Read Online 2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) by Nath Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nath Jones
Tags: Millennium, female author, zine, midwest punk, y2k, female stories, midwest stories, purdue, illinois poets, college fiction, female soldier, female fiction, college confession
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usually be conned into place.
And the voice began always the same with,
"On the sea, once upon a time, O my Best Beloved, there was a
Whale, and he ate fishes. He ate the starfish and the garfish, and
the crab and the dab, and the plaice and the dace, and the skate
and his mate, and the mackereel and the pickereel, and the really
truly twirly-whirly eel."
That voice. Deep and buoyed by the daddies
of the world stretching strong arms between each rhyme. Laughing,
almost, all the time. And keeping you caught in that
almost-fallen-asleep-but-still-have-to-listen place. My legs gone
swinging under the table, and my elbows turning red from the weight
of my head in my growing up hands, leaning with the headphones
toward the voice. Pressing him closer into my world. Always divided
from the needle scratching on the record, around, and around, and
around.
The stories spun on. And the voice followed
suit. And I lay my head on the cool table—just to look out the
window for a while. “And the Parsee lived by the Red Sea with
nothing but his hat and his knife and a cooking-stove of the kind
that you must particularly never touch." The tree shadows reached
down and whispered their hushes to me from the ceiling, then the
walls, then the floor, and out again leaving behind their indigo
gossip. "The suspenders were left behind, you see, to tie the
grating with; and that is the end of that tale." My legs cold in
the dark blue evening curled against the hard arms of the chair
looking for somebody's lap.
"Once upon a most early time was a Neolithic
man. He was not a Jute or an Angle, or even a Dravidian, which he
might well have been, Best Beloved, but never mind why. He was a
Primitive, and he lived cavily in a Cave, and he wore very few
clothes, and he couldn't read and he couldn't write and he didn't
want to, and except when he was hungry he was quite happy. His name
was Tegumai Bobsulai, and that means,
‘Man-who-does-not-put-his-foot-forward-in-a-hurry;’ but we, O Best
Beloved, will call him Tegumai for short."
And then the sleep came until Mom was
finished with her music or Dad had cleaned up the lab.
NEW ORLEANS
SIDEWALK
I took the dog and walked down the street
toward Bob Dylan's house in order to see his flowers. I took my
camera I suppose as an afterthought, but nonetheless I did take my
camera. Standing there among the old oak roots, where the dog
seemed eager to stop, in front of the fence of security cameras
defining a great man’s perimeter, I wondered at the huge banks of
white azaleas. Six feet tall and more wide than that. Sun on each
but cool stone still on the porch. And I wondered what Bob Dylan
looks like or what songs he sings and could not fill my mind with
acceptable answers. The place was for sale apparently and my
friends couldn't be sure that Bob Dylan really ever lived
there.
The pictures aren't very good. If the
azaleas look good you can't see the house. If the house is included
it seems to converge at its roof. And none of these images show the
beauty of that endless green lawn, so rare in a city of that size.
And the quality of the photos was not improved by the simultaneous
facts that I was standing on broken slabs of the sidewalk, being
yanked by a dog leash, and wedging my camera through the cast iron
fence.
After that, I was glad not to worry with the
bother of Bob Dylan's house anymore. I walked on down to the
cemetery and let the dog jump at spiders in the tall grass. I
walked down to the river staging this or that version of Mark
Twain, Jeff Buckley, and the slow tankers' working men still.
I liked the lady in a bright white shirt walking too fast with
a piece of pizza smothered in grease.
HE PROPOSED AND
THEN
Him: Just tell me. I’m always supposed to
know what to do when you don’t tell me shit.
Her: Like you don’t know.
Him: I don’t.
Her: Then you’re blind.
Him: Don’t be condescending to me.
Her: Don’t be a martyr.
Him: Whatever.
Her: Do you know what
And the voice began always the same with,
"On the sea, once upon a time, O my Best Beloved, there was a
Whale, and he ate fishes. He ate the starfish and the garfish, and
the crab and the dab, and the plaice and the dace, and the skate
and his mate, and the mackereel and the pickereel, and the really
truly twirly-whirly eel."
That voice. Deep and buoyed by the daddies
of the world stretching strong arms between each rhyme. Laughing,
almost, all the time. And keeping you caught in that
almost-fallen-asleep-but-still-have-to-listen place. My legs gone
swinging under the table, and my elbows turning red from the weight
of my head in my growing up hands, leaning with the headphones
toward the voice. Pressing him closer into my world. Always divided
from the needle scratching on the record, around, and around, and
around.
The stories spun on. And the voice followed
suit. And I lay my head on the cool table—just to look out the
window for a while. “And the Parsee lived by the Red Sea with
nothing but his hat and his knife and a cooking-stove of the kind
that you must particularly never touch." The tree shadows reached
down and whispered their hushes to me from the ceiling, then the
walls, then the floor, and out again leaving behind their indigo
gossip. "The suspenders were left behind, you see, to tie the
grating with; and that is the end of that tale." My legs cold in
the dark blue evening curled against the hard arms of the chair
looking for somebody's lap.
"Once upon a most early time was a Neolithic
man. He was not a Jute or an Angle, or even a Dravidian, which he
might well have been, Best Beloved, but never mind why. He was a
Primitive, and he lived cavily in a Cave, and he wore very few
clothes, and he couldn't read and he couldn't write and he didn't
want to, and except when he was hungry he was quite happy. His name
was Tegumai Bobsulai, and that means,
‘Man-who-does-not-put-his-foot-forward-in-a-hurry;’ but we, O Best
Beloved, will call him Tegumai for short."
And then the sleep came until Mom was
finished with her music or Dad had cleaned up the lab.
NEW ORLEANS
SIDEWALK
I took the dog and walked down the street
toward Bob Dylan's house in order to see his flowers. I took my
camera I suppose as an afterthought, but nonetheless I did take my
camera. Standing there among the old oak roots, where the dog
seemed eager to stop, in front of the fence of security cameras
defining a great man’s perimeter, I wondered at the huge banks of
white azaleas. Six feet tall and more wide than that. Sun on each
but cool stone still on the porch. And I wondered what Bob Dylan
looks like or what songs he sings and could not fill my mind with
acceptable answers. The place was for sale apparently and my
friends couldn't be sure that Bob Dylan really ever lived
there.
The pictures aren't very good. If the
azaleas look good you can't see the house. If the house is included
it seems to converge at its roof. And none of these images show the
beauty of that endless green lawn, so rare in a city of that size.
And the quality of the photos was not improved by the simultaneous
facts that I was standing on broken slabs of the sidewalk, being
yanked by a dog leash, and wedging my camera through the cast iron
fence.
After that, I was glad not to worry with the
bother of Bob Dylan's house anymore. I walked on down to the
cemetery and let the dog jump at spiders in the tall grass. I
walked down to the river staging this or that version of Mark
Twain, Jeff Buckley, and the slow tankers' working men still.
I liked the lady in a bright white shirt walking too fast with
a piece of pizza smothered in grease.
HE PROPOSED AND
THEN
Him: Just tell me. I’m always supposed to
know what to do when you don’t tell me shit.
Her: Like you don’t know.
Him: I don’t.
Her: Then you’re blind.
Him: Don’t be condescending to me.
Her: Don’t be a martyr.
Him: Whatever.
Her: Do you know what
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