Bird Watching

In the summer, I enter a sort of naturalist phase of writing. All the life around me just makes me want to write about it and how folks relate to it. I can't let go of my environmentalist roots while writing and always try to use natural imagery as a throughline. Here is something short.

________________

I now have air superiority. I adopted a grey-black zig-zag tiger from the SPCA last week and let him loose in the back yard. The tall cedar planks keep him confined to the yard and he decimates the House Sparrows and Starlings. He pounces from bush to bush, shooing away the invaders. On the other side of the house, I create my own air force. Swapping the sticky mess of fat left in the suet feeder out for fresh food, I slide in oranges to attract orioles. Sunflower seeds for all manner of birds, but I hope they attract chickadees. Their soft fee-bees will ring over the liquid twitter-twat of the starlings. A bundle of brown and white down appears under the forsythia. The tiger pokes out, whiskers against the ground and claws kneading the feather mound. I enjoy air superiority.

________________________

I am going to stop with the whole title sequence for these little blurbs. They are all untitled and, of course, you know it is me writing them. Seem a bit pretentious. Peace!

Gym Class Hero

Ack! Been a while, eh? Well, I'm back and this week I have two whole days off from work, so writing awaits! YAY! Here is something I cooked up.

_______________________

Untitled

By Garik Charneco

I struggle for the final three in my sudoku, when Emile's assistant comes into the teacher's lounge looking for coverage.
"Randy is out sick," he says. "Just called in about a minute ago. We need someone to cover his classes. They meet at the field today"
There are four of us in the lounge, including myself. Miriam buries herself in the senior class and Pettie says she is too old to substitute a field class.
"Gym, actually," says Emile's assistant. 'No one calls them field classes. At least, not anymore."
"Still," she gazes out the window at the sunlight coming through the wire mesh sandwiched between the glass. "Besides it's hot out. Unsafe."
The assistant gives up and stares at me. "And you, Brian?"
I find my three before I say sure. I'll turn it into a gag later, ask the gym teacher to teach my history.

* * *

It's a Wednesday and the rotating schedule leaves my first period empty. The assistant brought this up, pointing to my schedule while he brought up the class list for the gym class. Sixth grade gym class, which quickly realize when it matched my own U.S. history roster. "That'll make it easy," the assistant says. I catch his name, Jona, from a placard above his monitor. He hands the paper to me, still hot from the printer. "Randy, says they are doing kickball this week."

* * *

At the softball field, I am sweating through my undershirt. The kids scream "Mr. Echo! What are you doing here!?" I like to think I am popular, at least with some. The quiet ones, the few looking for something. Certainly not with the kids who look forward to gym. "Well, Mr. Doms is out today, so I'll be here while you play."
"What about some free play, instead?" shouts an indistinct voice from the group of twenty-five. I imagine someone crouching in the back, giggling.
"I think Mr. Doms would appreciate if you continued the class." It felt phony to call this a class. Activities would have been a better word. Hell, even, game.
I remember my own gym classes and the line-up while everyone choose players. I was never last, but never first. Or close to first, either. I wonder whether I should designate team captains when the kids go into a sort of feral play instinct. Vidal, a 12-year old from my history class, asks for the ball with a nasally please. I know he looks forward to gym class and the other captain, alpha in the case, Fernie, already has his players lined up against the fence.

* * *

I sit on the hot metal of the lowest bleacher rung. I realize this game is a continuation of yesterday's play. Same teams, except for Shannon Torliss, who is out sick also. Fernie calls the game start. "Top of the 14th inning!" The score was left 4 to 2, Fernie's team winning yesterday at bell ringing. I'll quiz Fernie's memory prowess later today by asking him to tell me what Ticonderoga, Sumter, and Apache all have in common. 'But how you could remember all those kickball facts and not this?' It will be lovely. The alphas always tend to put me on my toes.

Vidal pitches from the mound, throwing under-arm rolls at the others. Some kids call for bouncy balls and others for fast balls. He shows little control over the rubber ball, as if anyone could. No one strikes out, but most get tagged at first. The kids that don't care, you can tell them when the outfields come in. Those dreaming of kickball scholarships, push the outfielders back.

* * *

I don't wear a watch and I use the wall clock in my own classroom. I ask Devon Diamond, a quiet kid, to let me see his watch. Darth Vader's black helmet obscures the numbers, but I realize maybe about fifteen minutes to go. "Fifteen, OK."
"Thanks God! I want it to end soon!"
"Don't like kickball, eh?"
He looks at the field and folds his arms across his chest. "No. Hate gym class. Pointless."
I don't know Randy the gym teacher very well. I play into an ugly stereotype and imagine him commiserating with the kids on the junior varsity baseball team. "Yes, classes suck, but you got to pull those C's if you want to stay on the team."
"I don't care for sports very much either, Devon. It's just gym class though."
He doesn't answer. From the field I here Fernie scream "Out! Out! Out! Our turn!"

