I Digress

How to make a pinch pot

Begin with a healthy handful of clay. In much the same manner as a drill instructor breaks down a recruit in order to build him back up, stronger and more deadly than ever, roll, smack, intimidate and shape your clay into an approximation of a sphere, releasing your own tension and aggression as you do. The smoother and more accurately round your beginning blob, the easier your pot will form, and the cooler you will appear to your friends. Next, with the angry fire of a thousand suns, jam your thumb into the ball of clay, using a violent twisting motion to work the digit deeper into the near-solid mass. Do not carve a hole through the entire ball of clay; stop just shy of emerging from the other side, unless you’re intending for your pinch pot to suck. In a series of tiny, vaguely OCD motions, pinch the sides opposite your thumb, using your remaining four fingers, rotating the clay as you do so. Do this over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Continue until boredom, fatigue and zen states ensue. You will know it is time to stop, not by touch (your fingers will long since have gone numb), but by sight. Keep your fledgling pinch pot in sight AT ALL TIMES. Leave a little extra clay at the outer edge, for formation of the rim. When the sides of the pot (or is it just one side, since it’s round?) are of the desired thickness, you can begin smoothing the inside and out with your finger, using a gentle rubbing motion. Clay is made up of extraordinarily unstable and unhealthy-if-ingested substances, so for the sake of your own safety, do not smooth your pinch pot with your tongue or lips. Do not eat your pinch pot. Shape the rim of the pot (with your fingers). Finally, with a firm, deliberate, assertive motion, grasp your newly completed pinch pot in your hand. Admire it for not less than nine, but not more than fourteen, seconds and then squish it into an unrecognizable mess. Repeat.

Of boats and air

So I was gazing up at the mountain this morning when my attention was distracted by the clouds passing behind the massive peak. It was a breezy day, and my sweaty t-shirt was being plastered against my back by the stirring air, feeling in turns refreshing and stiflingly hot.

What had caught my attention was a shape in the clouds, a stylized, inverted T, which my imagination immediately transformed into-

“A ship,” spoke a voice behind my left shoulder. I turned, startled, to see a girl, probably a few years younger than I, gazing up at the same cloud formation, drifting past the rocky mount.

“It’s a sailing ship,” she repeated, and I nodded, not knowing what else to say. WIthout another word, the girl turned and walked away up the cobbled sidewalk. I watched her retreating form, then turned back to the mountain and the sailing cloud-ship.

I stared, lost in thought, my mind taking me on a voyage aboard that ship, sailing far far away, across the sea, to new lands never before seen. Still, in all my imaginings, that mountain remained in the foreground, partially obscuring my view of the fantastic places I was visiting in my mind.

I’d never really given much thought to the mountain before, never wondered how the town came to be built around it, nor how it came to exist in such a flat expanse, the only uneven feature for miles. I’d never climed to the top of the plateau, despite my many years living here. I decided to change that.

There are stairs carved into the heavy black rock of the mountain, many many stairs, and my resolve weakened as I climbed, and climbed, and climbed still higher. My legs ached and shook as they struggled to continue supporting my weight, sweat ran freely down my face, and my clothes were growing uncomfortably tight as they clung to my body. Finally, though, I reached the pinnacle, and looked around to see what I’d been missing all these years.

Nothing. Nothing at all. An open space, with a few stunted, twisted trees around the edges, that was all. People came up here all the time, I knew, but for this? I was too tired to head back down right away, so I sat in the middle of the clearing, and looked back up at the clouds.

At first, I thought I’d become dehydrated, and was hallucinating. Then I thought perhaps I was asleep, more exhausted than I’d thought, from my climb. Neither was true. There was no denying it: the cloud I’d watched, the cloud shaped like a mighty sailing ship, had been replaced by a real ship, floating above me in the air, creaking and rocking as though it sat upon the water. My mouth hung open, and my eyes stung. I couldn’t blink.

“It’s a ship,” said a familiar voice behind me. I jumped. I’d not heard anyone ascending the stairs after me, but was not at all surprised to see the girl from before standing at the edge of the dirt, her bare feet situated atop two tufts of soft-looking grass.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s a ship,” I replied, feeling no less stunned by having spoken the words aloud.

“We should go,” said the girl. At first, I had no idea what she was talking about, but then I noticed a ladder made of rope and wood had descended from the side of the ship above us, and was now dangling a few feet above my head.

