino Queen, Anacaona. He claimed he couldn’t discern.

THE MAN: Couldn’t discern? Well, wat did he write, if he couldn’t discern?

THE WOMAN: The doctor called it delirium, hallucination. He said Toussaint spoke to the Taino queen about the land, and the destiny of the Devine, strangest bit of writing I’ve ever read. It reminded me of that last book in the Bible, you know the one? The Revelations of saint somebody.

THE MAN: (Shaking his head.) De night sees wat you have in mind, child. Dat’s why all de restlessness. You ever heard de saying, let sleeping dogs alone? Tell me, why you, and why now?

THE WOMAN: Why not me? And if not me, who, when? You said I already missed an opportunity in that French museum.

THE MAN: So, by tricking ah Loa and entering in de Temple of Guede, you think you can unravel de conversation between de Taino Queen and Toussaint? Bring all dat back, form some kind of Aret, appease de spirits, bringing peace and tranquility to Haiti?

THE WOMAN: Papa, you boil it down like cane juice.

THE MAN: Only way to get to de essence of ah matter.

THE WOMAN: Your sarcasm is painful. Don’t you see I’m pleading for help, from everyone and everything? You know the manners of Papa Legba, guarding the Crossroads, speaking to the spirits for us in his many tongues.

THE MAN: I didn’t raise you to watch you, lost in dis…

THE WOMAN: I need to finish this journey… the spirits will see me; can hear me. All these years after the destruction, I see grass and small trees sprouting through the rubble still on the streets of Port Au-Prince, and…

(The man interrupts the woman and she breathes with vexation.)

THE MAN: (Speaking softly, deliberately and pointing one finger.) It’s possible to bite off more dan you can chew, child. Ah have dis feeling dat you might be more powerful dan me, and all ah dem out dere. (He waves one hand at the night)

THE WOMAN: No need for sweet talk, papa. My vanity is…

THE MAN: No sweet talk. If you listen you could hear it, de say-so of our ancestors, dey saying you treading on dangerous ground, middling with de Petro.

THE WOMAN: This is the only way I know. I’m no longer that little orphan girl you found on the street in Port-au-Prince.

THE MAN: Ah realize dat. You tink if you make ah big enough mêlée Toussaint Louverture would stir, de spirits would hear and see de suffering of de people, and dat would do wat? (The man pauses.) You know wat you remind me of? Ah person way up in ah tree, reaching for ah half-ripe fruit way out on ah weak limb.

(There is a long pause before the woman speaks.)

THE WOMAN: Papa, under differences circumstances I would do this alone. I’ve studied all two hundred and fifty-six pages of the Odu Ifa, and still they tell me I can’t be a Babalowo. I sat at the feet of Orunmila, accepted her gifts of wisdom, prophecy and ethics. I know the many ways of Esu, the dispenser of spiritual justice. I know our ways.

THE MAN: At time just knowing is not enough. You must belonging to…

THE WOMAN: Only the Petro can get me into the temple of Guede. The pleasant and compassionate branch of our religion can’t help me. I’m not going there to receive a gift from a Loa, I’m going there to take…

THE MAN: Take wat? Wat would it look like, wat form would it take?

THE WOMAN: I don’t know. I’ll know it when I see it or hear it. For all we know, it might be a song.

THE MAN: Ah song huh? Girl, if anyone got ah hunch dat you might be trying to recreate de Ceremony of Bois Caiman, dey would … You remember dat King Of Israel who went to see the Witch of Endor? Ah think his name was Saul.

THE WOMAN: That’s Christian stuff, Papa. And you know God understand intentions. No one in the community tried to understand my intention.

THE MAN: One must be joined to de community, joined to dis place, and not only by blood. Dat’s why dey refused to give you permission, refused to let you be ah Babalowo.

THE WOMAN: Papa, not from you too? They had no idea what I had in mind when I entered the community.

THE MAN: Oh really?

