Hanging off the side of what felt like a cliff, I should have been practicing staying alive. Instead, I’m having a panic attack and can’t stop crying. My tears have salted my view and I can’t see clearly. Shale is hitting my head, and I can’t keep my footing.
“Lluís, please get me out of here. I can’t hold on any more,” I cry, counting on my boyfriend’s sure-footedness to get me out of the mess I created. I cursed myself for picking this route. Who climbs at a 90-degree angle straight up a sheer face? And, where did those people come from? There’s a trail? I didn’t see a one. Damn it!
“C’mon we just a few meters away from where it gets flat,” he tells me. “You’re doing fine. You’re not very far up off the ground. And, if you’re not going to die.”
“No, you’re right. I’m not going to die. It will be worse than that. I’m going to be paralyzed for the rest of my life,” I blabber, trembling at the idea of never being able to walk again.
“Look at me. No, look at my face, not my boots,” Lluís says from above. “You’ve climbed harder, steeper trails before. Yeah, I was bit surprised you wanted to go this way, and not me. But, you’ll get there. No big deal.” Ah, my superman!
I knew logically this wasn’t such a big feat. It wasn’t like I was scaling Everest, or even Half Dome. It was more like I opted to spread eagle on the sidewalk of the Lombard Street hill in San Francisco instead of winding through the zigzagged street. I was on a relatively ridiculous incline in Purmamarca, Argentina trying to get a better view of El Cerro de los Siete Colores (Hill of Seven Colors) across the road. Screw the view. I’ll buy a postcard.
“Ok, we can about the route later. Right now, pleeeaaase, just get me off this part. I have no grip,” I plead.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Maniacs - John Fetto
Leary kneeled in the ditch, listening to Ferdinand’s men attack on the town. When the shots died down a bit, he stood up and began walking forward, holding his camera. His feet stumbled in the mud then found a trail that led between the gray and brown squat adobe buildings, the line of their roofs outlined with a flickering light of distant fire. When he edged out from between the buildings he heard gun fire erupting again, staccato, and men shouting. He stepped out into puddled road that ran through the town, raised his camera and focused at the end of the street. Men crouched, Ferdinand’s men, guns aimed at a building at the end of the street. As he focused on the building, gun fire flashed from the windows. Sandinistas fighting back? He pressed the shutter, knowing the film wouldn’t capture anything publishable. Why waste film? Nervousness? Or well reasoned fear? It made no difference, Leary needed to get closer.
He edged down the street, watching the battle ahead, and looking down by his feet. It wasn’t a simple walk in the night. Small foot high mounds were strewn here and there about the size and weight of feedbags with arms and legs attached. He stepped over them, moving slowly towards the fight, until he found the men crouching, and shooting up at the building. Leary kneeled, trying to make his large English body as small as the men he was standing behind, listening to them shout insults and fire. He looked for Walsh and found him on the other side of the street. He held the camera tightly, ducked and ran, then stopped by the door. Walsh was standing to the side of an open window where he was trying to direct a man, who crouched below the window, holding a long rifle with a telescopic scope. Walsh pointed to where he should shoot. Should be easy. Barely fifty yards away, but the man didn’t want to stick up his head, crouching, clutching the rifle as Walsh explained, but whatever Walsh said, didn’t convince the soldier to stand up and fire. Something else caught Walsh’s attention and he shouted, “Noooo!”
Leary stepped ducked out in the street, just in time to see Miguel take two steps before lobbing a metal canister toward the open window of the building from which the Sandinistas were firing. The canister tumbled through the air into an open window, a perfect strike, there was an explosion, not loud, a pop. The inside of the building erupting with the blinding light of a newly formed sun as thousand of grains of white phosphorus ignited burned at more than 2000 Celsius. The shouts of the men in women in the building turned to shrieks of pain. Walsh shouted for them to stop, and they did stop, just in time for a woman to emerge, covered in flame. Leary kneeled in the muddy street, raised his camera and framed his picture. The flaming hair, clothes and skin, illuminated her perfectly.
