Odd One In

I’m pleasantly surprised that I know how to place each of these words in the right order in order to form meaning. I realize that I might be wrong and that this is only understood by me, but smearing the odd ball on the right knee isn’t left of the mixed price show. So if these words are nothing but collections of the odd ones out, it might be appropriate that such is the name of this wonderful lizard’s eye, reflecting sorrow behind the ears of the wicked.

If, however, these words that are placed one after the other are understood by you then I shall say this, “Is it that you refuse to be remembered as the odd one out, or that everyone is the odd one out? For if it is the latter, which it surely must be, then lambs running along the river’s edge smile only on the fury of the meek – the patter of those without hoofs sings the bleak future a lullaby that is meant not to inspire but to belittle.”

That being said, and hopefully understood, we move into familiar territory. The sandy beaches of grammar, where some may drown in the present perfect passive because they refuse to take action. “Moving arms isn’t not for me.” they say, and thus are saved by a typo – an unlikely hero. While the lucky ones stumble to safety, tripping on double negatives and run-on sentences, others die of thirst because they refuse to drink in the horrible taste of, “Fuck, what was that again? Is this right? What’s that meant to do?” – and who can really blame them? Rather, precision – was that it?

It appears that we’ve reached the end of this little run-on life. An afterthought meant to be real, like popcorn killing pigeons, or that second moon people never took to. “It can not grow anymore.” they say, “Having lost all interest in the sun, it no longer wishes to face it.” So, let’s face it, there ain’t no plural nor singular parents that are to guide those that read to beautiful green fields, where butterflies make music as they fornicate. And, surely, we can agree that the notion of a pit of snakes waiting for Indiana Jones ain’t worth a nickle in a wishing well. But of course…

…looking for a vole in the entrails of an insane elephant does not justify a world void of certainty. There must be those who equate exploration to 2+2, like scaling walls of snakes that represent, or are meant to represent, or will represent, or represented, but only because a wall like that couldn’t stand alone, without meaning it would fall to its respected pieces and slither away into a hole. A hole not inhabited by that same vole who seconds earlier was eaten by an insane elephant, not for nourishment but for entertainment.

-Jakob Lint

Insurance Claim

I’ve recently come across an interesting piece of news that was related closely to my former life. I found it in an old newspaper in the attic, or what should have been an attic, though was a functioning bedroom. The newspaper originated from a country I’m fond of, or would be if I could remember it. I’ve lived there for a considerable number of years before, and a year after, my accident. The country in question is Canada.

In this local newspaper an article was published dealing with a “loss to the community”, an “outrage”, and “something not to be forgotten, ever.” Something I had forgotten due to my accident and not the content of the piece. The title of the piece is “Burning Soul”, but “Why Insurance Companies Are The Devil” might have been a title more suitable.

In the article the author describes an incident where an insurance agency “outplayed” a man whose wife and child died in a fire. Apparently the man’s wife had a life insurance plan with the agency which paid out the life insurance only if the death was reported within two hours. Usually such agencies have a 24 hour time period, some a 48 hour period. However, the women, due to lowered payments and a higher pay-out, agreed to the two-hour limit. She knew that it was a gamble, but thought that her husband would manage to call-in in time, if and when she should die.

Well, her house caught fire, a wiring problem or something alike, and burned for a number of hours. The husband was at work during the first hour-and-a-half but managed to make it home in time to witness the roof caving in, as mentioned earlier his wife and child were in the house at the time. After another hour or so, the firemen finally put the fire out and the bodies were extracted. His wife and child were pronounced dead at the scene and the man managed to somehow collect himself and go to his car to call the insurance company. He informed them of her death minutes after he had been told she had died.

The insurance company carried out an investigation and “outplayed” the man. They had an autopsy done, which proved that the woman died fairly early in the fire, roughly ten minutes in, and thus when the man  made the call two hours had already passed. The man argued that he didn’t know she was dead, that he had called right after he had been told, etc. The company showed him the contract which said “two hours after death”, and thus he lost his claim.

There was another incident mentioned briefly in the article. One where a man in the United States, a country found south of Canada, lost his insurance claim. In his contract he agreed to the stipulation that if he was to die wearing a red article of clothing his family wouldn’t get the money. This had something to do with the line of work he was in, somehow red made him more likely to meet with an accident.

Well, the man died in a horrific accident, one best labeled bloody. There was blood all over him and the scene, but what allowed the insurance company to nullify the contract was the fact that one of the man’s socks was completely drenched in blood. They argued that it was red, and won. The man’s family got nothing.