THE WOMAN: They refused to allow me to be a Babalowo because I’m a woman, that’s all. So, that’s why I’m asking this favor. You have always been connected to this land, this ground. No one is more compelling than you. You know the ways of Orisha. You know the ways of Simbi, the bearer of souls to all places. Only you can…

THE MAN: You learned a lot, child, gallivanting all over de world. Dey gave you all dat money.

THE WOMAN: They didn’t give me anything. I had to work for…

THE MAN: You studied law, philosophy, Religion. Tell me why you ignoring de consequences? Why you acting as if dis is just another walk down de road. Dey will be ah price. Dere’s always ah price to pay. You know, in dis religion we call Vodou, no sins, just consequences.

THE WOMAN: I’m prepared to pay it. And I’m not treating anything like a walk down the road. That’s why I need you. The price will not be as steep with you…I’ll be there and back long before sunrise- (The woman pauses for a moment as if trying not to divulge too much by her words.)

THE MAN: (shaking his head.) Ah can’t be in two places at de same time. If you get trapped in de Temple of Guede, your spirit would be lost. Your body would walk de earth as ah zombie.

THE WOMAN: With your authority to pave the way, all will be well. I just need your help. (The woman is pleading with open palms.) Simbi will bring them. Papa legba will show them the way. But I need you, with the blessings of our ancestors. I’m going to bring them back to help me search, Toussaint included. I know the dangers of Ifa, that road between the living and the dead?

THE MAN: Oh yes. We know dat road. We all walk dat road in our dreams.

THE WOMAN: Yes, Papa. As we dream.

THE MAN: But some never return. (The man pauses, shakes his head.) You such ah loose cannon. You remind me of me, wen I was your age. Ha ha ha. You will have to call dem, one at ah time, and you’ll have to keep dem bound, because you can never tell which of dem might be…

THE WOMAN: You saying… Does that mean… (She’s smiling now as if she understands something in his words.) I left and went away to see the world instead of staying here and learning from you.

THE MAN: Don’t get ahead of me. Ah promised nothing.

THE WOMAN: Are you acting this way because?… Sorry. I’m such an ungrateful daughter.

THE MAN: We missed you real bad. Your letters came only once in ah blue moon.

THE WOMAN: So many distractions out there, books, men, foods, I discovered many things out there, but lo and behold, all of it led me right back to this land… So you see?

THE MAN: You have me almost convinced, but ah need to understand. Wat you going to do with watever you steal from?… You realize spirits can crawl inside you and drive you crazy.

THE WOMAN: I’m already crazy from all this. Can’t you see that?

THE MAN: Let me repeat de question. Wat you going to do with watever you steal from the Temple of Guede?

THE WOMAN: Form a great big lump that I can stick down the throat of…every time I hear the words poorest nation in the hemisphere, poorest nation in the hemisphere, repeated three or four times in every article, every commentary, as if they trying to convince… Enough to drive you…

THE MAN: (The man is looking at the woman.) You always had dat look in your eyes, even as ah little girl.

THE WOMAN: This is a rich country. Below our feet, right here (The woman slaps the palms of her hands to the ground) and the water off shore, enough riches to nourish… Still, they talk about the poorest nation. Thieves. They bleed us and then they blame us…

THE MAN: Dey, dey, dey, who’s dey?

THE WOMAN: You know exactly who they are. Innocuous whites, might call themselves a Club, the rich men’s club. I believe they think of us as game, fair game. Keep us in debt; force us to sell everything we can grow, everything we can cut down, just to pay the interest, on the debt, from the Club. To hell with the people, let them starve.

THE MAN: You suffering from dat disease, too much stuff in your brain. Ah bet you often try to play chess with many people at once.

THE WOMAN: I’ve never tried that. But it sound like fun.

