The Rites of Passages

Well, I suppose it all started out like everyone else's childhood, only mine was spent in France. Paris, actually. It is only the city known for romance and fine wine. And so just like everyone else I have talked with over the course of my life, we grew up and went to school, only, of course, my life was spent in France. Did you know the French invented the garlic press?

Academia came easy to me. School was nothing but a drudgery, like most kids experience, only mine was a French drudgery. And it came easy to me. I made straight A's. Straight French A's. In Paris. I'm pretty sure the French invented the letter A.

I fell in love when I was 15, only to a French boy. His name was Jean. Not John. Jean. We would take long walks around the Seine and visit the Notre Dame. We would hold hands as we ate bagettes on the cobblestone streets of Paris. We would drink French coffee and smoke French cigarrettes. Ah, we were in love. French love. Did you know that France is the number 1 exporter of diapers in the whole world?

Jean and I broke up 2 weeks later. And University was next for my life, only I didn't study abroad as so many of my French classmates had done. No, I stayed in France to study. I studied French. So many people thought it was so funny that here I was a French girl in France studying French. But I didn't think it was so strange. I thought it was quite natural. Afterall, the French invented French.

I found this book disturbing.


That's right, if you have a scab touch it. What does it feel like? Hard, bumpy. Like scales on a lizard. Like the hard earth in a parched land. Like the skin of a t00-oft tanner. Like a heart locked away.

Smell it. What does it smell like? Nothing. Existential non-ness. Like a piece of dead skin. Death itself. Good like that. Like a mystical walnut.

Go ahead, eat it. What does it taste like? Like an over-cooked filet. Like beef jerky left out in the rain. Like a neglected kimono. Delicious perhaps. Strangely, even provocatively so. You shouldn't like it but you do.

This what is good about scabs - you can grow them yourself, as much as you want. To touch. To smell. To eat. Scabs.

"Mr. Sanchez?" announced the nurse to the waiting room.

Rick looked up from his staring into the sterile tile floor. The nurse knew it was him.

"Come with me," said the nurse.

Rick followed her down the hospital's long corridor. He was glad to be moving on to the next stage of the evening's strange unfolding of events. Nonetheless, he was still anxious about seeing the state that she was in. The state to which he had delivered her.

"She seems to be stable," said the nurse, opening a door gently. "But, we need to keep her at least overnight."

Rick stood staring at the body slowly breathing under the white hospital sheets. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Why must you keep her--what's wrong with her?" asked Rick.

"Well, she's 'hot-blooded'. We've seen a few cases of fever like this recently--inexplicable causes. In any case, she is burning up."

"But she looks fine," said Rick as he approached the bed. "There is no sweat."

"Check it and see."

Rick extended his hand slowly toward her forehead. The skin was soft--just as he remembered it to be. Rick's eyes widened slightly upon feeling the heat. He looked toward the nurse.

"She's got a fever of a hundred and three," said the nurse with eyes the showed compassion enough for the lady on the bed as well as the man with his hand on her forehead.

"I'll leave you," the nurse said, as she turned to leave.

Rick watched the door close. His head turned back towards the woman. Suddenly, he felt her little hand move toward his hand on the bed. With such little strength, the little hand grasped at his. Rick's whole being was seized.

"Come on, baby!" he whispered, exasperated. His eyes glimmered with the welling of tears.

Only a moment later, her grasp had gone. He layed her hand back down gently on the bed.

"What have you done to me?" he asked, as a smile broke across his face as the tears rolled down his hot face. He laughed and wiped the tears from one of his cheeks.

"We are given only so much time in this world. I had already retired... I had already assigned this time to commit acts against love. To crush such irrationality. To save lives. To secure freedom."

Rick paused, looking deeper into her angelic face.

"God... freedom. I didn't even know what that was. But it was right there--the whole time--in the way you danced. Your body. The way it moved. For so long, I didn't see. How could I?"

Rick snickered to himself, at himself.

