Final Paper Isolation

Scott Taylor

Dr. John Schwiebert

24 February 2009

Isolation

The young man sat in the darkened room, the crispness in the air evident as all occupants of the small home, the man, his dog, and the cat who owned them both, huddled in front of the wood-burning fireplace, ghostly shadows from the fire danced on the four book-lined walls of the room. Even though the clock showed 10 am, darkness rivaling midnight engulfed the house. Such is winter life in Alaska above the Arctic Circle. Normally Josh would be at work, manning a weight station for trucks hauling fuel and supplies to the remote town of Barrow, Alaska, on Ice Road. But not today; today Josh called in sick and he never calls in sick.

The cat allowed the dog to lie beside him as the two rested together on the floor in front of the man, both content in the warmth of the flames. The room’s cold and dreary feeling was eclipsed only by Josh’s attitude as he sulked in his chair before the fire, a heavy wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal sat on a small table next to the worn and tattered chair, one purchased at an office supply store years before. The solitary figure remained, staring at the fire, fixed in a position where he had remained for several hours ever since a phone call, a call from a man Josh didn’t know and had never talked to before, interrupted his deep sleep. The man at the other end of the phone said he had just flown in from New York City and had a few questions for Josh. “Just a few questions—should only take about an hour is all.” Maybe it was because he was barely awake, or maybe he was tired of his solitary life, but for some reason Josh agreed to meet the man, but only if he’d give him a few hours before he came over; he just woke up, for Heaven’s sake. The man agreed, saying he had to make sure his rental car was available. He got Josh’s address and hung up. A drowsy and confused Josh stumbled out of bed, made some oatmeal for breakfast, called in sick, lit his fire and sat down. “How did they find me?” his breath visible as his question ventured into the cold air.

“It was the e-mail I sent,” Josh cursed. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent that thing.” The dog and cat barely stirred as Josh spoke, they being used to Josh speaking to himself, though today’s words were tinged with an edge of bitterness usually not found in the dialogues. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent that; why was I so stupid?”

It was dumb, really, Josh’s action. He realized it at the time, but he thought since he was sending one of his writings to a website where authors and poets can submit content supposedly anonymously, no one would know who he was, or better yet, where he was. Living at the northern most point of North America makes you feel so isolated that you could disappear from society because, in reality, you pretty much were. And since Josh was not a techno-geek, he didn’t realize that joining an on-line group meant he could be in the most remote location in the world, or the earth’s most populated city, for to the internet, it didn’t matter; they were all “together.” Also, if Josh had realized how easy it would be for someone to gain access to those who logged in to the website and know exactly who those people were and exactly where those people were, he would never have logged in and submitted his poem. He probably would have never set up an internet account or used the computer (the computer being a gift from his parents currently living in Carlsbad, California) in the first place. The whole purpose of him quitting school at USC with one semester of philosophy under his belt and moving to Alaska to work by himself in a 5’ X 7’ building counting diesel trucks as they entered one of the most dangerous stretches of road anywhere on earth, was to be alone, to escape the hypocrisy humanity had become and enter a world of total darkness or total light, a place where he could be one with nature and write down—using paper and pen, the old-fashioned way, the way God intended—the feelings of his heart. He wrote for himself, not for others. He never wanted it published.

However, had Josh continued using his computer after sending his “anonymous” e-mail, he would have discovered something amazing. He would have been informed, if he had just checked any major news website, that a poem had recently been discovered, sent to a writing group by an unknown writer and who’s author remains a mystery, that his poem was causing a sensation throughout writing circles, university poetry programs, and interested literary parties the world over. The questions flooded in. “Who was this genius?” everyone wanted to know. “Is this a new talent, or an accomplished poet bored with traditional methods of poetic delivery?” Reviews from across the globe heralded the writer as unsurpassed, omniscient in his/her understanding of the secrets of life, and even Dickinsonian. Major literary interests were even offering rewards leading to any information on the poet’s identity. Unbeknownst to Josh, he had become part of a modern-day treasure hunt, he being the treasure. A reporter, utilizing several “less-than-legal” methods found a man named Josh working and living in one of the most unlikely spots a creative genius would call home and decided to book a flight to Barrow, deciding to try his luck and call this unknown poet once he touched down. He knew this could all be a wild goose chance, ending in futility, but he had to take a chance.