THE MAN: Playing games with ah Loa, raising de dead, making de spirit of de living come and obeys. Juggling den, have you ever tried juggling? Who are you? You not God, child, only Olorum Papa is allowed…

THE WOMAN: (With a hint of annoyance in her voice) I know what God is allowed and what humans are… I’m a child of Africa and of Haiti, absolutely familiar with the hazards of that lineage. That’s why I need you close. I want to bring them back, make them thirsty for…Napoleon and all of them, even the ones living today and plotting our…

THE MAN: You still ignoring de risks. You want to call up ah crazy power man, ah man who once had all of Europe trembling? Ah crazy man. Who else you bringing? Wen dey tell you de truth, wat you going to do with it? You can get more dan your feelings hurt. De truth can be hard as stones thrown.

THE WOMAN: I realize that. I know, I know. But only the truth can lead me… I can stand a licking; I can stand it. It’s the least I can do for this land, the mother who gave birth to me and the woman who raised me.

THE MAN: You sound so sure. None of us know exactly wat we willing to…

THE WOMAN: In this, I’m quite sure, Papa. You ask what I’m going to do with the truth? (She pause, a sound escapes her lips) I’ll walk all over this island, all over this World. I’ll speak about the plight of women and girls, continue the work of the harbingers who died in the quake, such strong women.

THE MAN: (Laughing quickly) Ha, ha, ha.

THE WOMAN: What’s so funny?

THE MAN: You might be lucky if you come away with just ah licking. You remember wat happen to dat fellow in de dessert near Israel wen he spoke too much truth? Dis is so dangerous. Rich people, powerless men with little to loose, they will kill to keep…ah might live to regret…

THE WOMAN: I must have convinced you? Thank you Papa, for your trust in me. Thank you. (She hugs the man and kisses him on both sides of his face.) When Guede…

THE MAN: Yeah, ah know. (Taking the woman by her shoulders, he moves her to arms length.) And don’t you thank me, not yet. Listen, don’t deviate one iota from wat I’m about to tell you. Understand de purification of Gineh. Keep de African prayer in your heart.

THE WOMAN: That’s it? That’s all? They told me…

(The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out two vials. First he sprinkles a white powder in a circle around the woman, and then he sprinkles a clear liquid around the same circle.)

THE MAN: Forget everything dey told you. And be thankful dat you have only one soul to loose, because that’s wat you risking here.

THE WOMAN: I would risk more, if I had it.

THE MAN: Dat’s wat you saying now. On de road to de Temple of Guede dere are fascinations dat can boil your heart inside your chest.

THE WOMAN: No need to try and scare me Papa, I know the road. I’ve walked it many times in my dreams.

THE MAN: Just listen. Pay attention. You’ll hear de warnings of crows as you enter de bush, you’ll hear babies crying, you’ll see ah old woman sitting near ah house on de side of ah road pounding something in ah mortar with ah pestle. Don’t look into de mortar and don’t greet her. You’ll pass ah bunch of snarling black dogs at ah junction. Show no fear and you may pass without being bitten. If you are wounded do everything to prevent dem from licking your blood. At de end of dis road, across ah river, you will meet a great white snake coiled around ah rainbow. Know dat you are in de presence of Dambala and Aida Wedo. Dey will ask you questions, answer dem truthfully and dey will allow your passage to de Temple of Guede.

THE WOMAN: What if they are displeased with my answers, what if they…

THE MAN: (Shaking his head.) Better if you don’t go dere with doubts and fears. Clear your mind. You de one who wants to know, you can be saved by de spirit known as, Tonton Macoute, just once. You can be saved by de gourd if you hold it tight, allow no one to get it away from you. So get ready. Guede out dere right now. You ready or not?

THE WOMAN: Okay. I’m ready. (They are both standing in the circle. The ceremony outside is heating up. The drums are loud and ferocious as the Guede Spirit enters.)

THE MAN: (Speaking ceremonial.) Dambala, Aida Wedo, dis woman is coming to Bara, de Crossroads between de living and de dead. Aida Wedo, mother of de universe, show dis soul de light of your rainbows, keep her feet on de path. Let her be blameless in your presence. (The man taps the woman on her forehead she staggers, trembling she falls to the ground.)