“We - go?”

The girl didn’t bother repeating herself. She walked over to the ladder, grabbed the third rung from the bottom - the highest rung she could reach - and with a small hop, put both her feet on the last rung and began to climb. She looked down at me every few steps, but I still hadn’t moved.

Go with her? On a wooden ship floating in the sky? It was preposterous, crazy, unbelievable. And yet… A reckless curiosity tickled at the back of my mind. Was this real? Or was a delusional? Was I, even now, sitting at home in bed, dreaming, or was I wandering the streets, rambling and incoherent?

But I, of all people, knew: adventures often begin with questioning one’s motives and justification. You have to take a chance, or your adventure will end up as nothing more than another ordinary day. I didn’t know the girl, had never seen her before. I had never seen, or heard of, a flying boat, and was, in all likelihood, mistaken in some way, either by injury or insanity or illness. Still…

I wanted an adventure. I wanted to disappear over the horizon, to explore, to find…something. Slowly, I rose to my feet and grasped the ladder. The girl, far above me now, was just slipping her leg over the side of the ship. She glanced down one last time, saw me holding the ladder, and although she was far above me, I am certain I saw her smile. Well, here was an adventure, staring me in the face.

I started to climb…

This Longing

by Martin Steingesser


… awoke to rain
around 2:30 this morning
thinking of you, because I’d said
only a few days before, this

is what I wanted, to lie with you in the dark
listening how rain sounds
in the tree beside my window,
on the sill, against the glass, damp

cool air on my face. I am loving
fresh smells, light flashes in the
black window, love how you are here
when you’re not, knowing we will

lie close, nothing between us; and maybe
it will be still, as now, the longing
that carries us
into each other’s arms

asleep, neither speaking
least it all too soon turn to morning, which
it does. Rain softens, low thunder, a car
sloshes past.

"Open your arms if you want an embrace!" -Rumi

I am rediscovering how to run alone.

In recent weeks, I had lost this ability. The unaccompanied pounding of my feet on the pavement, the thoughts occupying my brain, all the things I was running to escape would conspire against my forward motion, stealing my air and burning my muscles. Inevitably, these recent solo runs would end with me walking home, panting and irritated, having accomplished nothing, not resolving the issues rattling around in the space occupied by my head, not feeling properly exercised, nothing. Just panting and irritated, having covered a mere fraction of the mileage I regularly complete when running with a partner.

This past weekend, though, something changed, miraculously and for the better. I was camping at Virginia Beach with some friends, and had just spent a long night sporadically ocsillating between sleep and half-wakefulness, as the persistent rain continued into the dark and the tent’s rain-fly proceeded to fail, dropping random plops of cold rainwater onto my face, neck, chest, ear. I rose, tired but unable to continue sleeping, and decided to go for a jog.

Wearing borrowed, hot-pink running shorts, I made my way to our semi-private stretch of beach, bordering the anything-but-turbulent Chesapeake Bay. As my feet struck the sand, I kicked into a slow jog, trying to find the best piece of the shoreline on which to run and not pay attention to the looks I was getting from the people around me.

Naturally, I had a lot on my mind. But, as I began my routine of turning my thoughts over and over like a washing machine that doesn’t wash anything, just rolls it around and spits it back out, same as when it went in, my tired brain decided it was going to have none of it. It simply refused to take hold of the thoughts spinning in my mind, and in that refusal, I stumbled on my solution.

A calmness came over my mind, a familiar and long-missed calmness - no, not even calmness, it was more like a blankness. There was no calm, no unrest, there was just me. I realized something I had known, but had forgotten, or disregarded or whatever: that quiet mindspace for which I’d pined, that mindless point where you are both aware and unaware, it is not something you can grasp with your hands. You can’t grab hold of it and pull it towards yourself. You can only open your arms and allow IT to grasp YOU.

The Monkey's Paw or The Giving Tree?

A young boy walks through the thick forest, a bright red backpack slung over one shoulder. He walks with his head down, hands in his pockets, occasionally scuffing his shoe through the carpet of fallen pine needles and decaying leaves. He is breathing heavily, but his steps do not slow as he climbs a hill, apparently making his way toward a lone tree at the crest.

This tree stands alone in more ways than simple isolation. It does not look like the other trees around it; it is no tall pine or maple, no green holly dotted with bright berries. The tree’s bark is a pale grey, almost silver, and smooth, as smooth as flesh.

