Entries from February 2008 ↓

Talking tubs and six-word memoirs with drummer Joel Taylor after the February 2nd jazz gig.

Preparing the Return
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

It all started with a shoebox about seven weeks before tax day. The pink one in the garage, floating around all year from workbench to shelf to couch and back to shelf again, never finding its final resting place. The shoebox labeled with a brand he didn’t wear. A cardboard halfway house once containing a sole not his, a size numbered by a measuring system different than his gender’s own. A makeshift junk drawer with a well-intended yet vague purpose: to store tangible receipts from the previous calendar year. Stockpiled mementos validating his legitimacy. Printed records of his purchases, recognized as justifiable expenses by the institution to which he was subjected by virtue of his existence. A box packed with the kind of clutter made necessary only by responsibility.

That night, at that hour, it was time to revisit those financial mementos. Arming himself with a handful of paper clips, a stack of manila folders, and a trash can, he cracked another beverage, cranked up some jazz to occupy his nerves, and began plowing through the inevitable. Like a nosy robot of flesh and bone, he went through each slip of inked paper, examining the price and the date, isolating receipts dated the previous year. With no particular plan than to be done with it, he composed his pathetically indecisive masterpiece, sculpting individual piles from the assortment, commuting through the data like a skeptic in an amusement park’s dark ride, reluctantly attentive to the obscure montage of year-old flashbacks. A summarized pairing of last year’s dates with last year’s locations. Some of them familiar, others forgotten.

Gasoline, gasoline, gasoline, bookstore, dining, gasoline, bar tab, dining, gasoline, gasoline, Home Depot, gasoline, gasoline, bar tab, gasoline, gasoline, gasoline, vet bill, gasoline, bar tab, dining, bar tab, gasoline, gasoline, gasoline, gasoline…

…dining. With a date over two years old. A straggler.

The restaurant, barely legible behind the smeared, fading toner. A place he knew well, yet hadn’t visited in nearly a thousand days. The time. Late evening. The items. A custom cocktail he had ordered countless times by heart, yet never once consumed. The bill. Twice as much as that which would be normal today.

After first allowing it one last quiet moment to utter its final words, he executed its execution, dismembering it as quickly and painlessly as termination by guillotine, certain death ensured through a lavish asphyxiation by fist.

And so it went. Into the trash can. With the pink shoebox to follow.

I admit I was a touch cynical yesterday at the implied urgency to go outside and catch the lunar eclipse. The big news was that it would be the last chance to see such a thing until 2010, which is, you know, A WHOLE TWO YEARS AWAY. “Gee,” I thought, “I’d better take a long hard look at the calendar too, February 20th, and enjoy it while I can, because the next time the date will have a zero in it won’t be until March 10th.”

Last night at about a quarter after six, I grabbed the dogs and a few Sierras and rolled down to the bluff at White Point to close the day out with our usual homegrown Happy Hour. The scheduled eclipse wasn’t the point of the outing, but more of a coincidental supplement to a nightly routine.

It had been cloudy all day long, ironically eclipsing our chances of seeing that night’s eclipse, but the day’s end brought some gnarly Pacific Ocean winds, blowing all the clouds away. The sky was as clear as ever from our vantage point, and we had what I was convinced to be the best seat in Southern California.

There’s something fundamentally profound about standing on a planet as it aligns with its sun and moon at the same time. The experience makes you feel very alive, and very aware of the Now. As a bonus, Saturn decided to join our party too, showing herself just above the moon. The whole shebang was like poetry in the sky.

How typically sad it was to realize that millions of people chose to stay inside and watch American Idol instead.

Alarmed
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Late for the affair and failing the test, I flee as the unicorn draws near. Running as fast as I can, I stand still, knee-deep in the sludge of invisible wet cement. The laughing face in front of me remains vague, never completely showing itself, my eyesight warped beyond repair. I surrender to flight, soaring over the rooftops before falling into the bottomless pit. Naked. Thirsty. My teeth fall out as I stand on the railroad track, the locomotive approaching with a roar.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP–

My trained hand hits the snooze button. I crack an eye to see the hint of dawn crawling through the blinds and across the ceiling. Birds continue their morning conversation. A dog greets the sun at the top of his lungs. The scraping sound of a plastic trash bin being dragged across concrete serves as a reminder that it’s Wednesday. I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes and contemplate my next move.

I couldn’t help from finding the #6 train relevant to the whole thing. Especially with so many people in the subway station willing to bounce the idea around with.