The lights fade.

::

What you just read was an excerpt from a new play by Claude Alick.  To read the continuation, and learn who the woman meets in the Temple of Guede, keep your eyes trained on this magazine, or check out ccalick.com.  And if, on your way there, you see an old woman sitting near ah house on de side of ah road pounding something in ah mortar with ah pestle, don’t look into de mortar and don’t greet her. 

Claude Alick was born and raised in Granada, spent his youth traveling, and now lives in Missoula, Montana.  His books Wet Storage and Dancing with the Yumawalli are available in bookstores everywhere. 

Stark black oak on wet green grass,
there is no sky here,
only gray fog forever.

::

Pete live is Paradise, California.

The gray fog extends even as far from Paradise as Resurrection Bay, across which Mount Alice is seen here, peeking through the blankets above the state prison. - Photo: SK

Message Body: ”Game over,” she said. Actually, she typed it. Lazily, the fingers of her left hand dancing over the keyboard, nails electric green & badly chipped.  Absentminded. It took no effort.  Two words. Nine keystrokes. No punctuation even. She turned back to her carrot, the task at hand. Plunging it into the hummus, bringing it up dripping in the stuff. Carefully licking off the dip before sticking it in again. A vehicle, that’s all. Just a way to get hummus from bowl to mouth. But she didn’t think about this. Not outright. Didn’t regard the carrot as some meaningful indicator of her lifestyle, generally.

He screen buzzed with activity. She turned away. It was true that she used people, like the carrot. How many ex-boyfriends had accused her of being heartless, cold? Four. Probably five now. How many friends had cited irreconcilable differences? At least half dozen. She could break people apart. Not literally. She just saw what she needed in people and extracted it. Of course all games grow dull after a time. But she wasn’t thinking about this. Couldn’t articulate this about herself. No, her mind traced the crack up the wall, it met the ceiling, splintering off like a badly broken windshield. She grinned.

She turned back to face her laptop, brows together. The swat was unnecessarily forceful, the screen snapped closed. She thought of the first time he kissed her. Too much tongue, like drowning. She made a mental note not to forget this. If a boy couldn’t even kiss a girl properly there wasn’t need to discover all the other things he couldn’t do to one. She licked hummus from the corner of her mouth.

-

This mail was sent via the anonymous tip form on High Contrast Review http://highcontrastreview.com/anonymous

Photo: Albertas Agejevas

Response:  Hummus is the arabic word for Chickpea.  Next time you need to dump somebody over the internet, be sure you have a bowl of this delicious snack on hand.

Cold & Heartless Hummus Recipe:

• 2 cups cooked chickpeas (Also called garbanzo beans- the Spanish name for chickpeas)
• Cook dried chickpeas yourself, or buy two 8 oz cans of prepared- but be sure to rinse and drain them!
• 2-4 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil (I don’t measure, I just splash some in when I am feeling heartless)
• 2-4 garlic cloves, mashed (Depending on taste, and how cold you want to act)
• Juice of 1 lemon
• 2 Tbsp. tahini
• Salt to taste

Place ingredients in blender or food processor. Or use a mortar and pestle for added effect. Blend until desired texture is achieved. Some people prefer chunky hummus, others want creamy smooth hummus.

Serve with fresh vegetables, warmed pita bread, toast, burgers, scrambled eggs, apple slices, on a sandwich….  Carrots are nice.

*Optional ingredients you can add to the blender or simply use to garnish your hummus (Use two or three if you’re feeling particularly heartless): Parsley, paprika, lemon zest, roasted red peppers, crushed red pepper, tapenade/olives, any chopped nuts, cumin, sun-dried tomatoes, greek yogurt, eggplant, sauteed spinach or any greens, ginger.

- Caroline McCarty