The boy reaches the base of the tall, thin tree and stops. He stands still for a moment, gazing at the tree, then pulls his backpack from his shoulder and lays it gently on the ground at his feet. The zipper buzzes as the boy quickly draws the bag open and reaches inside with both hands.

The shape he removes is small, but appears rather heavy in his arms. It is covered in grey hair, but does not seem to have any other features, no limbs, no eyes, just a lump of stormcloud furr.

Very carefully, the boy lays the whatever-it-is on the ground, just against the base of the tree, and steps back, hands once more in his pockets. The wind begins to pick up, and the boy pulls his arms tight against his body in an attempt to keep warm. A few stray leaves fall around him, their quiet chatter the only sound.

Finally, it begins. There is a small twitch of movement in the grey bundle, just a twitch. Then another. Soon, the furrball is vibrating in place, still pressed up against the strange tree.

The boy watches intently, no longer acknowledging the breeze, which is growing stronger and stronger. Through the branches overhead, dark clouds are gathering, threatening rain, and much, much more.

With a final shudder more violent than any other, the grey shape once more falls still, but only for a moment. With a stretch and a shake, it unfurls and reveals itself to be a small rabbit. Its eyes are open and shining in the failing light, and its nose wrinkles and straightens as it examines its surroundings.

The boy shows no reaction. He gazes placidly at the newly revived rabbit, but makes no move to approach it. The rabbit sees him standing nearby and freezes in place, determining whether the boy is a threat.

His bag crumples upon itself as the breeze blows harder than ever, and a small plastic keychain slides into view from behind the fabric. Contained in the hollow square disk is a photograph. It is of the boy and the rabbit, lying side by side on a carpeted floor. The boy is grinning widely in the photograph.

In the forest, the boy is not grinning, nor is he exhibiting any emotion at all. His face remains impassive as he stares at his pet, and his pet stares back. His eyes narrow, as though a fog has obscured his view, and his head arches forward slightly. The rabbit continues to look back at him, motionless.

Abruptly, the boy leans down and collects his backpack, having apparently reached his conclusion. He turns away and begins the long walk back through the woods, zippering his bag and pulling the straps over his shoulders once more. He does not look back.

There is a tree in my heart

There is a tree in my heart,

and you,

you are the breeze.

You stir the leaves in my heart.

(And before anyone asks, the answer is no. -ed)

Sunday Tubing

My friend Erin and I decided, since our birthdays are only six days apart, we would celebrate together by gathering our friends and going tubing down the James River. We started telling everyone we knew, but that was as far as our planning went until Sunday morning, the day of the tubing. Everyone was calling, what time are we going? Somehow, we managed to coordinate the trip in the space of about an hour, giving everyone about an hour to get ready and get over to Coleman’s house, which was serving as our rendezvous point and home base.

Matt and I went over early, in order to begin the task of inflating the fourteen tubes we would need. People began arriving, and we took two cars down to our takeout point at Reedy Creek, to serve as shuttles back to Coleman’s after we were done. Although we’d intended to be in the water by noon, it was closer to one when we finally hiked the half-mile or so from Coleman’s house to the Wetlands, where we launched ourselves haphazardly into the river. In attendance were: Me, Erin, Matt, Coleman, Tim, Helen, Clay, Jaclyn, Anna, Aaron, Erin F, Andrew and Thomas.

The first thing we realized upon setting out was we did not bring enough to drink. Our two coolers, each weighed down with thirty or forty pounds of cans and ice, were empty within the first forty minutes or so of the trek (which, by the way, rounded out to just shy of five hours, total). Nothing major, but still, we should have brought more.

The river was a little lower than the last time I went tubing, but was higher than the time before that, when it was closer to walking than floating (but still fun). We all paddled around, clustering into small groups with constantly rotating members. The sun was high and hot, and it was about as perfect a day for tubing as could be imagined.