It seems to me that insurance, especially life insurance, is suppose to make an unfortunate incident easier to bear. It is meant to, or it should be meant to, relieve certain pressures so that a person may grieve for the loved one who died.

Jakob Lint

The Power of Prayer

I found the power of prayer. It was stuck between one angry and one compassionate lesbian. It was in the musty air on which meaning surfed uncertain, unable to identify itself as a diverse collection of ears pondered other things. It was in the velvet rope masquerade hidden behind simple choices and back door exits. The power of prayer was found on its knees seeking answers, gifts, and above all love. It is ironic.

Can a creator create something better, greater than herself. Yes, she can. That’s the case here. God, after numerous tries, created something greater than himself. He stuck his finger out and said, “Let there be man, in both its forms.” After he had realized what he had done, his first reaction was envy. He could not stand that there was something better out there. He sought justice, namely the destruction of his creation. His vanity, however, stopped him. He wished to show off how great he was by being able to create such a thing greater than himself. Only he has no friends.

He has no one to share his creation with, no one to show how wonderful his creation is. Thus he is left to admire it all by himself. And on certain nights, nights on which he feels especially lonely, his bitterness will overtake him and he will do nasty vile things. Things so out of character that he attributes them to someone else. However, on most nights he is himself. The one and only being, the creator, the all powerful – kneeling in prayer. His head bowed down to his creation, he seeks only one thing: love.

He prays that man will love him. He hopes beyond hope that everyone, every last person, loves him. And as he’s praying on his side of the river, on the other side people have bowed their heads to him, a lesser being, seeking the same thing. They ask for a thing they’re able to give, and yet do not.

Well, I say we humor him, he has no friends after all. Love your God kids, for if you don’t, no one will. And if you do, then he himself may find the power of prayer, for his prayers will have been answered.

-Jakob Lint

Fungi Dreams

There were two of them. One slightly taller than the other. One more spirited, though both filled to the rim with vim. Hair, of the dirty-blonde variety, stretched down to each of their shoulders. Their arms could change length at will. One moment everything was out of reach and another it was right there to hold. They were not in the least squeamish, neither missed an opportunity to hold a fish or a worm, or even a snake.

I never really knew them.

I wake late in the evenings, sometimes missing the sun completely. I remember dreams about rising waves moving in for the kill. These are not nightmares mind you, only dreams. They come back occasionally for no other reason than to remind me that I never really knew them. And what can I do, half hidden under a wooden table, hoping never to grow old, never to understand what it is I’ve seen. It’s nothing really. Not a sob story about lost lives, or rotting bodies. This is about memories, that’s all. No reason to shed forced tears to bribe St. Peter with; “It’s tragic.” you’d utter as the gates open before you. Feel no pity for the rough draft is what I say. Shit, if they gave me a chance I’d erase it all, all over again.

They swim to shore covered in mushrooms. Can you see them, red with white spots. Those are poisonous – do not touch – but that’s only because you never really knew them.

-Jakob Lint

For Those of You Running with Scissors

Fluent in the language of bee spies, he was to be trusted by no one. His mouth, yes, his mouth was a monster’s fable. A nightmare where only the vile and venomous feel comfortable. Only words with an edge that could cut concrete would sleep there; words that were rougher than a night in hell would walk through carefully, mindful of the dangers. It was a great benefit to all that he would rarely talk.

He spent most days wishing he was a friend. One of those true allies that would give up his life for someone else. The fact that he would be giving his life for a country was little comfort, none at all actually. What good is a country he’d often wonder. It’s merely a place, a space, a sea of faces he would never meet. No, it wasn’t enough to die for a stretch of land, or a group of strangers, he wanted more. But he was not to be trusted, even his thoughts were suspect. It might have been that he thought this simply to amuse himself, to pass the time as he’s waiting to stab someone in the back.

Having never truly been given a way out of his current career, he often wondered what he would have been had he not learned the whisper of Morse code. He would often imagine himself running a hot dog stand. He saw himself complaining about the weather when he’d have a bad season, or murmuring to himself coarse words in praise of events that brought in costumers. His thank-yous would claw at the backs of those costumers, haunting them for weeks. Little children that heard him speak would grow up believing in hell, believing that they had heard the screams of those trapped there dancing the dance of agony.