He edged down the street, watching the battle ahead, and looking down by his feet. It wasn’t a simple walk in the night. Small foot high mounds were strewn here and there about the size and weight of feedbags with arms and legs attached. He stepped over them, moving slowly towards the fight, until he found the men crouching, and shooting up at the building. Leary kneeled, trying to make his large English body as small as the men he was standing behind, listening to them shout insults and fire. He looked for Walsh and found him on the other side of the street. He held the camera tightly, ducked and ran, then stopped by the door. Walsh was standing to the side of an open window where he was trying to direct a man, who crouched below the window, holding a long rifle with a telescopic scope. Walsh pointed to where he should shoot. Should be easy. Barely fifty yards away, but the man didn’t want to stick up his head, crouching, clutching the rifle as Walsh explained, but whatever Walsh said, didn’t convince the soldier to stand up and fire. Something else caught Walsh’s attention and he shouted, “Noooo!”
Leary stepped ducked out in the street, just in time to see Miguel take two steps before lobbing a metal canister toward the open window of the building from which the Sandinistas were firing. The canister tumbled through the air into an open window, a perfect strike, there was an explosion, not loud, a pop. The inside of the building erupting with the blinding light of a newly formed sun as thousand of grains of white phosphorus ignited burned at more than 2000 Celsius. The shouts of the men in women in the building turned to shrieks of pain. Walsh shouted for them to stop, and they did stop, just in time for a woman to emerge, covered in flame. Leary kneeled in the muddy street, raised his camera and framed his picture. The flaming hair, clothes and skin, illuminated her perfectly.
Maniacs - Darcy Vebber
Lisa found the ad on one of the molded plastic chairs in the emergency room waiting area. Someone had been sitting on it, flattened it and wrinkled it but she picked it up anyway. Her eyes were too gritty to close and the room was flooded with light and noise; she was desperate for something to read. It was newsprint, something called the PennySaver, full of trucks and tools and used wedding dresses.
She could see Bobby, outside past the smoking area, pacing while he talked on his phone. He was 'making calls'. Lisa recognized the expression from her childhood. When there was trouble or the potential for trouble, her father would announce that he was going to 'make some calls'.
Bobby and her father seemed to have a lot of faith in connecting with the right person. Bobby scribbled names and numbers in the little black notebook he still carried, while he talked to New Haven and Phoenix and LA. Someone was going to get him to the best doctor and social worker in San Bernardino County. Once they were there, things would be easy. They would make sense.
The ad was for runaway teens. Milk carton kids, aged by computers, running under the vaguely accusatory banner "Have You Seen Me?" The shock of seeing the girl named Mary, so defiant in her high school photo, in the row of lost children was chilling. As if Lisa had opened something she wasn't supposed to. Her first thought was that she didn't want to know. Above the photos, maybe on purpose - who else would care more about lost children than other parents? - were little typeset ads for cribs and playpens. She realized as she saw them that this is what she had been looking for. Supplies. Crazy.
There was a phone number, of course. Parents waiting, of course, to hear. Mad, heartbroken, who knew?
From behind the triage desk, one of the tired young men in scrubs called Bobby's name, then Lisa's. Lisa tried signaling to Bobby, knocking on the window near where he stood but he didn't look up. She crossed to the desk when the man called again. She could hear, through the open doors to the examining area behind him, someone crying and someone else moaning. She smiled at the man, unable to suppress a madly cheery, "Wow, you guys are busy today, huh?"
He didn't respond except to say, "Your friends are in two B. One of you can go back at a time."
"Yeah. Could you tell me, before I go get our other friend, what, I mean how she's doing? You know, just so I don't go in and say like the wrong thing. I don't really know her --"
The nurse's aid looked up. He had a name tag on with no name on it. "I can't help you."
"She's a runaway," Lisa said. She couldn't stop herself from talking. She wanted the young man to help her. Clearly he knew what was going on. "I just found that out --"
"Listen, I already said --"
Then she saw Sam behind the triage desk, looking for her and Bobby. He looked lost and even like he'd been crying. She tried the young man one more time. "Listen, if you could just let me know. Because the thing is, it's complicated --"
"It always is," he said. "You coming in or not?"