The first (and ultimately, biggest) mishap occured about halfway through the trip. Under the Powhite Bridge, there are pilings left over from the previous incarnation of the bridge in that location. One of these pilings stands over a deeper part of the river, ideal for taking a nice twelve-foot plunge into the water, provided one can get to the top of the structure. Before, when I managed to make the jump, there was a metal ladder bolted into the rock. This time, though, there was only a knotted rope hanging down. The rock is not smooth, but there are very few footholds, particularly when one is both wet and barefoot. After two failed attempts to drag myself up by arm strength alone, I decided to cut my losses, save what little pride I had left, and move on. Matt made a similar attempt, but after paddling upstream to get to the rope, his arms, too, failed him. Tim and Clay both made it up to the top, and made the jump. Unfortunately, while most of us stopped to wait for those of us trying to climb the piling, Anna, Aaron and Erin F did not. They floated past us, and by the time they did stop, they had followed the left-hand split in the river, while the rest of us took the right-hand split. We didn’t see them again until after we’d reached Reedy Creek and driven back to Coleman’s to collect cars to go looking for them.

After Tim and Clay’s leaps, we drifted on. Rapids and rocks abounded, none too distressing - although I did manage to wipe out going over one particularly steep drop. I lost my tube, and managed to stop my forward motion by bracing myself against a rock, using my spine. I recovered my tube, having swallowed enough river water to create a noticeable drop in the water level. Good times.

Rocks, rapids, water, sun, things went this way for the next hour or so. Everyone was having a good time, although there was much talk of the missing three. They did not know the takeout point, so we could only hope they would see the sign (placed by, assumably, one of the companies who take tubing groups up and down the river) pointing to the takeout, and would follow it.

As we passed under the (Seven) Nickel Bridge, we saw a couple guys swinging on a rope tied to the underside of the bridge. They were swinging out over the water and dropping in. We stopped there for a few minutes, taking a few swings on the rope and laughing a lot.

A brief rain came on us shortly after we left the bridge, cool and refreshing and welcome. We passed a few groups of people on rocks, fishing or just hanging out. One group of guys was watching for tubers and such passing by, and were tossing them plastic Mardi Gras beads (No nudity required, although I did receive the compliment “Nice tats” with my own necklace).

We hit the takeout point, and found, to everyone’s dismay, Aaron and Anna’s van was still where they’d left it, indicating they had either missed the takeout point, or had somehow fallen behind us altogether. Coleman’s jeep was there, too, though, so he loaded Matt, Clay, Jaclyn and Erin into his car and drove them to his house, where they were going to collect their own vehicles and begin the search for our missing friends.

Coleman returned to the parking lot for me, Andrew and Thomas, and thankfully brought my phone. I tried calling Aaron, and discovered he, Anna and Erin F had, indeed, missed the takeout point, but had been directed back towards it once they had realized so and gotten out on their own. A mere minute or two after Coleman left with Matt, Clay, Jaclyn and Erin, they had returned to their van and left. We did not see them from the parking lot, and they did not see us, either. In hindsight, we should have gone over the route, and the takeout point, before we left; but no one really thought we’d get that separated. Next time…

In all, it was a fantastic tubing trip, and a lot of fun. There were mishaps, and some lost glasses, sunglasses and one lost wedding ring, but I would still (with sympathy, particularly for the lost wedding ring) call the trip a success. We left Coleman’s, returned home to shower and wash the river out of our hair and beards, and started looking to dinner. Everyone came out sunburned, and some of us were a bit more bumped and bruised than others, but it was completely, totally, and in all other ways worth it.

Anniversaries

by Donald Justice Great Leo roared at my birth, The windowpanes were lit With stars’ applausive light, And I have heard that the earth As far away as Japan Was shaken again and again The morning I came forth. Many drew round me then, Admiring. Beside my bed The tall aunts prophesied, And cousins from afar, Predicting a great career. At ten there came an hour When, waking out of ether Into autumn weather Inexpressibly dear, I was wheeled superb in a chair Past vacant lots in bloom With goldenrod and with broom, In secret proud of the scar Dividing me from life, Which I could admire like one Come down from Mars or the moon, Standing a little off. By seventeen I had guessed That the “really great loneliness” Of James’s governess Might account for the ghost On the other side of the lake. Oh, all that year was lost Somewhere among the black Keys of Chopin! I sat All afternoon after school, Fingering his ripe heart, While boys outside in the dirt Kicked, up and down, their ball. Thirty today, I saw The trees flare briefly like The candles upon a cake As the sun went down the sky, A momentary flash, Yet there was time to wish Before the light could die, If I had known what to wish, As once I must have known, Bending above the clean, Candlelit tablecloth To blow them out with a breath.