Early Mornin'

Foster stared at the stove. Was he supposed to be making coffee? Was it a coffee-maker or a cappuccino machine that they had? Should put on a tie for oh right the dog. He wasn't moving much, and his tail was wagging. Did he want breakfast? Or -- eggs? He doesn't really look like an egg. Do my eggs always look at me like this? Every breakfast, a pet. But not Swift. Oh, no.

Wait, is the oven on?

Link.

Chekov Has A Kennel of Dogs

Two in the morning streets aren't too different from three in the morning streets. The lights are loud, kids tend to pip-pip by on scooters every ten minutes (which wake up the business suits sleeping on steps and benches), and there is always -- always --foot traffic. If we were in the midsts of a secret Civil War here, and we were cycling the same people by to show The Enemy (oh, how "Western" I've become) what strengths of numbers we had, it's not too hard to imagine.

But I should be getting to the airport, as it opens in an hour. This ticket was bought with the last scraps of money I have; my parents have made a mockery of the study of economics, taking a loan out on the money they borrow from their friends to invest in new-age Communist "Pyramid Schemes"; and there's a loneliness I keep likening to a Bergman Death standing in a field, wind-a-whip, stroking his chin, and, after a pause, frowning -- which walks a line between poignant and obscurely poignant, the latter of which adds to the frustration.

The personal accoutrements are too blatant: a copy of Jean-Paul Satre and Albert Camus Swordfight to the Death, jeans tattered after purchase, a hooded sweatshirt I found on the sidewalk, and, on the c.d. player lumped and cradled like a muffler in my pocket, "Bob Dylan's Dream."

Outside the airport door -- you can see guardsmen slowly rummaging through their keys as they walk from lightswitch to lightswitch -- is a grey-beard standing aside a stack of newspapers.

"Get yer papers here! Free! Get yer papers!"

I stop, and remove my large-paw headphones, resting them on my neck. The guards have opened the doors, and commuters who were resting outside move in.

"Free?"

"Yes, M'am. Every last one. I drew over each and every one to make it a better read."

Little dragons swing from the headlines, scorching words that run, screaming, to the sanctuary of the advice columns. Two headlines have taken out knives, and circle each other as classified ads cheer them on, other ads cheering just to draw attention to themselves. Baseball players surf from first to second, and government officials sing opera in third world countries.

"You're an odd man," I say, and walk into the airport, paper in hand. I grab a drink, and check my baggage, but before I go, I can't help it: I rush into the bathroom, take the photo, and rush toward the outside doors, quickly and quietly losing my breath.

Link.

Crammed in a dead tinbox

I sit on the bench as the blades twirl aimlessly, piercing the sky with tips so lightly sheaned. I know I a-waiting, but for what? For who? Not a child, oh no. I do not associate with them. An owl, perhaps, but I do not normally associate with birds, for obvious reasons that I am a human and they are birds.

Perhaps a message. That would make sense. You know where it is to be delivered, and that it is more than likely to appear, and so you wait however long you need to. Whatever is to be delivered is surely the key to beautiful redemption.

But you wait. And wait. And wait.

Badum Bum

"Oh, this is an absolutely fascinating piece of work. Look at the color! The lines!"

"But -- this is the city."

"When was it made? Oh, a work in progress. I like it."

Link.

Animal Rights

-- How come you don't want to sit on the bench? It's romantic.

-- It's not romantic. There's a squirrel there.

-- What? I stopped, and tried to formulate a question. Squirrel and romance don't go hand in hand? I paused again, and wished I'd taken longer.

She crunched her face in concern, as if to pity me, then leveled her arm in the direction of the creature.

-- It's the only thing there. It's -- it's been there for, what, ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? It's unquestionably guarding the bench, and will devour and shred any sort of couple who sashay toward the water like a freaking carrot peeler.

I picked up a stick, and made my way to the critter.

-- You know, I was thinking of renting Monty Python's Quest for the Holy --

-- Fine! Go get eaten! See what I care! Next thing you know, this park'll be full of cannibals feeding truckloads of bodies to the squirrels.

I stopped, turned around, and raised an eyebrow.

-- Kidding! Phillip K. Dick! Go! Do your manly squirrel-shooing.

Link.

Meditation

I am one with nature. My mind, full of cloud-like images, is emptied in this state of meditation. I am part of nothing; I am part of everything. All jangled and jittery forms of concentration, scattershot in trembling excitement, return to the silence, the pure, unadultured noise. Nirvana lays inches away. The blind-prophet, the old storyteller wandering along the beach. Ashplant poking the sand. Dare he open his eyes? The middle of the ocean. No land. Guess not.

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The First Post

The premise of The Weekly Photo is simple. I pick -- wait for it -- a photo from Flickr's Daily Interestingness page, then improvise a story around it. It may relate directly to the photo, or you may think I've been drinking heavily.

Whatever the case -- welcome. Enjoy.