He’s asleep now. Breathing deep breaths that kick at my ear drums. When he exhales I hear the escaping air scream with a mix of delight and terror. I was not sure whether I could go through with this, whether or not I could kill him, but with each second that passes I am driven further into certainty. It is as though his very breaths are begging me to end it, to end his life and with it their suffering. Yet still, he knows the language of bee spies, a language I had always wanted to learn. If only he was capable of teaching, only that would have saved his life.

I leave him in a pool of his own blood.

-Jakob Lint

She had it since forever.

I saw you blink, once. It wasn’t a long time ago, maybe a decade. Your eyelids, covered with green eyeshadow, came down slowly, calmly shutting your eyes in. What a peculiar thing, I thought. Does she not realize that each moment is precious. Does she not realize that even a single blink can result in missed things. But I was foolish then, one of those people who claimed that they’ll try everything once.

We ran out of the house early in the morning; the sun had barely time to peek over the horizon. “Tell me, do you think we have time to stop for a coffee?” I asked. “I’m afraid, no. No, I don’t think we do.” said you – you – you were right. What was I thinking, those pictures, and especially that silver watch, never crossed my mind again. But I insisted, and so we stopped. Even back then you were always ready for compromise. “We’ll only stop to get coffee, if you get something to eat, too.”

You didn’t eat breakfast, but you did endorse it. You wanted me to be at my best. While I chowed down on something, I don’t even remember what it was, you looked at your silver watch, a present from your dead mother. You were eager to move on, but willing to wait, for my sake. I asked you, “Why do you still keep that thing, didn’t you say it was broken?” “No, no, I don’t think I was talking about this one. This is the one my mother gave me, remember.” you answered. “Yes, I remember. But I also remember you telling me that it was broken. And that you hated it.”

“I do hate it. I hate silver. But it was my mother’s. She had it since forever, I’m not going to throw it out. And no I never said that it was broken. You must have dreamt it again.” Even now I distinctly remember you putting it on in the bedroom. You looked at it and claimed it was broken. I was hovering over the bed, changing into a badger, and changing back. Now that I think about it, it might have been a dream. You look at your watch again. “Alright, I’m done. Let’s go.” I say, knowing that it was what you were eager to hear.

We rush down a populated street, people on both sides yelling out prices and names of things. Some might be selling fish, others tickets to the afterlife. One can’t really tell, they all seem to blend into each other, like meat in a grinder. There happens to be a camera crew filming as we run through the mess. We were holding hands, you in your long coat, me in my sweater. We looked liked parents.

A couple of years later a friend of mine sent me the pictures. He had come across the film somewhere, some documentary had used the footage of that day. He had printed the shots we were in – pictures of us, holding hands, running down a street. You in your green hat, and me in my ancient shoes. You probably don’t remember the music. Neither do I. They must have added it later.

But like I said, those things never crossed my mind again, neither the silver watch, nor the pictures. You had your eyes closed in one of them – you blinked.

-Jakob Lint

Naked Fur

Her lower arm hidden away, showing but a part of the elbow. Speculative minds would call it inappropriate, obscene even, but I think it was more a gesture of humility, a discreetness one encounters rarely these days. It might be because of its rarity thus that it is misinterpreted so often, either way I don’t think it deserves such labels.

I think the idea, the implied image, is not meant to offend the onlooker, rather to liberate her, to free her from established dogmas, ideologies, and/or perspectives. One must take the true definition of vulgarity and barbarism to heart to truly appreciate the image. One must not fall for the watered down version of words that fly about these days; heavy words that once took strength to utter, now, like hot air, rise up almost on their on.

The implied image is not vulgar, and could never be vulgar in a world that has many true examples of vulgarity. It could not stand for an act of true barbarism, as no true barbarian would claim it, or enact it, out of pride. It, the image, if anything, is a testament to mystery, to the idea that no matter how much you’ve seen, or how much you know, you are still mostly unaware. And it is ironic that those who argue that it is vulgar strengthen its statement.

I am a rare case. A man who has been reborn late in his life. I have the life experience of a four-year-old living as a fifty-seven-year old. A rather unique perspective. Yet, I am not alone in my interpretation of this image of naked fur and hidden arms. There are people out there who agree with me, and yet, not as many as I’d like. It is unfortunate that we are dying out. It is unfortunate that those who survive will let vulgarity take over the world, not because they’re in favor of it, but rather because they see it where it couldn’t possibly be.

Truth hangs on a wall, its nakedness hiding nothing, opening our eyes to the infinite mystery of all.

Jakob Lint

This is a story.