She could see Bobby, outside past the smoking area, pacing while he talked on his phone. He was 'making calls'. Lisa recognized the expression from her childhood. When there was trouble or the potential for trouble, her father would announce that he was going to 'make some calls'.
Bobby and her father seemed to have a lot of faith in connecting with the right person. Bobby scribbled names and numbers in the little black notebook he still carried, while he talked to New Haven and Phoenix and LA. Someone was going to get him to the best doctor and social worker in San Bernardino County. Once they were there, things would be easy. They would make sense.
The ad was for runaway teens. Milk carton kids, aged by computers, running under the vaguely accusatory banner "Have You Seen Me?" The shock of seeing the girl named Mary, so defiant in her high school photo, in the row of lost children was chilling. As if Lisa had opened something she wasn't supposed to. Her first thought was that she didn't want to know. Above the photos, maybe on purpose - who else would care more about lost children than other parents? - were little typeset ads for cribs and playpens. She realized as she saw them that this is what she had been looking for. Supplies. Crazy.
There was a phone number, of course. Parents waiting, of course, to hear. Mad, heartbroken, who knew?
From behind the triage desk, one of the tired young men in scrubs called Bobby's name, then Lisa's. Lisa tried signaling to Bobby, knocking on the window near where he stood but he didn't look up. She crossed to the desk when the man called again. She could hear, through the open doors to the examining area behind him, someone crying and someone else moaning. She smiled at the man, unable to suppress a madly cheery, "Wow, you guys are busy today, huh?"
He didn't respond except to say, "Your friends are in two B. One of you can go back at a time."
"Yeah. Could you tell me, before I go get our other friend, what, I mean how she's doing? You know, just so I don't go in and say like the wrong thing. I don't really know her --"
The nurse's aid looked up. He had a name tag on with no name on it. "I can't help you."
"She's a runaway," Lisa said. She couldn't stop herself from talking. She wanted the young man to help her. Clearly he knew what was going on. "I just found that out --"
"Listen, I already said --"
Then she saw Sam behind the triage desk, looking for her and Bobby. He looked lost and even like he'd been crying. She tried the young man one more time. "Listen, if you could just let me know. Because the thing is, it's complicated --"
"It always is," he said. "You coming in or not?"
Maniacs - Katie Burke
I knew that most of them hadn’t eaten yet that day, even though it was 11:00 a.m. They would not eat until 1:00 p.m., just like every other day – except weekends, when they are not at school, and do not eat at all. I feel sad, thinking of how ravenous they must be by Sunday night.
I am working with children in Kawangware, a slum on the outskirts of Nairobi. Kawangware is the most poverty-ravished place I have ever seen. The poorly paved streets give way to roads of dirt and sludge – most likely the feces of the humans and animals who have few designated “restrooms” (i.e., holes in the ground), and no private ones. Crazily driven cars and buses navigate the streets. Goats, cows, wild dogs, and garbage – endless piles of garbage not awaiting any collection – litter the dirt roads.
These are the conditions in which the children I’ve met live. Infested tin shacks, with no electricity or water, are their homes. They can barely move around in these tiny, dark boxes: If their families are lucky enough to have a bed, it occupies the entire dwelling.
I wonder at their unbridled joy. They sing and clap and cheer all day, for any reason. They find the magic in everything. Absolutely nothing is mundane, gets overlooked, or is forgotten. It all registers with them as the most wonderful thing they’ve ever seen, heard, or thought about.
These little maniacs scream when I enter the room for the first time each morning. They clap and shout, “Hello, Katie!” in orchestrated fits of glee. When I ask, “How are you?” They proclaim – all together, and in singsong voices – “I am fine!”
I enter the room with construction paper, and they scream and clap again. I cannot figure it out: Though they need almost no reason to express ecstasy, but I don’t see why my fifth or sixth time entering their classroom that day is remarkable. I usually get screams on only the first each day.