"And to think that I even asked, 'do you do more than dance?' It is so easy to ask these questions from an ivory tower. You do more than dance. You set people free. You ignite the one true passion in this life. You set fire coarsing through my veins."

Rick stood up straight.

"Because of you, I'm hot blooded. I'm hot blooded!"

ROBERT. What are you doing here, Dobbs?
HAL. My timing sucks. I am really sorry.
ROBERT. Don't be silly.
HAL. I'll come to your office.
ROBERT. Stop. Sit down. Glad you're here. Don't let the dinner thing throw you, you'll bounce back. (To Catherine) This should be easier. Let's back off the problem, let it breathe, come at it again when it's not looking.
CATHERINE. Fine. (Exiting.) Excuse me.
ROBERT. Sorry, I'm rude. Hal, this is my daughter Catherine. (To Catherine) Don't go, have a drink with us. Catherine, Harold Dobbs.
CATHERINE. Hi.
HAL. Hi.
ROBERT. Hal is a grad student. He's doing his Ph.D, promising stuff. Unfortunately for him his work coincided with my return to the department and he got stuck with me.
HAL. No, no, it's been--I've been very lucky.
CATHERINE. How long have you been at U. of C.?
HAL. Well I've been working on my thesis for --
ROBERT. Hal's in our "Infinite" program. As he approaches completion of his dissertation, time approaches infinity. Would you like a drink, Hal?
HAL. Yes, I would. And, uh, with all due respect... (He hands Robert the envelope.)
ROBERT. Really? (He opens it and looks inside.) You must have had an interesting few months.
HAL. (Cheerfully.) Worst summer of my life.
ROBERT. Congratulations.
HAL. It's just a draft. Based on everything we talked about last spring. (Robert pours a drink. Hal babbles.) [...]
ROBERT. Drink this.
HAL. Thanks. (He drinks.) I decided, I don't know, if it feels done, maybe it is.
ROBERT. Wrong. If it feels done there are major errors.
HAL. Uh, I--
ROBERT. That's ok, that's good, we'll find them and fix them. Don't worry. You're on your way to a solid career, you'll be teaching younger, more irritating versions of yourself in no time.
HAL. Thank you.

I've heard the expression said, "I spent a month in El Paso one night." My rebuttal: Try ten nights and a night in El Paso. Which is what I set out to do in April of 1993. I made the arrangements, packed my overnight (well over ten nights and a nightbag), and caught a flight from DC to El Paso. The townsfolk were notably friendly upon my arrival. I could have sworn they were people just like me from DC. But the climate was different for sure. Hot. Arid. Humid. It was that unbearable mixture of dry heat and wet heat. I knew that for the next ten nights and a night it would be rough. It would be sweaty work.

I soon learned that El Paso was Mexican for "The Picasso," for right in the middle of the town square these natives had erected an enormous print of Picasso's "Light for the Ages." I quickly made a note of it. This native tribes worships Picasso. Strange, I thought. But it would get stranger. For the next ten nights and a night I would see and experience things beyond my wildest dreams. I would overhear these villagers use a 'y' in place of a double 'l.' (vaniya; tortiya; basketbay). I would see them play soccer and yet refer to it as football. I would watch them wear their religious trinkets on their head - large, ridiculous hats they called 'sombreros.'

I have compiled eleven stories for each of my ten nights and a night. And while I am glad I spent my ten nights and a night in "The Picasso," I am very happy to be back in DC, with real humans who speak correctly and act decently.

Fundamentalists would like to tell us that it is a matter of placing one leg into its respective pant at a time. One after the other. One after the other. They have beat it into our heads over and over. They say that everyone does it this way--our friends, our enemies. Well, friends, let me tell you that this matter was determined by the rise of the fashion of breeches hundreds of years ago but many years after the dawn of the pantaloon. Pantaloons never demanded we squelch our leggy freedom to don our lower garmentry as we please. The cumbersome nature of breeches imposed absolutely that they be donned one appendage at a time. Indeed, we have let the exception prove the rule.

