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Trevor’s Ambitions

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

We spoke to Trevor last night about his ambitions — we had friends over, and they were asking the kids what they aspire to be when they grow up. Trevor said he wants to be an “army man, a police officer, a cowboy,” or (and here he smiled a little, shy smile, like he was showing us a glimpse of his soul) a “hobo swordsman.”

We questioned him further. Most questions were met with a small, inscrutable smile. He was infinitely patient with us. Apparently, if you grasp “hobo” and grasp “swordsman,” you’ve pretty much grokked his life plan. He likes trains, likes blades, and true to the hobo spirit, appears little concerned with a roof, or food, or money.

The world doesn’t have enough — or perhaps any! — hobo swordsmen, don’t you think? A story is emerging: Zatoichi-meets-Kwai Chang Caine-meets-The Twilight Samurai: a vagabond dressed in threadbare clothes, with only a sword to his name, riding the rails, righting the wrongs …

I already have the cover of the graphic novel sketched in my mind. I can write; who can draw?

If you haven’t seen The Twilight Samurai, check it out. One of my favorites. More heart and fewer arteries than typical samurai movies.

All-Nighters

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

I saw a sock on the sidewalk the other day — ankle-length, white with a pink toe and heel. Lost, perhaps, during a return trip from the laundry mat, though that wasn’t the first thought I had on the subject. My first thought was of my days working at Ferris State University and an autumn morning in 2002, full of awkwardness and regret (none of it mine, thankfully). This is how the morning unfolds in my mind now.

I drove to campus one morning in October. The autumn colors had just popped, and I had a poem brewing in my mind (“cornucopia,” posted here).

As I approached campus, I saw a young woman walking along a street of older houses, college rentals, mostly. She walked barefoot on the cold concrete, in boxers and an oversized sweatshirt, her blonde-on-brown highlights pulled back to a hasty ponytail. She carried her jeans and assorted other articles of clothing. She shuffled quickly through the tumbling leaves.

I drove past and parked my car. The poem was about half formed, and I needed a walk to solidify it. The girl from the sidewalk was gone, so I headed up that particular street.

Half a block up, a young man now sat on the front steps one of the rentals. He wore last night’s jeans and a white t-shirt, a backwards ball cap. I think he was barefoot, too, and I recall a beer can and a bottle of water on the step. His head was in his hands, and as I approached, he mumbled: “Not doing THAT again.”

“Rough night?” I asked, and he raised his head and blinked. “Dude, you have no idea.”

“You alright?”

“Think so.”

I walked on, wondering if these two bedheads were connected. I turned left at the end of the block, and worked a couple lines of the poem in my head. Not great, but alright. I took another left — and heard music drifting on the breezes.

Ahead and across the street, an upstairs window was open, and from it blared the voice of Alanis Morrisette, accompanied by an as-yet undiscovered co-ed: “It’s not fair to deny me/Of the cross I bear that you gave to me/You, you, you oughta know!”

Was it the sound of running water? Steam drifting from the window? The volume of the music in the window? To this day, I have the distinct impression of a girl singing angrily in the shower. The rage and sorrow in her voice seemed authentic, and the thought occurred to me: perhaps all three know each other now. And I thought I should write this down.

I walked on. The wind kicked up, and hundreds of orange leaves, swirled about my head shoulders. The poem took final form, and until I saw that sock last week, the rest of the morning slipped me.

Gnats In My Belfry

/ J. Thorp / 6 Comments

“I like to keep mine razor sharp. Sharp enough you can shave with it. Why I’ve been known to circumcise a gnat. You’re not a gnat are you, Bug? Wait a minute: bug, gnat. Is there a little similarity? Whoa, I think there is!”

– Uncle Buck, remarking to his niece’s unwelcome
suitor, Bug, about the hatchet in his trunk

I have a little problem, and I’d welcome your advice. See, I have a beautiful office, with high windows that get good sunlight. All of our house plants have moved, one by one, two by two, to the office as a result — and they are thriving.

Unfortunately, so are the gnats. Fruit flies is what most folks call ’em, but I’m told they’re fungus gnats, and they live in the moist top layer of soil.

I’ve tried to get rid of them. I swat ’em. Snatch ’em. Smack ’em. Inhale ’em. People pass my door, see my eyes darting, hands flitting wildly about about by face — they shake their heads and walk on.

I was told that if you blow a fan across the tops of the pots, you’ll dry the soil and kill them. Didn’t work. I heard that if you put a layer of aquarium gravel on top of the soil, the gnats can’t lay their eggs in the dirt and will die off. Not so much.

So now I’ve got to re-pot them, I guess, unless you have a better idea. I’m bringing them back home, one by one, two by two — and of course, I can’t bring a couple home and take them back the next day, because I’ll re-infest them from the still-infested pots.

The final straw was a visit to my office by an associate vice president. As she spoke to me she seemed not to notice the winged black speck circling her head. I, of course, did notice. I have no idea what she said to me …

So Friday evening I grabbed a box from the recycling pile and put two plants in it. It’s about a three-block walk to the parking ramp, and I was carrying my computer and lunch bag, too, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when the tall plant in the skinny plant tipped and spilled aquarium gravel across the bottom of the box. No worries; the other plant is sprawling, green and ropey thing in a pot half again wider than it is tall. It won’t tip …

It did, and I nearly lost the whole load.

I put the plants in the back of the Golf, and haven’t seen the gnats since. But now and again, I feel like I’m being watched from the back seat. I’ll check my blind-spot and something will catch my eye near the back window. I’ll do a double-take and run off the road. Invariably, there’s nothing there.

No number of gnats could’ve tipped that pot, that box and me, could they? I’m just being paranoid … right?

As I write this I’m comfortably in the house. The plants are in the garage. And — just now — a gnat crawled across my computer screen.

Where is that hatchet, anyway?

Summer Vacation, Day 66: Good For Nothin’

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Today, friends, was a good-for-nothin’ day. In fact, it was great for nothing. Soaked the sun and visited with family. Almost nothing else. So nice!

I may even write a little tonight. It’s hard – I have “free time,” didn’t have to write at all today … but you know? I have almost no desire to write. First day off from speechwriting, and you want me to write other stuff?

And East of Eden is calling me, too – what to do; what to to? I can tell you this: until I decide, I’m doing nothing!

Summer Vacation, Day 58: Emma at Work

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Today was Rose’s day at work with Dad. Sure sign of a great day pending: I start the car just as Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s “Over the Rainbow/Wonderful World” medley comes on the radio. Nice.

She spent the day making multicolored paper snowflakes and drawings for the women in my office. We had lunch at Annie’s Parlor in Dinkytown with our good friend Haircut Cate. Emma loves Annie’s fries and chocolate-mint malts, with chunks of the fancy brown and green chocolate mints your sometimes find on your pillow in hotels – so good!

Throughout the day, Emma out-SlugBugged me two to one – she had six to my three before she finally fell asleep on the way home. All in all, a lovely day with our girl …