Claxton Mahaley

the "blog" of "unnecessary" quotation marks

Link: the "blog" of "unnecessary" quotation marks.

Have I mentioned before how much I love this blog? Especially now that it has one of my pictures in it.

Keep it up Bethany!

The Reluctant I

I watched him color.

He spread a sheet of paper out on our cheap coffee table though the thought of its cheapness never came to his mind only the smoothness and greatness of its surface.

He carried his box of crayons and markers to the table and carefully placed them out of his way. His small hands turned everything into something sacred, a relic. This isn't to imply that things weren't dropped or broken but that everything -- even at the age of three -- was still an object of wonder. Somehow these crayons were able to fill the paper with their magic, somehow.

And truly they must be magic. The smell is childhood, but, at the same time, the smell is also mortality, grey hair, lost years, alienation, suffering, but not to him. He doesn't think of things like that.

His work in reds and yellows told stories beyond representation.

"This is a volcano daddy, and this is lava and this is pumice and ash."

"Of course it is. It is beautiful. What's this?"

"Oh, that's a tree."

And, of course, it was because it was. A tree. A volcano.

There was more. There were ladders and pictures of me -- one of which became an octopus.

It was color and life. It was innocence. His eyes wide with the wonder of what he had done -- what the crayons had done. Some became favorites for a time like the white crayon that made the faintest lines on the cream colored paper.

So is this magic in our ignorance? At what point does our ignorance of something cause us fear? Why can't it always be magic, wonderful?

"Can I have another piece of paper?"

"Of course you can, my son."

Imperative

Don't think about it. No, don't think about it. Just get up and get out of bed. You can do this.

You just do one thing at a time. Do what you have to do. You have to eat. You have to drink. Do it.

Do not think of her. You finish doing what your doing, finish getting dressed, whatever, then leave. Go out the door and walk past her apartment. Don't even look at her door. Go downstairs, have a coffee and get the paper.

Remember what's important. Remember your promises to yourself. You don't get attached. You don't get hurt. Remember.

Don't think of how much you had in common. Don't think of the way she looked so comfortable naked. Don't think of how she looked at you. You just think of the big picture -- the plan.

If she comes out you just tell how you just got called in to the office. Give her a kiss. Throw her off the trail. Eat breakfast with her if she asks. Do whatever she asks.

Rememeber.

a random

As he set down his drink, as he did almost constantly and deliberatly each time he began to speak, he leaned forward and offered a little, some might call it faint, smile that invited his prey into a comversation that held them fast with all the tenacity of a spider's web.

"Dad!" she called from the kitchen with such a volume that the room leapt in unison, "Do not even think about starting that story, this man is a guest in our house."

"I know my peach, but as dinner is not yet ready I thought that I would satisfy our guest's hunger with a good tale," he said with a slight wink to the guest.

"I believe it a great idea, but the tale you were about to impart would not have entertained but rather made him wish to chew his own arm off and flee. I have told you this before. It is too long and lacking any element that could be considered interesting."

"She is a great woman, I assure you, but she has no ear for the tales of men," he was saying to their visitor until he noticed her standing in the doorway.

"I assure you father that this is not true and you would do well to hear me as I have heard the complaints of your victims. Perhaps it is time to invent some more stories. But that is neither here nor there as our dinner is ready."