* * *

Five minutes to go. This time from another watch, a simple black and white faced one. Vidal is back on the mound. I hear it is the 19th inning, the score now 10 to 15. I don't know who is winning, but Fernie does as he steps up to the plate. He has a runner on first, a kid names James who sits next to him in the back of history. I decide to watch these final seconds, happy that they hadn't hurt themselves. I try to think up some jokes for my next class, about why I am so sweaty. I'm horrible at jokes.
Vidal lobs the ball at Fernie. He connects and fills the air with a rubber twank. It's a arching ball heading, slowly freefalling to second base. Devon is there and he looks up. Even I know it's an easy catch, the kind of catch that in a real game would already have people up from the dugout. However, Fernie blasts towards first and James races to second. No one expect him to catch it. Running is like bringing the outfielders in.

Devon does bring his arms out. I hear a "Yeah, right" from the bench, the same disembodied tween voice. However, the big red rubber balls falls right into Devon's reach. A soft little plunk as his hands scrape against the taut surface. A loud "Yes!" from the mound and "Yeah's" from the rest of the infield. Fernie overshoots first, but already, the kid on base tells him he's out. James still blasts towards second, trying to steal. However, Devon pivots on ankle and flings the ball at James. He archs his body, for a dusty slide, when the ball twangs against his cheek. The auburn of his bowl cut bangs swings up to reveal wincing eyes.
"Touch rule," Vidal screams running to second. "Touch rule! He's out!" The disembodied voice gasps, "Double play! No way!"
The whole infield surrounds Devon while James gets up on his knees and pounds a balled fist into the dust. The bell rings in the background. I wonder how to approach the potentially injured James, but only utter, "Good work, guys."

* * *

Last period and I have most of gym in my class. James and Fernie sit in the back while Devon takes the front. I see him smile when he walks in and I return it, realizing we had never had such an exchange. I decide to show some clips from a documentary I taped. I never ask the connection question. In the softlight of the room, I look at James's bruise in quick glances. It has the gorgeous appeal of galaxy. Purple inkiness splotched with black-blue cloud nebulas and veiny comet tails. It engulf his cheek and disappears into his bangs. I wonder whether he should see the nurse, but it's already last period.

___________________________

I constructed this story form just one image. That is how most of my writing works. That is why it feels stilted. Well, one of the reason's it does. But my best stories, like Moo Shu, are pieces crafted from these solo images.

A walk

I am not too sure as how to structure this post. I don't have a clear intro and creative piece, so I will just push forward!

I have started working at a downtown location of the coffee shop I work for. It's a small local chain you see and the managers, both new and old, were nice enough to let me transfer from Trumansburg to Ithaca. The walk is a bit farther because I don't live in a village of 1,500 people anymore and, because it's Ithaca, involves a hill. I walked up the hill today, realizing I need the exercise in the wake of my organic pop tart diet. OK, fine, organic toaster pastries diet. I love organic junk food, it's a tasty mind bender!

As I walked up the West Hill, I realized how hot it was. Last winter seemed to sputter and sprout over the past five months. A big wet blast at the beginning of April and then sunshine. It felt like a summer day and the thermometer on the bank's big rotating clock read 92 degrees Fahrenheit! I don't know how accurate those bank thermometers are, but it was still hot.

The heat here seems to crackle. After winter, the buds break and flowers explode with noises that none of us can here. However, we can feel them, and even make out a faint whisper, like when a twig sheds a flake of bark under the sun's rays. The heat back home seems to simmer, a comforting white noise. To get all biochemical on you, the heat back home seems like ATP, omnipresent and endless, repeating itself minute after minute with only slight variations in intensity. However, the heat here is adrenaline, rushes of blood and those falling dreams.

I am more aware while walking here. I am out of shape and breathe heavy when climbing hills. I take in deep breaths of each flower and the mowed grass. I never really smelled flowers till I ca here. Never really smelled that powdery honey smell coming from bursts of blooming cherries. I believe the tropical flowers to simply be out of aromas, catering to year-long pollinators. Walking helps because in a car yo only experience one sense: sight. A strong odor might come through the windows and blast of noise comes through the body, but these have to be great attempts. Not subtle flowers. Back home, we drive everywhere. It is the only place where riding mass transit is a treat, something you take your grandmother from the country to after church.
The heat back home, however, is infinite. It is a heat you can settle into. Up here, the heat is one you have to struggle for.

Peace!

I Really Shouldn't Do This

I remember a technical writing class I took back in college. The professor made a "writing" hierarchy were the lowliest and simplest writing (technical) was at the bottom and the most creative (poetry) was at the top. Poems are certainly much more compelling than DVD manuals so the whole concept makes sense. I have a very high respect for poetry. I never ever try to write poetry, because of its stance at the top of the writing hierarchy. I can barely write something with a beginning, middle, and end, let alone, something in friggin iambic pentameter! However, I did write this one little poem. You have been warned.

__________________________________________________

Road side

By Garik Charneco

Tires pop
Keer-swish!
Rims hit metal, swords on asphalt.
Rubber patches alternating on blacktop.
Bluub-screech! Bluub-screech!