But, I am glad to inform you otherwise. I have not put on my pants one leg at a time in years. That is correct, friend. It is not an impossibility. So, join me as we discover the fruits of pants-donning in a manner long-forgotten and crash down the crusty fashion barriers that hold our appendages captive.

Upon applying the Mars Invocation oils to your chest, face, and and all over your neck, begin the invocation. Meditate on the matter of cleaning the grime from the window of your throat chakra. Breathe deep. It is the grime of all of those cultural beliefs that are hurling you into a pit of sorrow and guilt. It suppressing your emotions. Continue thinking laterally. Mars has protection for you. Begin to hum in the lowest pitch you can achieve. Focus on vibrations emanating from your neck. Your chakra is being stirred. The Divine is almost upon you, waiting to give you guidance, connecting you with the universal essence. Take one last deep breath. Hum as low and loud as possible. And cough. Clear the throat. Hack up the grime. Bam! Fifth Chakra is clear. Onward, sweet spirit!

Lightning ripped through the sky coupled with the monstrous pealing of thunder, turning Sandy's stomach twice-over. She knew it would be the last time to contact the sage. The last opportunity. Everything was riding on this. With renewed efforts, she wiped her hands dry on her jeans, closing her eyes again and humming rhythmically with the patterns of her own breathing. In and out. Harmony. Awaking the sage. Bringing her back.

The office room on the 18th floor was completely dark, 'cept the bright spotlights of lightning tearing through the windows every other third breath. The wind rattled the building, making it sway back and forth like a palm tree. Sandy could feel the sage's presence become thicker and stronger. She could sense the sage filling the room. She could feel the hair on her neck rise. Her heart was pounding, though she attempted to temper it. It was nearly two o'clock. The sage would enter soon.

P - "A bigger ball. It's soft on the outside but the hard part is diminished. It's a bit retarded to be honest with you."

O - "So it's more like a softball, I assume?"

P - "Not quite. Picture a ball about the size of a beach ball. Only it's softer on the outside but the hard part is diminished."

O - "Ok, so it's like a softer, diminished, larger beach ball?"

P - "It's a bit retarded, I know."

O - "No, no. Just a bit unrealisitic, that's all."

P - "I prefer retarded."

O - "Retarded it is then."

3:25 A.M. - Found fresh blood smeared all over the doorknob to the fowl nursery. Fortunately, it appears the silverback's hands--while brutal--were not capable of operating the door.

But, where did all the blood come from?

3:29 A.M. - Quickly followed the trail of blood droplets. It appears the silverback is losing his own blood. He is undoubtedly in a blood frenzy. My night just got longer.

I see the girls of spring splaying in their riches
Display the silver tithes to sprites,
Having withstood frigid winter, ready to till the toil;
In the cold of summer breezes
Vapid, humid, glistening they call their boys
Leaves of winter yet ahead, but not yet they hope.

Like cotton candy, that's what he compared it to, though I'm quite uncertain what public transportation has to do with cotton candy. Sammy always had a way with words. That is what we would say growing up. "That Sammy, he sure has a way with words." We were in 5th grade then, taking the bus from Canopy Island up to Crockersville. The bus always smelled like chewing gum and WD40. The back of the seats were usually torn, exposing the yellowish orange padded foam underneath. If you sat in a good seat, there would be graffiti in front of you, some immature, pornographic vulgarity that no one understood but giggled anyway because they knew it was naughty. Sammy once took a Magic Marker from home and wrote "I can see your P P." It was a bus favorite. The next day at school everyone was claiming to see each others' "P P." Maybe that is why he compared it to cotton candy. It was just so sweet.

Whenever I work out I get such a high. Not mental. Not spiritual. It's physical. Pushing my body pushes me to the limit.

Especially when Ann is with me. We make such good partners, each of us spotting the other, and making sure that we max out our reps.