The reporter placed the call right after he landed and simply asked if Josh had been the one who submitted the poem to the website “a few months ago.” To his amazement the young man on the other end of the phone said he had indeed submitted one of his, what he called, “not one of his best” poems to the site. The reporter’s heart jumped as he stood alone in the small airport lobby. ‘Yes!’ he inwardly said—his hunch paid off, and now came the tricky part. He had to find a way to get the interview, to see if he could get the interview. The long plane trip gave the reporter several hours to contemplate possible angles to construct his story. Of course not knowing if Josh would allow him an interview, not to mention the very distinct possibility Josh may not be the author of the country’s newest “favorite” poem. All those doubts disappeared with a single word over a public telephone in the lobby of the airport at Barrow, Alaska. Sure, the reporter thought. I can hang out here for a few hours, start my article, get a bite to eat, then become the most read reporter in the country in just 24 hours. Things were definitely looking up.

The time dragged as time usually does when anxiety overwhelms. The reporter, an observer of life in all its varieties, did what a person does when trying to kill time. Interestingly enough, the floor tiles—those whose entire surface area remained unobstructed by chairs, file cabinets, vending machines—totaled 513, of which 259 were black tiles, 247 white tiles, and seven off-orange tile squares located near a unplugged and unattended hot dog wagon in the room’s corner. In the one hour, 45 minute span, the reporter saw 10 people enter the building and eight people leave. Already tired of rehearsing the questions he planned on asking Josh, the reporter slipped into a light nap and for a reason known to no one, he dreamt of pineapples. A pleasant voice from a diminutive, grandmotherly ticket agent/elementary school librarian/church organist brought the reporter back to the frozen black of Alaska’s morning. The reporter thanked the woman, gathered his belongings, obtained the rental car keys from the nice lady who just woke him up and opened the door into the dark.

Josh felt about as appetizing as the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal looked. For him, the two hours came all too quickly. With a half hour to spare, Josh arose and took a shower—no sense making this stranger’s visit unpleasant. He had just finished pulling a Norwegian sweater over his wet, thick, sandy-brown hair when a clear knock echoed through the small house. The reporter had arrived.

With towel in hand Josh made his way to the door, frantically trying to remove the remaining water from his hair. “Josh…Josh Hansen?” came the reporter’s voice through the door even before Josh reached it. “It’s Robert Feingold, the reporter from the New York Post—I called you earlier…” Josh opened the door just as the reporter continued…“about the poem…”

Both men looked at each other, each having an expectation of how the other would look and each being slightly disappointed that their mental pictures turned out to be wrong. The reporter broke the silence. “Yes, Josh, do you have a minute for some questions?”

“Of course,” said Josh apologetically. “Please.” He opened the door wider and moved to allow the reporter to enter. “Come in—it’s freezing out there.”

“Is it always this cold?” the reporter asked as he entered the room, realizing immediately the question must sound moronic to someone living in Alaska. “Actually,” Josh said. “We’re in the middle of a heat wave, you know, global warming being what it is.” The attempt at humor had the desired affect.

“Yes, I see,” the reporter said with a smile, a cloud of uncomfortability still existed between the two men. As the reporter entered the home, he was amazed by the overwhelming number of books crammed into the small space. It appeared almost every possible space which could hold a book held a book. “Here,” Josh said pointing to a chair strategically placed next to he fire. “Please sit down.”

For a man used to talking a mile a minute, the reporter found himself at a loss for words. After his long trip he found himself sitting in the home of the literary world’s biggest mystery. All the questions, that flowed only hours before were gone. Instinctively, the reporter reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small notepad and pen, inwardly thanking Deity he had the foresight to write many of his thoughts down beforehand.