My best friend’s uncle lived on a train for thirty years. He had a hammock hung up between two carts. There he would sway, weather permitting, and read. He loved to read, especially children’s books. All the classics, not longer than 20 or 30 pages. He loved the pictures, the words, the rhymes, all of it. He would read grown up things too, if he came across them. If a passenger happened to leave a book behind, or if someone gave him a book as a gift, he would devour it with a great appetite, and then he would sleep in his hammock, weather permitting.

My best friend’s uncle loved the idea. He thought it was nice that I would write him a story about his life, about the life he had imagined for himself, about the life he had never lived. My best friend’s uncle never stepped foot on a train. He had always wanted to. To take a train someplace, to see what it would be like, that was his dream. But he had a family to support, two kids and a wife are no joke. He was afraid if he stepped foot on a train he would never step off. Never. And what for? he thought. There is nothing you can’t find on a train. All you need can be found there, all and everything.

My best friend’s uncle recently passed away. They put him in a coffin that they put on a train with which they sent him across the country. He was on the train for a couple of weeks. When he came back home they wanted to take him off but couldn’t find the body. It had vanished mysteriously, not leaving a trace. Later, passengers would report sightings of a hammock made of mist, and a man sleeping in it. They swore they saw him waving at them as the train pulled into the station.

My best friend’s uncle thought it fun, thought it would be nice if he did do that after death. If he managed to come back as a ghost, to do that which he couldn’t in life. But he said, “I’d rather they burnt my body in a fire fueled by Beatles records.” He loved the Beatles, and was hoping that his body would meld with the melodies on those records, and he would forever sing them in the wind. He said he hoped it would be the song Strawberry Fields Forever that they’d sing the most, as that was his favorite one.

My best friend’s uncle was buried in a usual ceremony: no fire, no Beatles, and no train. I thought it sad. But to be fair he never told anyone about his wish, no one but me that is. My best friend’s uncle died a long time ago, long before I was born. On a train from somewhere to someplace I ran into him. We spoke at length about his life and death. He read me his favorite book, as Strawberry Fields Forever played in the background. He showed me his hammock. We waved at the people on the platforms together, as the train pulled into the stations.

My best friend’s uncle said he’d stay on the train from somewhere to someplace until it stopped running. He was hoping that it wouldn’t for a long time. He said, “I recently got a letter from your mother. She’s well. She says the bottom of the ocean is more beautiful than she could have imagined. She said, “I miss my little fish, but they’ve surely grown by now. If you happen to see one, tell him or her that I don’t plan on coming back. Tell them they need not worry about second chances.” I don’t know what she means by it, do you?”

No, I said, not really. Maybe she meant that life is a story, and that after it is done there is nothing else: no bottom of the ocean, no train, and certainly no hammocks. Maybe she means that all those things are here, now, and can never be there: no second chances, no second lives. This is a story, the rest is simply the end.

-Jakob Lint.

Bubamara

He was born from a ladybug’s love moans, who at the time was having her way with a naive, adolescent catfish. The moans, rising from the thin lips of the ladybug, carried him over the pond, dropping him in a shallow pool that was more mud than water. There he crusted over, and being mistaken for a statue was carried off by a fisherman who placed him in his backyard by a tiny pond he had made not too long ago.

Grga sat there by the pond looking at the still water that was occupied by a few fish, amongst them his father who had been caught the same day he was carried off. Grga acknowledged his father, who didn’t want anything to do with him. His father felt that he was not ready to take on such great responsibility, and thus ignored him. Grga, who had named himself, wasn’t hurt by this, rather he said, “It’s ironic that a fish without legs could create, granted with help, a creature with wings. Father, I am proud of you.” His father didn’t say a word, though the water level in the pond slightly rose, as tears escaped from his father’s eyes, who was proud of him, too.

Ten years passed in a single pose. Grga grew to love Sundays, the parties thrown by the fisherman were wonderful. The music, like the instruments, wonderfully exotic; the people, like the music, wonderfully buoyant. There Grga watched his father grow old, to eventually be consumed by the fisherman and his family on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but not before he was fried on the barbecue. Having seen this, Grga thought how wonderfully absurd life was. Absurd that his best friend the barbecue, who shared the backyard with him all these years, could do such a thing. His father’s bones, which were left for the cats, spoke to Grga before they were carried off, saying, “Don’t fall for the bait son. Don’t let yourself be caught. Mud-baths are for the complacent. You’re a fool for sticking by me, you should fly.”

