My friend Wayne explained to me that ecologists can tell the health of a river by digging a meter-cubed sample out of the bank and counting all the critters, the invertebrates, that inhabit it. If a river is stressed, there will be fewer creatures rummaging around in the silt.
I read in a book that a good way to stimulate creativity is to just create, three full pages every morning. The rule is no self-criticism. Nothing edited, or changed. Just what floats through the mind. Faithful.
So this is my meter cubed, my sample. Just don’t jump to too many conclusions about my mental health based on how many creatures are crawling through the silt. Deal?
* * *
Now he sits, his hat on a little crooked. Didn’t bother to wash his hair. A gray hood over the hat. His legs are twisted around the table leg, jeans running into beaten tennis shoes. He hasn’t played tennis in two years. The computer in front of him is small. He doesn’t move as he types, just flicks his eyes up and down, from time to time and from face to screen, to take in the line of customers whom he observes, making little observations of his own. Little stories. Trying to force himself out of his own, crowd himself out so that he can see what’s really happening here. All his life he has been convinced that there was more to the story. He has been a fly on the wall, on the window. Wandering along the glass of his life, a portal stiff and sterile, seeing colors and branches moved by the wind, but buzzing. Trapped. Resisting the newspaper. Stupid fly—get out of the sill and fly—up, up!—and you won’t wander anymore. Glass deserts. How many fly corpses line the sill?
John taught the bible. He would have fit in a TV show about ancient rome. He’s wearing a dark gray jacket, a mountain-ready conglomeration of fabric. He’s found his purpose. One hand holds the bible open towards the end. The index. It’s best to know the context of this term in other books, he is saying. Gestures with his coffee-cup. The young man in the red shirt opens his bible and points something out, eager. The roman grins. Be humble Caesar, he is thinking to himself, but don’t let this opportunity pass. Let the wise sit at the gate and make their proclamations. The young are so. Poor Stacy. She’s working, like a dog right now. Not my fault she hates her job. Doesn’t claim to have time for this. For giving back. I made my money, and I don’t need to make any more. Don’t need to prove anything to anybody. I’ve got Jesus now. So, look at this passage. What does it mean to you? I’ll help. Why don’t you let me? She never lets me help. Shoulders the world, and takes it all out on me on the sailboat. Stresses me. There’s a reason we bought the damn thing. I imagined white wine and waves. I should drive to the marina when the kids leave. Nice day to scrape the hull.
Sam watches and he just doesn’t get it. He has a headache. He hates Starbucks. He sits in the chair and fills it, just with his knees and elbows. The core of him is somewhere else. It’s thinking about the argument he had with his roommate. He’s reminded how much he hates to read. Swipe a hand beneath the old ball cap. God, my head. Stop with the Word. No more words. Sam doesn’t want to get it. Sam hates his name. Mom named him Samuel because she was told she couldn’t have children. Along came the miracle baby. Miracle baby grew up and developed a love for Copenhagen. Went adrift. Sits in Starbucks and thinks about playing Call of Duty. No room for anything else. Sam is not permeable. He does not permit osmosis. He does not read his bible. He had a conversion experience, once, but it was a pull-myself-up-by-the-bootstraps conversion, a do it yourself. He worked on his Dad’s deck last summer, thought maybe this was what it was about—a day of splinters, nails, hot sun on your back. Honest punishment. Sitting with his Dad, swapping stories over a Pepsi. Thought maybe he would move in, get the dirtbike running. Dad, you could come to church with me. But then the winter came, and Dad had to cancel, flew to New York. He’ll be back in the spring. Rain check.
On a Lark 