The life of a professional woman body builder is a lonely one. No one really understands the dedication it takes to excel in our sport. They just think we look good. But it's more than that.

Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. The pain, the gain, the work it takes to get the tight pecs.

But when I'm on that podium, I prove my existence. I say to the world, "I'm somebody!" I have carved out this space and that is something that no one can ever take away.

It was as though she became pregnant and gave birth in a matter of a few hours. Had I forgotten she was pregnant? Where had I been for the last nine months? Nine months. We have only been married for seven--at most. God... what are people gonna think. My parents will be disappointed. Whatever. They're always disappointed. Her parents. I don't have to think about that now.

What time is it? Where is my wife?

"Excuse me. I am looking for..."

Right beside me. Where did she come from? Be warm.

"Where is our new baby girl?"

"Here she comes now."

So shadowy. Why the darkened door? WHY DOES SHE LOOK SIX-YEARS-OLD? She looks like I did.

"She's so... old."

"I gave her a protein shot."

What the hell is a protein shot? Keep cool.

"Alright... no more protein shots without discussing them with me."

Yeh... that's good. Clear communication will solve this.

"No more anything, how about, until discussing it with me."

Tuesdays are your best bet. It's not Monday (which is a good thing) and the halfway point of the week (Wednesday) is well over 24 hours away. Tuesday. According to the French, it's "l'se conmprane le' se" or in English, "the best day to eat outside." In the next 16 chapters I am going to give you a detailed strategy to make the most of your outside eating experience. And yes, I will address all known objections and criticisms. We will discuss what to do with problematic insects and unexpected weather. We will deal with the phenomenon of "falling trees," which has been a major problem in Mexico recently. We will do troubleshooting and answer hard questions, like "What if I forgot to bring utensils?" and "Should I sit on an ant mound?" and "Why are bears chasing me?" From here we will embark on a wonderful journey, one stuffed with great joy and delight if you follow my easy 16 step strategy on how to enjoy your meals in the Great Outdoors. Maybe even after this journey, we can share an afternoon together, 'eating outside.'

There was a lad by the name of Andrew. I never knew him very well at all. I did know that he had an aversion toward Israeli punk--which, actually pre-echoed the post-punk wave in the USA in the 90's. I also came to understand that he had an extremely rare mental disorder. As best I can articulate, it was as though it was all his optical lobe could do to process the upside down image his eyes were receiving from the reality around him. I most often saw him at parties--perhaps mildy drunk or ragingly, out-of-his-gourde plastered--attempting to literally 'dance on the ceiling' as the 'other king of pop' later came to seranade us while Israeli punkers scoffed at the American's sorry excuse for a punk scene.

Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the story-maker's art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called "willing suspension of disbelief." But this does not seem to me a good description of what happens. What really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful "sub-creator." He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is "true": it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it, while you are, as it were, inside. The moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken; the magic, or rather art, has failed. You are then out in the Primary World again, looking at the little abortive Secondary World from the outside. If you are obliged, by kindliness or circumstances, to stay, then disbelief must be suspended (or stifled), otherwise listening or looking would become intolerable. But this suspension of disbelief is a substitute for the genuine thing, a subterfuge we use when condescending to games or make-believe, or when trying (more or less willingly) to find what virtue we can in the work of an art that has for us failed.

[...]The mental power of image-making is one thing, or aspect; and it should appropriately be called Imagination. The perception of the image, the grasp of its implications, and the control, which are necessary to a successful expression, may vary in vividness and strength: but this is a difference of degree in Imagination, not a difference in kind. The achievement of the expression, which gives (or seems to give) "the inner consistency of reality," [that is, which commands or induces Secondary Belief] is indeed another thing, or aspect, needing another name: Art, the operative link between Imagination and the final result, Sub-creation.

