The Tap's Run Dry

Went out to water the nursery today, but only drips came out of the nozzle. Don't know where to find the valve to get things running again. Just wish I could find that valve. Wrap my fingers around the enameled metal fitting. Give it a firm twist. But until then, only drips.

The Giving Tree

Now that I think about it, the first love story that I ever really appreciated was probably The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. And I don't think I really realized that The Giving Tree was a love story until recently, and a pretty tragic one at that.

Well, if you've read the story, then you know that [WARNING: SPOILER ALERT] the tree keeps giving to this one little boy until there's nothing left but stump. And the boy never does a single thing in return. In fact by the end, the boy (now grown into an old man) still finds a way to exploit the tree: he sits down on the stump.

That last part always infuriated me. I was infuriated mainly at the ungrateful boy, but a little bit of my anger found itself directed at the foolish tree as well.

Well, I'm older now. I think I've come to the point where I can appreciate the Giving Trees and forgive the Little Boys in my life.

Day 119

I'm pretty awful at smalltalk. That's just how it is.

It was about two years ago, right around this time in high school that I was smalltalking with Griffin. We were both in AP English, and right before the exam, our school's English department hosted a miniature buffet of power foods. So there we were, standing in the lobby of our school's auditorium, waiting to take our test, amidst a press of people. I must have had a dixie cup full of fruit salad or something, but I distinctly remember that Griffin had a paper plate filled to the brim with rice cracker snacks.

Now, Griffin and I were never especially close (though at that moment, we were practically squeezed together), but it was senior year of high school, and everyone was supposed to be everyone else's friend. I have something of a bad habit of talking to acquaintances. It's a bad habit because I usually barely know the person and we have nary a thing to talk about. What ends up happening is that, in desperate recognition of this fact, I drag out my dusty old fact file on the target acquaintance, and I blather on about something vaguely pertinent to one of the scant facts I know about that person. Usually, the other person is polite enough to smile and nod periodically.

So here's a special peek at the Griffin Tyree dossier that I had on file that day:
1. Griffin is a really nice guy.
2. Even though he's a really nice guy, he played the villain in Le Miserables.
3. Griffin is in Best Buddies club (he mentors kids with learning/developmental disabilities; See fact #1).
4. Griffin is considering joining the clergy (99% sure he's a Christian).

All my life I've never been part of an organized religion, so I seized upon this moment as a golden opportunity to expand my knowledge of the Scripture. It went something like this:

Me: Hey there, Griffin.
Griffin: Hi David.
Me: Hey, what's that bible quote mean, the one that goes, "My cup runneth over"?
Griffin: The overflowing cup is supposed to be a symbol of God's bounty.
Me: Oh, that's cool.
(Pause)
Me: Well, I see that your paper plate runneth over... with rice snacks!
(Silence)

I'd hate to think that those were the last words I ever shared with him, but I have the gnawing suspicion that they were.

Day 76

Confession: When I was 13, I took a rock from the top of Half Dome in Yosemite. I wanted a reminder of what had been the best day of my young life. I've since lost the rock (given it away, actually), but I still have my memories of the afternoon that I stood on top of the world.

Day 72

Every so often, I eat grapefruit, maybe just a bite or two, so I can remind myself that I do not like the taste. The rest of the time, when the memory of bitterness is not fresh in my mind, I think only of the consummate pleasure with which so many other people eat their grapefruit, and I am again intrigued.

I suppose that the same principal applies to glow-paint dance parties.

After about ten minutes of an awkwardness I thought I had left behind in high school, I knew I had to leave. I ended up spending three hours talking and catching up with a long-neglected friend. Somehow, that conversational marathon really turned my mood around for the better. I think my preferred form of social interaction involves an interesting human being and a candid space. All through my life, this has been the pattern. Over bowls of pho, on long schoolbus rides home, on mountaintops under a starry skies, in deserts under full moons, through computer screens, on hills looking over the City skyline, and in bedrooms I've gotten the chance to talk, honestly and earnestly.

On these occasions, the talk is so satisfying that afterwards, for a little bit, everything else feels completely insubstantial in comparison. These were some of the best moments.

X-Country

A parable of the current novel-writing situation:

A tinny bang and a puff of smoke. The girls ran through the damp grass with springy mesh running shoes, ponytails bobbing, elbows jockeying for position in the pack. It was the second heat of junior varsity girls.

She was in the thick of it, the undulating sea of bibs and numbers and gaudy school colors. The air was brisk but she didn't feel the cold; all she felt was the sting in her lungs. Each stride she felt the tight then the slack, pulse in then out of her quads.

She started pushing up the hill, planting firmly each time into the grassy hillside, the smell of the damp almost perceptible. She was turning over and climbing the hill, steadily, still with the pack. She felt the first beads of perspiration, not yet congealing into sweat. And in a moment she felt for the firmness of the ground, and it was not there, just the sudden jerk downward of a hamstrung horse. She went down, grounded, no more rhythmic pulsating forward.

She got up and limped back toward the start.