My heart breaks when I see them marveling, looking expectantly at the construction paper in my arms. They have shouted for colored paper; it is that exciting to them. When I announce that they will each draw on a sheet of the paper, it seems greater news than their humble hearts can hold. When I ask them each to choose their own color of paper, they are completely blissed out. This simple art project has transformed their lives. They will never forget it, I can tell. And all I can think is that it’s so unfair.
Yes, they are the lucky ones in so many ways. Entitlement is a miserable way to live, and children in so many other places in the world suffer it. How lovely to appreciate everything, effortlessly, as if life were just one big adventure after another – when for the rest of us, it is just construction paper, and those all around us are only people ... nothing to cheer about here.
Still, I know it is the ravaging poverty around them that engenders such profound gratitude … even if they don’t know it. Should they starve and be entirely deprived of any material objects, just so they can smile as brightly as they do, and experience more happiness than any other children I’ve ever seen? How fun to be a maniac, but I don’t forget that their school waits until lunch to feed them because there’s only money for one meal per day. And since they don’t eat at home, the one from school must occur in the middle of their waking hours. And when we offer to bring food in the mornings, their teachers inform us that eating so early in the day makes them vomit and causes diarrhea, because their systems are not used to eating until 1:00 p.m.
I try to push these realities out of my mind, and focus on the wide smiles and twinkling eyes before me … because those are every bit as real.
I am working with children in Kawangware, a slum on the outskirts of Nairobi. Kawangware is the most poverty-ravished place I have ever seen. The poorly paved streets give way to roads of dirt and sludge – most likely the feces of the humans and animals who have few designated “restrooms” (i.e., holes in the ground), and no private ones. Crazily driven cars and buses navigate the streets. Goats, cows, wild dogs, and garbage – endless piles of garbage not awaiting any collection – litter the dirt roads.
These are the conditions in which the children I’ve met live. Infested tin shacks, with no electricity or water, are their homes. They can barely move around in these tiny, dark boxes: If their families are lucky enough to have a bed, it occupies the entire dwelling.
I wonder at their unbridled joy. They sing and clap and cheer all day, for any reason. They find the magic in everything. Absolutely nothing is mundane, gets overlooked, or is forgotten. It all registers with them as the most wonderful thing they’ve ever seen, heard, or thought about.
These little maniacs scream when I enter the room for the first time each morning. They clap and shout, “Hello, Katie!” in orchestrated fits of glee. When I ask, “How are you?” They proclaim – all together, and in singsong voices – “I am fine!”
I enter the room with construction paper, and they scream and clap again. I cannot figure it out: Though they need almost no reason to express ecstasy, but I don’t see why my fifth or sixth time entering their classroom that day is remarkable. I usually get screams on only the first each day.
My heart breaks when I see them marveling, looking expectantly at the construction paper in my arms. They have shouted for colored paper; it is that exciting to them. When I announce that they will each draw on a sheet of the paper, it seems greater news than their humble hearts can hold. When I ask them each to choose their own color of paper, they are completely blissed out. This simple art project has transformed their lives. They will never forget it, I can tell. And all I can think is that it’s so unfair.
Yes, they are the lucky ones in so many ways. Entitlement is a miserable way to live, and children in so many other places in the world suffer it. How lovely to appreciate everything, effortlessly, as if life were just one big adventure after another – when for the rest of us, it is just construction paper, and those all around us are only people ... nothing to cheer about here.
Still, I know it is the ravaging poverty around them that engenders such profound gratitude … even if they don’t know it. Should they starve and be entirely deprived of any material objects, just so they can smile as brightly as they do, and experience more happiness than any other children I’ve ever seen? How fun to be a maniac, but I don’t forget that their school waits until lunch to feed them because there’s only money for one meal per day. And since they don’t eat at home, the one from school must occur in the middle of their waking hours. And when we offer to bring food in the mornings, their teachers inform us that eating so early in the day makes them vomit and causes diarrhea, because their systems are not used to eating until 1:00 p.m.