Driver screams
Oh, my God!
Hard breathing
Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale
Flashers tick tock
Automotive metronome

Phone rings
I am stuck
Read the signs
Halsey at County Road 12
Why?
I think it hit a curb

Tires pop
Keer-swish!
Kinetic to potential
Progress stopped.

_________________________________________

Poems are hard, yo! Best left to professionals. Peace!

Flood Watch

The basement to our apartment flooded today. Amanda and I live in the bottom of a house that is split in half to create two apartments. Ours leads right into the basement through a side door and when I went in there today to grab my bike, I stepped into a good quarter inch of water. The hot water heater sprung a big leak and we were lucky the stuff didn't spill over into our place. The landlord immediately rushed over and got a plumber to replace the heater, but we still got a flooded basement to deal with. This inspired me to write up this little brief. The house I grew up in also had a flood-prone basement. I guess basements are pretty rare in PR, so it definitely made for an ice breaker whenever the relatives came over. Those experiences also inspired me.

_____________________________________

Untitled

By Garik Charneco

Staccato rules the neighborhood. After the hurricane, everyone fires up the generators they bought the night before. Each unit is still shiny, the generous gas tanks still hungry for refills. Our generator cannot compare to the new ones, except in noise. It rumbles with the best of the new ones, at least those without mufflers.

Runka-runka-runka-runka! The noise echoes against the concrete in our basement, the tiny two-horsepower motor churning out enough power for the fridge, a single fan, and a TV. Christie will turn the fan to high around noon time and then we lose the TV. Nothing to watch anyway, just the broadcast stations on 24-hour alert. The generator goes on. Runka-runka-runka-runka!

The DPW just opened the freeway and my uncle Peter brings his kids over. They do not have a generator, living in the walk-up apartments out by the mall. Generators are prohibited, just like any and all pets. His kids, my little cousins, cringe at the cacophony. Alissa, the oldest, inhales deep and imitates the noise. Runka-runka-runka-runka, in the best rumble an eleven year old can do.

Uncle Peter came for ice, but Christie persuades them to stay for dinner. She waves a platter of chicken thighs she just grilled up on the charcoal Hibachi. "It's to keep them from spoiling for just a little bit longer," she explains to the kids. "But they will do much better in your stomachs!" She smiles as the boy, Manny, sandwiches a crispy thigh between slices of wheat bread. We eat dinner out in the backyard, so that we don't have to strain our voices over the generator. Runka-runka-runka-runka!

It is 10-o'clock. The gas in the generator dwindles to fumes. Rrrrrr....unka-rrrrrr.....unka-rrrrr...rrr....unka! Uncle Peter grabs his bag of ice and calls out to the kids. We gave them the Scrabble board to play with after dinner, but that lasted only thirty minutes. They took to watching a rock dove remake its nest in the splintered end of a fallen cabbage palm. After the sun feel, they watched the wax bead away from a candle. They will have no power at their house, but they are eager to leave. Rrrrrr..ddrrrr...unkk...rrrrr...rrr....
The generator dies. The lights go out. Uncle Peter almost stumbles down the stairs.

Christie and I have taken to bed early these nights, just after the generator runs out of fuel. Alissa asks, "Can I see it? It's just so noisy."
We grab flashlights and head down to the basement, which is just off the side of the garage, down three gentle concrete steps. The generator lays silent, but it's body gives off a dull glimmer in the darkness. The body gives off a ghostly orange color, like lava rock hitting the ocean water. The kids gasp. "That's cool," says Manny, aiming his flashlight at it. The beam kills the glow and his sister swats the light away. Uncle Peter says, "Like a dying campfire." I step into the actual basement and the storm water in it licks the top of my soles. I splash some water at the glow and the darkness sizzles.

____________________________

Onomatopoeia, yo! Peace!

We're back!

The moving is complete! Well, sort of. I am all settled in, but Amanda still needs to bring her stuff at the end of May. So we still got some hauling to do, but I can now blog without having to worry about what box I put the mouse in or fending off high school kids at the public library. 30-minute limit, kids!

But, even in this hiatus, I have been writing. I have produced six pieces for one of the local alternative newspapers! WOO! The freelance writing gig is pretty nice. This paper has some decent resources behind it and gets published every week, instead of when everyone can get their stuff together. The Tompkins County area possess plenty of citizen-alternative journalism ventures, but plenty fail to gather enough steam to actually become a periodical. Also, the job pays! WOO!
Finally, I love being able to say that I am actually doing freelance writing. I love that word, "freelance." I want to put it in front of every activity. My friend Jing and I were having a discussion on the topic. He wanted to do "freelance eating." Awesome.

So I will try to keep the posts coming and cook up other excuses for future droughts. Just like normal! Peace!

"I clear my head and concentrate. My emerald girl is waiting for me. Throttling like an F-16. I strap in, and let her fly."

Hal Jordan knows a thing or two about coming back!