"I made an airplane out of stone. . . I always did like staying home."
- Shel Silverstein
I don't know how to better put into words my life when January rolled around this year. The story need not be told again anytime soon, not here, not anywhere. I was looking up all things Shel Silverstein this evening, and nothing could encapsulate everything so simply. I just had to share. It didn't make sense not to. I've had months to write, and yet . . .
It hardly matters.
In the spirit of sharing things that I've found over the course of the week, I saw something scrawled on one of the most dingy boxes taped to the boxing line at the Foot Locker warehouse. It caught my eye because of its decidedly female handwriting. As a terrible hand-writer, I take a special interest. I suppose that is how things go.
Before I get to what was there, on the box imagine -
There is a man in the side room of his home. He wears his income on his sleeves. They are white, sort of. At least, they were at the time of purchase some time ago now. The passage of time is evidenced by the white collar nature of the shirt attached to the sleeves. Around neck hangs the limp, loose form of one of many daily assailants, subdued. Today it has chosen to don math equations - a father's day present from any son whose father does "something math-related at work," a product of a bring your son to work day when the offspring in question was too young to understand simple accounting. Truth be told, simply thinking about some of the formulas made Dear 'Ole Dad's head hurt, but he'd never say so. A small triumph in suburbia is getting your kids to think that you're worldly.
The math was dead, however, murdered by wrists developing carpel tunnel at forty-seven. He has no pants. You wouldn't either after a long Summer day in the office.
Early evening sun hits the room's west side window, one of two that break the forrest green wall with their white trim.
I suppose that the sounds should now be mentioned. Subdue the strike of typewriter keys to a low, consistent clack, and you can hear the rhythm of the place. There are only horns on top of the rhythm, or, whistles, tiny, miniature train whistles, the trains which own the clacking and, in due course, the room. There are mountains in the side room of One-Six-Four Wallberry. The Lionel knows them well. For all its traveling the toy chu-chu could've gone to California and back. For all the man cared, it had taken him to California and back.
There are highly detailed towns with small model-perfect people walking their streets, there are tunnels with little glass windows built into their sides so that the Engineer or your everyday onlooker can still see the train. Much is green like the walls. I'd be hard-pressed to tell you the number of little plastic trees dotting the imitation landscape.
Only once taking in the full room's full expanse should one mention the man's hat, because it is quite an expansive, however small it is in real space, corner room if ever there was one. It is his dominion, and the white and blue coal-shoveler's hat is indisputable evidence of this.That is how I feel as that man must feel about trains when I look at handwriting. (Well, there are many things that I can't do, much of which I take a special interest in. For the sake of this, we'll stick to handwriting ) It was curved without an edge in sight in blue ink, probably a few hours old. The question mark at the end, my favorite part, wasn't dotted, but was instead circled.
"Where you lost."
-anonymous
I know that it sounds strange, that this off, mincing of the English language would stick with me long enough to write about, but it did, and I am. First I corrected it: "were you lost," I thought with a laugh, but then I began to wonder if they did, in fact, mean "where are you lost." It is a question which I have revisited for some time since. Both statements have something special in them despite their face value. That's words for you. What most grabs me is the story that both of the meanings tell, if there are two, that of the seeker of the lost, and the one who did not think to look.
It's a very natural coupling, completely cliche by now - that who did, and that who did not at is root, which may grow into the one who knew, and the one who didn't, which lends itself to the source a tad better. It's proof both of the though that good, quality, thought-provoking things can come from anywhere. "There is beauty all around us, and all of those optimistic things," I say while buying a new eighty dollar power chord for my computer, the other broken, and, somehow, having to pay fifty dollars for three ma-and-pa pizzas.
Zaftig Regards,
Caleb
P.S. fulgurate - to dart like lightning
P.P.S. Song of the week: Strange Animal (Gowan Cover) by The Acorn
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