"I though that they always served meals on planes," she said, disgruntled.
"Nope," I said, waiting for the hot lump of gratin in my mouth to cool down, then gulping down some water. No taste but hot. "Meals only on international flights. They give you something to eat on longer domestic routes. Not exactly what you'd call a special treat, though."
"Any movies?"
"No way. C'mon, its only an hour to Sapporo."
"Then they give you nothing."
"Nothing at all. You sit in your seat, read your book, and arrive at your destination. Same as by bus."
"But no traffic lights."
"No traffic lights."
"Just great," she said with a sigh. She put down her fork, leaving half of the spaghetti untouched.
"The thing is you get there faster. It takes twelve hours if you go by train."
"And where does the extra time go?"
I also gave up halfway through my meal and ordered two coffees. "Extra time?"
"You said planes save you over ten hours. So where does all that time go?"
"Time doesn't go anywhere. It only adds up. We can use those ten hours as we like, in Tokyo or in Sapporo. With ten hours we can see four movies, eat two meals, whatever. Right?
"But what if I don't want to go to the movies or eat?"
"That's your problem. It's no fault of time."
She bit her lip as we looked out at the squat bodies of the 747s on the tarmac. 747s always remind me of a fat, ugly old lady in the neighborhood where I used to live. Huge sagging breasts, swollen legs, dried-up neckline. The airport, a likely place for the old ladies. Dozens of them, coming and going, one after the other. The pilots and stewardesses, strutting back and forth in the lobby with heads held high, seemed quaintly planar, like the little girls' cardboard cut-outs. I couldn't help thinking how it wasn't like the DC-7 and Friendship-7 days, but maybe it was.
"Well, she went on, "does time expand?"
"No, time does not expand," I answered. I had spoken, but why didn't it sound like my voice? I coughed and drank my coffee. "Time does not expand."
"But time is actually increasing, isn't it? You yourself said that time adds up."
"That's only because the time needed for transit has decreased. The sum total of time doesn't change. It's only that you can see more movies."
"If you wanted to see movies," she added.

As soon as we arrived in Sapporo, we actually did see a double feature.

"Is that a foreign notion?" she asked with not only bewilderment spread across her face, but also spicy mustard spread across her forehead. She eyed Simon one of those awful eyes, the kind where the pupils possess that eerie ability to pry and dig and drill into the eye sockets of those watching, boring in with agricultural intensity. I suppose it was like arrows, or feathered sticks, erecting from her sunken eye pockets. "Foreign notion? I would never speak like that, and you know it!" Simon shot back with fierce rebellion, further spreading the spicy mustard across her brow, marking her, sealing her, making her his own. She crumbled in defeat and he sopped up the pieces like bread bits in a bowl of stew.

Beads of sweat roll down the young savages arms, his back, and his brow. Every sinew in his perfectly still body burn under the endless strain. He could no longer tell if his two fingers' grasp of the end of the arrow was steadfast or a mere second away from slipping. A droplet of perspiration transfers from his finger and slides quickly down the gut of his bow. His eyelids narrow as he focuses on the grey beast as it finally grazes the evergreen marking the area within grasp of his bow. Intending to pull the arrow a slight more taught, the young savage mistakenly lets loose the bolt. Sure of his miss, he grapples for another arrow from his quiver. He blindly sends another bow in the general direction of his prey, hoping against hope to down the beast with a single shot. The bolt struck with a thud. The young savage finally looks to his prey. There it lay dying with two feathered sticks jutting at different angles from its heaving body. The young savage hangs his head and lets loose a sharp sigh, his target befouled and insufficient for the sacrifice.

Never eat cheese. You know why? It's because it's cheese.

Scipio knew the land lay before him. No Roman could resist the call for his country, the desire for glory, the virtue of battle. Yet Hannibal had resisted all comers as of yet. Wisdom said that delaying might still be the best course.
But all must fight some day. All may die. None choose this fate or no, but the hour and manner perhaps.
Publius Cornelius Scipio picked up his sword. Oddly, he wrote a poem of good cheer. He sent a dispatch to his wife and children, to be sent in case he met his death on the field.
And he strode to led the men into victory.