Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Saturday, January 5, 2008

I should be in wax

Do re mi fa so la . . .

The scales trip the tongue.

Every time it feels like the Sound of Music. Almost silly even. I'd rather be in the wax museum with lions and bears. Al Roker. He's there too. Post-surgery. I'd seen it once.

Al was the storm king, the god of thunder, the Thor of Channel 4. That was before Today.


. . . Ti do ti la so fa mi re . . .

Just how do you solve a problem like Maria?

I had tried to figure that out in a book I once wrote. That nobody read. Even those who said they did. My wife. She never finished it. Because of the character named Maria. Sometimes I think it was unreadable.

An art project. That's all it was. Conceptual. I should be in wax.


La la la la la la la la la la . . .

Breaking a glass like Miyagi with a knife-edge chop.

Wax on. It all fits even when you think it doesn't. Miyagi didn't know karate for real and they were doing Tang Soo Do anyway, which is Chuck Norris's gig. You know, Mike Huckabee's best friend. At least in Iowa.

My friends called a kid wax in high school. He had bad skin.


. . . La la la ladi ladi ladidooo . . .

Friday, January 4, 2008

Listening

I'm a very handsome guy, he thought to himself as he climbed the oak tree next to his home. The oak seemed to call to him from some weird, random place, and he listened; he resolved this year that he would. Listen. Enjoy the quiet and take it in. So that he might.

And he was becoming. Better, that is. Taking it all in, the rustle of the branches in this unusually cold, early January. It whistles sometimes. Creaks. Occasionally when he's outside late, collecting firewood or walking his dog he'll even hear groans. It's as though nature is an old man or woman with arthritic bones, just waking.

It spoke to him. The tree. It told him to climb. Really. Reach with me. See how I reach higher. My limbs stretch to the sky, to the heavens. They yearn.

And so did he. Kept higher. Climbing. He wasn't just handsome. He was dashing. As he climbed. Adventurous. Maybe like Icarus I can fly, he thought. Beauty in motion. Sailing in the wind like a gull.

The wings. They were made of wax.

He was listening. The tree. It spoke to him.

Climb, it said. Fly.