Grga wasn’t angry with his friend, he knew his friend was doing what he was made to do. He also knew that he wasn’t made to be a statue, and thus, excusing himself, shook off the mud and flew off into the world. His first stop was the place of his birth. There he met his mother, who he found loved everyone equally, not leaving room for prejudice even for her children. She embraced him and said, “You’ve grown into a fine figure. Fly as close to the sun as you like. All the stories are lies, all of them.” And with that she let herself slip away amongst the grass, looking to share her love with whoever passes by. Grga wanted nothing more than to give her his wings, so that she may share her love with more of the world, so she may fly much further than her wings could ever carry her.

Losing sight of his mother, Grga took flight. As he flew the wind ran her fingers through his hair and he fell in love with her, on his way to Spain they made love. Their passion was unrivaled even by the gods, who out of jealousy made the wind forget her love for him, and him, his love for her. Thus they departed without a word, as Grga landed in southern Spain. He flew to Spain to find a creature who claimed to see reality, to see that which hides behind the mask of matter. He hoped this creature would give him an answer, a purpose.

He found the rock buried under a pile of his brethren, and there, without hesitation, asked him what he was meant to do, what his purpose in life was. The rock replied, “You’re a mistake. A flaw in the grand design, hindering the ultimate purpose of everything. Born of your mother’s moans, sacrilege sounds of agony to the ears of truth. Your very presence pains me, your gaze alters me, destroying my true nature, reconstructing me in a form that embarrasses me, that nauseates me to no end. Be gone foul creature.” The rock closing his eyes, shuttered with agony.

Grga took flight. He was ecstatic. The freedom he felt then was indescribable. He had no purpose, nothing he was meant to be doing, he loved every moment of freedom that passed under his wings. At one of those moments the sun caught his gaze. Moving his wings, he flew upwards heading right for it. He thought, “So it is that without fear I will fly into the heart of the sun. I will tear out its intestines and feed them to Pluto, Pluto, who hungers for its affection. I will recreate and reconstruct truth, true reality will be twisted and deformed under my fingertips, such is my freedom.” With that he dove into the sun, a thing nothing more than a cage. There he was put on display, to be looked at by children who point and smile, wounding him without end.

-Jakob Lint

Dear Emily, I’m leaving you.

Love e-mails, unlike love letters, are not to be found in my life. I’m wondering whether there are any out there, whether anyone has written a love e-mail. I think, and this might be a bias brought on by my age, that a love e-mail could never compare to a love letter. That it wouldn’t carry the same weight, that it couldn’t possibly ever hold the same amount of emotion, same intensity.

I do agree that it is in what’s written rather than how it’s sent, but still.

***

Dear Emily,

I’m leaving you. You, who could have been born anywhere, yet
it was where I lived. You, who could have worn anything, yet it
was that green summer dress that haunts my dreams to this very
day. You, who could have said “No”, yet you said “Yes”. You who I
wish I never met, for were I to have lived alone, to never have
seen you cross the street that day, I would now be leaving other
things.

I would be leaving my last breath as a heavy burden on those who
pulled the triggers. I would be leaving my favorite memory of countless
falling yellow-ruby leafs. I would be leaving my body to the scientists,
or their cousins the worms. I would be leaving my favorite river, my
most visited streets, and my travel worn shoes. I would be leaving a
world filled with wonder and beauty. Yet, I’m leaving you.

I’m leaving you dear Emily, because none of the things I’ve written,
no, not even my very breath matter in comparison. None of them make
this as unbearable as you. None of them would make me wish for a way
out of things to come. None of them keep me up nights imagining myself
escaped and calling to them from the street. No Emily, I’m leaving you,
and nothing else.

***

That was the letter I came across not too long ago. A letter I had written to my wife, when I was still very young. As you may have guessed, I was to be executed for things I don’t remember. It was something political, arbitrary, and not at all important here. What matters is that I found that letter. It, written on a paper folded twice, and now yellow with age, held a text composed of barely legible letters and three words especially dear to me. The words: “wish”, “triggers”, and “them” are blurred, the ink caused to run by the tears of my dear Emily, who was unable to stop them all from falling.

And so I wonder, if at that time e-mail was available, and had I sent her that text via the internet, would it have held three of her tears? I think not, and that I think is my point.

But it is very hard for an amnesiac to reminisce. I do apologize if I’ve caused some to think less of e-mails, I’m sure they offer just as great an experience for those who employ them for such matters.

Jakob Lint