Lizzie Widdicombe of The New Yorker. Wrote an article about the bash. Dude, this woman is a genius. What makes me label her so? Read, count, and pay close attention.

The Unmatched Snowflake
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

There once was a snowflake. It spent most of its life drifting aimlessly in flurry of other snowflakes, happily distracted from the blizzard of questions storming through its mind. One day the snowflake fell upon a snowman.

“Have we met before?” the snowflake asked.

“No,” replied the snowman. “We have not.”

“But,” appealed the snowflake, “I remember meeting you once. You had the same eyes of coal. And the same carrot nose. And the same mouth of buttons.”

“It wasn’t me,” replied the snowman. “Must’ve been another snowman.”

“Oh, but I’m quite sure,” said the snowflake. “You even had that scarf. And that broom. And that hat.”

“You’re mistaken,” explained the snowman. “While you may have seen a snowman that resembled me, it was not exactly like me. The carrot was a slightly different shape. The buttons were a bit larger. The scarf was a different material, or a different color. The hat was a different style, worn by a different man. And the eyes of coal were looking at something else.”

“But I could swear it was you,” the snowflake said, frustrated and confused.

“It couldn’t have been me,” promised the snowman. “Besides, if we have met before, I would’ve remembered you. For, you see, there are no two snowflakes that are exactly alike.”

“No two alike?” questioned the snowflake. “None?” This was something it had never been told.

“None,” echoed the snowman. “Every snowflake is alone. You can search far and wide, for eternity in both directions, and never find another snowflake that perfectly matches you.”

“You mean to tell me,” the snowflake challenged, “That of all the millions of billions of trillions of zillions of snowflakes in the history of snow, there have never, ever, ever been two snowflakes that match perfectly? Ever?”

“That’s correct,” nodded the snowman in his icy cold wisdom. “Nor will there ever be.”

The snowflake pondered the concept for a long while. And another long while. Deep in thought.

“And have you seen each and every one of these millions of billions of trillions of zillions of snowflakes?” the snowflake finally asked.

“Certainly not,” laughed the snowman. “Snow has been around a lot longer than me, and it will be around long after I’m gone.”

The snowflake nodded, unsurprised at the snowman’s answer.

“Then how can you be so sure?”

It’s been two weeks since the release of Not Quite What I Was Planning, and the community is abuzz. Technorati shows over 2,400 blog reactions, our NPR story is being dugg on Digg, and our man Frank has begun a Contributor Registry with links to the blogs of the authors. One blogger created a cartoon celebrating her friend’s inclusion, another family has created a video, Rev. Dr. Bill Steadman has invited his readers to distill their beliefs in the form of a six-word memoir, asking “What would Jesus do with six?”, and the Six-Word Memoir flickr group has just arrived.

The book release party has moved up to San Francisco, with the next Six-Word Slam going down tonight with Green Apple Books. Wish I could make that one. Then it’s a Google gig in Mountain View tomorrow, followed by Portland, and back to New York.

Watch this. Dr. Randy Pausch from Carnegie Mellon University is dying, and knows it. Pancreatic cancer, with months to live. His destined-to-be-legendary final lecture to his students has been going around the Internet all winter, and he came back recently to reprise it on the Oprah show.

If this one hits you the way it did me, you’ll feel very much alive after ten minutes.

“My first wish is to see this plague of mankind, war, banished from the earth.” –George Washington

Letter to the Author
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)

Dear author of my existence,

You’ve not yet met me, yet you know me better than you know. I am the face you see in every crowd. I am the voice you hear in your head, barely identifiable behind the noise. I am what you love to hate. I am everything you hate to love. I am the truth of your falsehood, the contradiction to you solution. I am the source of your something. I am your greed. Your patience. Your craving. Your repulsion. I am your appetite and your sickness. I am your dead-end, more than you’ve ever been. I am your idleness, your energy. I am the epitome of your potential, the manifestation of your impossible. I am your shame and pride. I am your tool. I am your coldest fear. I am your strength and stamina. Your hope. I am your your grudge, your envy, your malice. I am your unselfishness, your charity. I am your kindness. I am your heart.

I am you.

If it pleases the author, I have but one humble request. Please, sir, do not do me injustice. Do not mistake fact for opportunity. Do not resort to gossip for entertainment purposes. Do not sugarcoat. Do not embellish my story to suit yours. While my existence is indeed dependent on you, never forget that you exist because of me. Consider us even.

Do good,

The character you have not yet named

“Less is only more where more is no good.”
– Frank Lloyd Wright

Blast off. Books on the table:

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