I try to push these realities out of my mind, and focus on the wide smiles and twinkling eyes before me … because those are every bit as real.
Maniacs - Jennifer Baljko
Dinky sat on one of the stairs, her green eyes peering through the railing. She was bored. She decided to break the monotony with some mayhem. She waited until she caught AJ’s eye. AJ was always the sucker, never quite playing with a full deck, an easy mark, Dinky had learned.
AJ was sprawled out in the hallway below, panting after a few rounds of “catch the doggie” with the kids. He glanced up and saw Dinky above his head.
“Hey you, stupid, wanna to play catch the kitty?” Dinky said in her cunning, catty way. “Bet you can’t touch this.” She unrolled her tail through the railing and let it hang just above AJ’s snout.
“Ah, ok. Bet I can,” gruffed AJ. He didn’t really like Dinky. When he first arrived, Dinky made it clear she was the queen of the castle and clawed his nose. But, since then, she was general nice enough, and it was fun playing with her, well, when she was in the mood to play, he thought.
Dinky swished her gray locks from side to side. The only game she was playing was “hard to get.” She laid down on the step waiting for the kook to do something.
With the gate to the stairs latched, AJ’s only hope was to jump and try to paw or bite the sliver of fur. So he started hopping vertically like a bunny. When that didn’t work, he moved a few feet down the hallway to get a running start. He need just a couple more inches. Dinky kept swinging her tail, pulling it up slightly when she sensed that AJ was too close.
The maniacal cat and dog game went on for long stretches at a time, and lasted for years. It only ended when Dinky got bored of that, too. She would curl her tail and sashay her way back upstairs.
“See you later, honey,” Dinky would throw back while meowing with victory. AJ would slump down wondering if he was ever going to get a little tail.
AJ was sprawled out in the hallway below, panting after a few rounds of “catch the doggie” with the kids. He glanced up and saw Dinky above his head.
“Hey you, stupid, wanna to play catch the kitty?” Dinky said in her cunning, catty way. “Bet you can’t touch this.” She unrolled her tail through the railing and let it hang just above AJ’s snout.
“Ah, ok. Bet I can,” gruffed AJ. He didn’t really like Dinky. When he first arrived, Dinky made it clear she was the queen of the castle and clawed his nose. But, since then, she was general nice enough, and it was fun playing with her, well, when she was in the mood to play, he thought.
Dinky swished her gray locks from side to side. The only game she was playing was “hard to get.” She laid down on the step waiting for the kook to do something.
With the gate to the stairs latched, AJ’s only hope was to jump and try to paw or bite the sliver of fur. So he started hopping vertically like a bunny. When that didn’t work, he moved a few feet down the hallway to get a running start. He need just a couple more inches. Dinky kept swinging her tail, pulling it up slightly when she sensed that AJ was too close.
The maniacal cat and dog game went on for long stretches at a time, and lasted for years. It only ended when Dinky got bored of that, too. She would curl her tail and sashay her way back upstairs.
“See you later, honey,” Dinky would throw back while meowing with victory. AJ would slump down wondering if he was ever going to get a little tail.
What is Unholy - Camilla Basham
He put his mouth to mine. It was behind the organ pipes, as his admirers gathered downstairs for coffee. Earlier he spoke of God, and Paul, and Job and goats…who knows. After the first ten minutes I could only focus on his lips as they moved in time with his words. I didn’t give a shit what they were saying. The masses focused on him. He focused on me. Later I would try to explain to the council just how intoxicating this was. For now, I darted across the church floor, sipping coffee, feeling anxious. He asked me to meet him outside and I did. “Point Reyes.” he said, “No one will ever know. I promise.” So, I drove, through fog, winding roads and a maze of moral conflict. We met in a marshy field. He said, “ I come here often to speak to God.” “How nice.” I said. Then he grabbed me and swore that God wanted me to take his cock in my mouth. I was doing God’s will, he assured me. There was the dashboard, the digital clock, the steering wheel all telling me this was wrong. There was him, telling me, “It’s God’s will.”
