rang off, Cooper stretched and smiled. Police service this good could only mean one thing—the captain needed some favor an American consul could do. Maybe a visa to spend a year visiting a sister in LA, maybe a cousin in immigration trouble in New York, it didn’t matter much. Cooper’s father had been on the Board of Public Works in Terre Haute, and he’d often thought that was great preparation for the way things got done in Jayapura. Whatever he wants, he’s getting it.
Shortly, there were a few shots and some angry shouting, followed by some general uproar. Cooper crept over to the window and peeked through, looking down, and saw the cops with their helmets, batons, and shields shoving the crowd back. It was noisy but halfhearted somehow, the mark of a mostly-paid mob. Hunh. More projects for the next week. Find out who paid them and why. Yes indeed, that captain is getting whatever he wants.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. EAGLE, COLORADO. 5:30 A.M. MST. MONDAY, OCTOBER 28.
Jason had slept well when he hadn’t expected to, and that made him hate Super 8 even more. Last night he had expected to be awake all night: too soft a bed, sheets that smelled totally chemical, no sound of wildlife, the couple in the next room watching TV and quarreling. No friendly snores from his buds. No Beth cuddled against him. But here he was, well-rested, seduced by comfort.
He opened the curtains on the big west-facing window, sat cross-legged on the bed, breathed, and meditated. Across the dark parking lot . . . why should there be so many cars? So many ripping-outs of the guts of the mother. So many people who didn’t need to go any where going every where. So many scars on the planet. His gaze rose steadily upward from the rows of shiny metal and plastic earth-trashers to the dark mountains against the just-lightening sky.
Dawn among the bones of the Earth, he thought, then tried:
Truth comes at dawn .
No, too Hemingway.
Creation begins in my inner unfogged eyes .
Oh, yeah, needed to remember that. Might be my first line. No! Whoa —prewriting the poem; monkey mind. He watched the slow forming of the light in the air and on the stone and pines, and let it be in his mind, without words.
You had it right there, the statement of everything:
the mountains and the parking lot.
Title, or first line? Let it be whichever it would be. Let it be like the Earth, let it be, just accept. He breathed it all in pairs,
mountains and parking lot,
trees and cars,
plastic and wood,
metal and stone
free elk and cheap plaztatic doublewides
beautiful bears and ugly wires
brave mountain goats and chickenshit tourists in buses
asshole sales directors like my dumb-ass father—
No. Corny, personal, not dichotomous. Besides, Dad sometimes googled Jason, read his poetry, and wrote annoying little notes about how talented he thought Jason was and how happy he was that Jason was keeping up with his writing.
Like I need support from an asshole sales director.
Damn monkey mind.
Shut up, brain, or I’ll stab you with a Q-tip. Not original, joking with himself. Congratulating himself on the jokes. Damn monkey. Damn monkey.
Supposedly you could eliminate monkey mind by paying it some extra attention, rewarding it even; ook ook ook, anybody want a banana with barbiturate?
His felt his mind dash about, demanding his attention, until once again, as lightly as a soap bubble, it rested in the V of indigo between the black mountains, balancing the seductive warmth of the hotel room and the humanity and spirit of the cold hillsides. The crystal of a first line—insistent, an elegant angel of truth, banishing the monkey—started to form in his mind.
Carefully, watching the stacked cardboard boxes in the corner as if they could leap out and attack, he pulled his laptop from his pack. It was in a double Ziploc with a scattering of Drano crystals in the bottom. He held the bag up to the light; the crystals were all still well formed, and the litmus paper was
Shortly, there were a few shots and some angry shouting, followed by some general uproar. Cooper crept over to the window and peeked through, looking down, and saw the cops with their helmets, batons, and shields shoving the crowd back. It was noisy but halfhearted somehow, the mark of a mostly-paid mob. Hunh. More projects for the next week. Find out who paid them and why. Yes indeed, that captain is getting whatever he wants.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. EAGLE, COLORADO. 5:30 A.M. MST. MONDAY, OCTOBER 28.
Jason had slept well when he hadn’t expected to, and that made him hate Super 8 even more. Last night he had expected to be awake all night: too soft a bed, sheets that smelled totally chemical, no sound of wildlife, the couple in the next room watching TV and quarreling. No friendly snores from his buds. No Beth cuddled against him. But here he was, well-rested, seduced by comfort.
He opened the curtains on the big west-facing window, sat cross-legged on the bed, breathed, and meditated. Across the dark parking lot . . . why should there be so many cars? So many ripping-outs of the guts of the mother. So many people who didn’t need to go any where going every where. So many scars on the planet. His gaze rose steadily upward from the rows of shiny metal and plastic earth-trashers to the dark mountains against the just-lightening sky.
Dawn among the bones of the Earth, he thought, then tried:
Truth comes at dawn .
No, too Hemingway.
Creation begins in my inner unfogged eyes .
Oh, yeah, needed to remember that. Might be my first line. No! Whoa —prewriting the poem; monkey mind. He watched the slow forming of the light in the air and on the stone and pines, and let it be in his mind, without words.
You had it right there, the statement of everything:
the mountains and the parking lot.
Title, or first line? Let it be whichever it would be. Let it be like the Earth, let it be, just accept. He breathed it all in pairs,
mountains and parking lot,
trees and cars,
plastic and wood,
metal and stone
free elk and cheap plaztatic doublewides
beautiful bears and ugly wires
brave mountain goats and chickenshit tourists in buses
asshole sales directors like my dumb-ass father—
No. Corny, personal, not dichotomous. Besides, Dad sometimes googled Jason, read his poetry, and wrote annoying little notes about how talented he thought Jason was and how happy he was that Jason was keeping up with his writing.
Like I need support from an asshole sales director.
Damn monkey mind.
Shut up, brain, or I’ll stab you with a Q-tip. Not original, joking with himself. Congratulating himself on the jokes. Damn monkey. Damn monkey.
Supposedly you could eliminate monkey mind by paying it some extra attention, rewarding it even; ook ook ook, anybody want a banana with barbiturate?
His felt his mind dash about, demanding his attention, until once again, as lightly as a soap bubble, it rested in the V of indigo between the black mountains, balancing the seductive warmth of the hotel room and the humanity and spirit of the cold hillsides. The crystal of a first line—insistent, an elegant angel of truth, banishing the monkey—started to form in his mind.
Carefully, watching the stacked cardboard boxes in the corner as if they could leap out and attack, he pulled his laptop from his pack. It was in a double Ziploc with a scattering of Drano crystals in the bottom. He held the bag up to the light; the crystals were all still well formed, and the litmus paper was
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