“Josh, can I call you Josh?” Again, the question sounded stupid as it exited the reporter’s mouth for he had already called him Josh several times already—a nod from Josh signaled the acceptance of the informal address. “First, I want to thank you again for meeting with me. I can understand if you didn’t want to meet with me…”

“You can?” Josh interrupted. “To be honest, sir. I have no idea why you’re even here. You said it was because I submitted my poem to that website—something I forgot I had done almost the second I hit ‘Send.’ But for the last few hours I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out how that poem would make a supposedly intelligent man get on a plane and travel halfway around the world in the dead of winter—to Alaska, of all places—just to talk to me. So forgive me, but I don’t think you do understand if I don’t want to meet with you.”

Josh’s words were hard, yet even. The control in which they were said surprised even Josh himself. Though he was not a man of strong emotional displays, he did take his privacy seriously, personally. The silence following his words made Josh wonder if he had gone too far. The reporter still felt unsure of how to proceed. A flash of insight came from Josh’s speech, that being Josh had no idea the effect his poem was having on the literary world. With this knowledge, the reporter decided not to show his hand just yet.

“So, Josh,” the words helped bring the reporter back to the task at hand. “First, I just want to thank you for letting me talk to you today.” Josh only nodded. “And I also want to say that I loved the poem—just beautiful; it really touched me.” This brought another simple nod from the poet.

Switching gears, the reporter flipped open his commonplace book for inspiration. “Josh, tell me, have you written a lot of poetry, or was your submission to the website an aberration, you know, a one-time thing?” Oh, the reporter thought. He knows what an aberration is. Josh sat and looked at his guest. After a moment, Josh simply bowed his head as if in disgust. Sensing a possible faux pas, the reporter interjected, “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

Josh looked up and simply asked, “Did you even read my poem at all?”

The reporter stopped, his mind raced back to the first time he read Josh’s poem, an e-mail from a colleague at a newspaper in Miami told him of an amazing new poem that was gaining an underground popularity among the college crowd. He found the link, read it, admitted to himself that the poem was a little “highbrow” for him, for he never though himself a big fan of poetry. He thought the poem showed insight, but, to be honest, he just let it slide through one side his brain until it exited the other. As a reporter he was more interested in the writer than the writing.

“Of course, I read the poem,” knowing Josh had really asked if the reporter had understood the poem. “I…well…I mean, sure, I read it…and…you know, it was really good…” Josh stood up and looked down at his guest. Cutting him off, he said, “Hey, I’m sorry,” the apologetic tone evident. “I guess I’m just a little sensitive about what I write. Can I get you something to drink, coffee, tea?” Josh turned and entered the kitchen as the reporter responded, “Coffee, black will be just fine.”

The silence helped both men, each using the time to think about how this interview could be a success. Josh returned and the gesture of warm stimulant in liquid form provided perspective for the two men. Josh spoke first as he set his cup of tea down on the small table and returned to his chair. “So, The question, you asked about…” This time the reporter stopped Josh from speaking. “Josh, look, I’ll be honest with you. I read the poem and it was a little over my head.” The coffee felt good as it warmed from the inside. The fire only went so far and it appeared from the reporter’s perspective that the fireplace might be the home’s only heating source. Josh let the reporter continue. “But even though poetry is not my thing, I know something about people, and after I—and others—read your poem,” the word “others” hung in the cold air, the affect on Josh apparent. “Being a newspaper man, I felt like there’s a story here. You’re a story, and I think people would be interested to know more about you.”

The reporter stopped. He learned years ago if he gave the interviewee time to think, he was sometimes rewarded with what he felt were better answers.

“That’s why I got on a plane a day and a half ago just to talk to you and ask you some questions about who you are and why you write. So, if it’s okay with you, I’ll just sit here, enjoy this coffee—and any more coffee you may have percolating on the stove—and listen to what you have to say.”

Josh looked at the reporter and wondered where he should begin. ‘From the beginning,’ came to mind. “Robert,” Josh said. “Have you ever been to Southern California?”

The question caught the reporter off guard. “Um, sure, couple of times, why?”

“No offense, but unless you’ve lived there, you can’t understand what it’s like growing up in that environment. It can be tough.”

“Tell me about it,” the reporter said, sensing Josh might open up to him after all. But before Josh could answer, a question had to be asked. “Wait…what? Are you telling me growing up in California is really tough?”