What is Unholy - Judy Albietz
The shadows on the western wall of his room were creeping Peter out. They had legs and heads. They were way too three-dimensional to be just regular shadows. Appearing with the first morning light at 6:38 a.m. their animal-like shapes changed as the sun moved up in the eastern sky. The sunlight coming through the thin curtains on the only windows in Peter’s bedroom caused light and shadows to be cast on the wall. The shadowy shapes slowly danced in and out of peels of old paint on the wall separating the basement bedroom from the bathroom. As they grew taller the shadows danced faster, sometimes breaking off and chasing each other in circles. Then they would start all over again, as if in a continuous loop of movement.
“If I don’t look at them they don’t exist,” Peter said as he forced his gaze back to his screen where he was inventing a new attack strategy for his game’s murderous dogs. Since his desk faced north, he could completely avoid the shadowy wall. Peter told himself that the shadows will disappear once the sun is above the house, away from the windows. He checked a website which told him that the sun would be overhead at 1:05 p.m. So he just wouldn’t look over at the wall until after that. Peter keyed in new programming commands, munching on greasy leftover scraps of Chinese take-out, last night’s dinner. The hours passed quickly as Peter immersed himself in his killing game.
At 1:05 p.m. the music started. It came from the west side of the room. At first it was only a drum beat but soon violins and oboes joined in. It wasn’t a pleasant melody. It sounded like a dirge, like funeral music, but not the type to be in a sacred place. The music felt like something unholy. He told himself this was probably someone’s idea of a joke so he should just ignore it and it will stop. The music followed a repeating pattern…like the morning’s dance of the shadows.
It was after 1:15 p.m. now. Peter decided to look at the western wall, not admitting to himself that he was worried what he might find. First he checked to make sure that the sun was no longer coming in from the windows. “Okay, now there won’t be shadows,” he said. Slowly Peter swiveled his chair to the western wall.
The shapes on the wall were still there. They were more solid and darker gray. They had more distinct details than before. Now they had faces. The faces had fangs. Their legs extended to claw-like feet. They were still in the black and white world of shadows, but the shapes could no longer be generated by light from the windows since the sun had moved up over the eaves. The dancing matched the slow rhythm of the music.
The music stopped suddenly and the shadowy shapes faced into the center of the room. Peter pushed his chair back away from them. The light in the room dimmed as the creatures prepared to jump off the wall.
“If I don’t look at them they don’t exist,” Peter said as he forced his gaze back to his screen where he was inventing a new attack strategy for his game’s murderous dogs. Since his desk faced north, he could completely avoid the shadowy wall. Peter told himself that the shadows will disappear once the sun is above the house, away from the windows. He checked a website which told him that the sun would be overhead at 1:05 p.m. So he just wouldn’t look over at the wall until after that. Peter keyed in new programming commands, munching on greasy leftover scraps of Chinese take-out, last night’s dinner. The hours passed quickly as Peter immersed himself in his killing game.
At 1:05 p.m. the music started. It came from the west side of the room. At first it was only a drum beat but soon violins and oboes joined in. It wasn’t a pleasant melody. It sounded like a dirge, like funeral music, but not the type to be in a sacred place. The music felt like something unholy. He told himself this was probably someone’s idea of a joke so he should just ignore it and it will stop. The music followed a repeating pattern…like the morning’s dance of the shadows.
It was after 1:15 p.m. now. Peter decided to look at the western wall, not admitting to himself that he was worried what he might find. First he checked to make sure that the sun was no longer coming in from the windows. “Okay, now there won’t be shadows,” he said. Slowly Peter swiveled his chair to the western wall.
The shapes on the wall were still there. They were more solid and darker gray. They had more distinct details than before. Now they had faces. The faces had fangs. Their legs extended to claw-like feet. They were still in the black and white world of shadows, but the shapes could no longer be generated by light from the windows since the sun had moved up over the eaves. The dancing matched the slow rhythm of the music.
The music stopped suddenly and the shadowy shapes faced into the center of the room. Peter pushed his chair back away from them. The light in the room dimmed as the creatures prepared to jump off the wall.
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