The Sticky Revenge of One-Eyed Jack, Part I

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Destiny is no great mystery to a pumpkin. From seed to vine, vine to ripening shell, each knows (or can reasonably guess) the time and nature of its doom. The life of the pumpkin is born of the earth, in germination and the dark push skyward, in leafing and looping, spreading and blooming, drinking the deep spring rains and soaking the warm summer sun.

But death for a pumpkin is born of the ether. On cool summer evenings, the pumpkins whisper amongst themselves in nervous anticipation of the Three Fates: the Decayer, the Devourer, and the Destroyer. Sure as night falls and leaves fly, no pumpkin escapes its assigned Fate—and each brings its own trials and glories.

The Decayer arrives first, but works her magic most slowly. She drifts over the patch as a mid-summer fog, seeking the stunted, deformed and diseased. These she crudely marks so that man will not touch them, and they return to the earth to renew the soil and, perhaps, to try again—a noble calling for neglected fruit, but one must suffer in silence the trail of a glistening slug across one’s face, the creep of fungus and tickle of ravenous arthropods, and the warm stench of rot beneath the winter snow.

The Devourer arrives in early autumn, harvesting souls in broad daylight. She takes only the smallest and sweetest, to be consumed by people in pies and cookies and breads. There is no shame in spreading cheer to other creatures, but it is also no mean feat to be cleaned, cubed, cooked and consumed in utter silence and submission—or heaven forbid, canned: puréed and sealed in tin for months, unmoving, in juices not your own.

For the pumpkins that remain—the biggest that have not succumbed—the Destroyer settles upon them as frost in mid-autumn, severing at last their ties to the dark earth and cultivating in them a desire for grand adventure and phantasmagoric death. These are harvested for the greatest and most frightful doom of all: to be jack-o-lanterns on Halloween night!

This is every yellow pumpkin-blossom’s dream—to grow fat and orange, and to have its eyes and mouth opened with the blade of a knife. To be Chosen is the highest honor; the pumpkins have not forgotten that to be a jack-o-lantern is to be called to defend a home and its children from evil spirits and parlay with the unsettled ghosts of the dead.

Much of humankind has long since lost sight of the nether world, but open a pumpkin’s eyes, and it sees all.

* * * * *

Continued in Part II …

Photo: Brendan’s jack-o-lantern, 2007


Old Junk and Past Ramblings, Part 1

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Kind of a cop-out post, something I ran across today from awhile back. I have something else in mind, but it’s not quite cooked yet.

*****

upandcomers

the singer stomps a square-toed
boot his hair moussed skyward clear
voice trembling roaring at the mic stand
tilted eyes squeezed shut and straining
to the words the lead guitarist’s scalp
gleams purple thin goatee and lip-ringed
snarl his red ax riding lean and leathered
thighs the bassist holds his five-string
like a second member pigtails whirling
round his ears the drummer smashes
cymbals with abandon four limbs churning
thunderheads beneath electric blue distortion

and then the set is over making way for who
the people came to see outside the
crowd sounds less somehow the knot of people
at the gate a clear devout minority his voice
is clear but quiet now he thanks them
signing shaking hands the drummer
handles questions softly lest they
break the bald guitarist hangs a leather
jacket from his shrunken shoulders looking
tired the bassist stands removed and eyes
the door and then a silence as somewhere
beyond the wall the crowd erupts

j thorp
01 feb 02

*****

I used to get handle media when student groups would bring musical acts to campus. Stood right in front of the stage, behind the “security,” even. Looking up from the floor, even a second-rate band looks larger than life. Get ’em out in the light, though, and they shrink somehow …

"The New Girl … and Me"

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There’s a new girl on my blog. Way over there on the right and down a little bit … yup, just there, under “Friends and Good People.”

Jacqui Robbins helped this guy I know, an awkward, melon-headed kid from Michigan, adjust to life at Yale, and now she’s in Michigan, writing children’s books. And she has a book out, called “The New Girl … and Me.”

And – get this – thanks to First Book and Spoonfuls of Stories, they’re giving the book away for free in boxes of Cheerios right now!

If you have little ones at home, then you’re bound to need Cheerios, and you’ll recognize this story as true-to-life, and beautiful and funny as only kids can be – so pick it up.

If you don’t have kids at home, you can still eat Cheerios (good for your heart), read the story (also good for your heart), read it again en español (the Cheerios version is bilingual), then give it away (very nice!) or keep it (we won’t tell).

The point is, check it out. The Cheerios version is pretty tiny, but I’m sure you can get nice hardcover ones at bookstores and stuff!

Congratulations, Jacqui – and in case I didn’t tell you before, thanks.

War Torn

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I love good silver-screen battle scene. Especially battles that precede the 20th century, when most warriors still had to get up close and personal with their adversaries – and get blood on their hands.

The appeal of such scenes to me isn’t the action and gore, but the courage of conviction in the face of horrific violence they represent. When you are forced to look your enemy in the eye and assess their humanity firsthand before killing him, you best believe in the cause, right?

What our men and women in Iraq are doing requires that same sense of purpose. Think about it: they’re fighting in close urban quarters against an enemy that can only be distinguished from the civilian population with difficulty. According to the few accounts I’ve heard, our soldiers are often making split-second decisions at point-blank range – who to kill, who to let live.

I was talking to this guy on the bus the other day, saying that it seems to me we shouldn’t be surprised that soldiers are returning with mental health issues, given this up-close-and-personal style of combat and the widespread misgivings about the war (if not among the soldiers, at least on the home front).

“It’s tough,” I said. “I mean, regardless of how you feel about the current administration or its policies, the troops have to know that we support them.”

A woman seated in front of me turned around and said she’d done a tour a in Iraq. “It’s extremely important,” she said. “It means a lot to know they have support back home.”

The question then becomes how do you criticize an administration, a policy, or a war while still expressing support for the men and women fighting?

Steve Earle has one answer. On his 2004 release, The Revolution Starts Now, Earle included a spoken-word-over-guitars piece called “The Warrior.” The song, if you can call it that, pays homage to warriors past and present, while holding modern warfare and policy-makers in contempt – and ultimately, holding all of us responsible.

It’s magical, poetic – a tribute to the warrior spirit and a passionate plea for peace. At least that’s how I take it.

What about you? From a practical standpoint, is it possible to openly criticize the policy and still give the troops the moral support they need to face death on daily basis?

The lyrics to “The Warrior” can be found here.

Incidentally, if you ever really get fed up with our current administration, take Pearl Jam’s self-titled release, Green Day’s American Idiot, and selections from Steve Earle’s The Revolution Starts Now (“The Warrior,” “The Gringo’s Tale,” “Home to Houston,” “Rich Man’s War,” and “I Thought You Should Know”) and Jerusalem (“Ashes to Ashes,” “Amerika v.6.0,” “Conspiracy Theory,” “John Walker’s Blues,” “The Truth” and “Jerusalem”), put them on your iPod, and shuffle freely at high volume.