Josh just smiled as he let the subtle sarcasm escape into the cool air. “Now I know that even if you read my poem, you didn’t understand it—you didn’t let it become part of you.” Josh settled in his chair, the cat rose, stretched before his human subjects, and sauntered into the kitchen. “Okay, I’ll give you that—growing up in Southern California is not the worst curse inflicted upon mankind. I think my problem was,” Josh paused, a contented look crossed his face. “The problem was.….it was too perfect….I had it too good. That was my problem.”

“Too good?” asked the reporter. “You’re right, there’s no possible way I can understand growing up in that environment.” The reporter wondered if this young man, this week’s literary darling, was suffering from some sort of mental ailment, or perhaps a case of Anthropophobia. Oh, how many days did he wish he had grown up in California, going to the beach after school instead of trudging through the snow on Long Island during those long, cold winters. And during the few summer months when he did make it to a beach on the Atlantic, it was nothing like the beaches he saw on TV or in the movies. Those California beaches, now those were beaches.

“Well, even in Paradise, a hell can exist,” said Josh

“I suppose you’re right,” the reporter countered. “But you’ve still got to explain it to me.” The reporter closed his notebook and set it on the small table along with the half-eaten oatmeal. “You’ve a captive audience; I’m all yours. My flight doesn’t leave for three hours and I’ve got no where else to go.”

Josh picked up his cup and sipped his tea, not quite cool enough to warrant a bigger drink. “Well, you’ve traveled all this way, the least I could do is tell you a story.” The humor in his voice masked a real sense of obligation Josh had been feeling since the phone call hours earlier. A sense of relief grew from deep within Josh’s stomach as the story began to unfold.

“I grew up in Carlsbad, by the beach, actually,” Josh said. “If you’ve never seen the sun as it sets into the Pacific Ocean, I don’t think you’ve truly lived. I mean, the colors….it’s as if your soul screams silently, and the words and sounds and passions fly from your eyes and are splashed on the largest canvas ever imagined. Sometimes I would sit on the top of my roof at home and watch until the very last hue of color dissolved and black overtook the memory of what I had just seen. And after I came down from the roof, I’d turn my thoughts and feelings into words.”

The reporter could almost see the sunset in Josh’s eyes as he spoke and for a moment, the room seemed to brighten ever so slightly. He thought about asking a question of Josh, but decided against it—better to let him continue.

“I can’t tell you how many sunsets I watched from that rooftop. At first my parents forbad me from the roof, threatening me with all sorts of punishments if I disobeyed, but I found ways around it, and after a few months without serious injury or death, they decided I was okay to be left alone with my setting suns.”

Josh continued. “And like marijuana, the sun was like a gateway drug; it made me crave other examples of nature’s miracles. I began looking at flowers, and palm trees, and even bumblebees. I think I actually spent more time just looking at the landscaping in my neighborhood than I did watching TV.”

Again, the reporter suppressed the urge to ask follow up questions. This would be a different kind of interview.

“Now, spending all day looking at nature isn’t the most unusual thing you’ve ever heard of, is it” The reporter nodded in agreement. “Things went relatively well until I graduated from high school. That’s when the trouble began. You see, I’m a middle child, I have one of each, siblings-wise. My older daughter is a successful lawyer working in the film industry and my younger brother is a computer programming genius—both very successful. But,” Josh said, he paused, looked up at the reporter and said. “do you know what I wanted to do? Can you guess what the one thing I wanted to do was?”

The reporter was caught off guard by the question. “Uh, I take it not to go to USC and study philosophy?”

Josh chuckled. “Nope, he said. “What I really wanted to do was get married.”

The reporter didn’t expect that.

“Married—did you say, married?” he asked.

“Yup!” Josh said confidently. “I wanted to get married, you know, settle down and share everything I loved with someone else. You know the concept of synergy, I trust?” The reporter nodded. “There’s lots of reasons to get married, but I wanted to have that sense of synergy with another person, and by using that synergistic power…well…the thought of what we could feel and experience together still sends a shiver up my spine.”

An awkward pause followed Josh’s confession. The reporter thought Josh might have more to say, but as the time ticked on, it was evident he was waiting for the reporter to speak.

“So, did you get married? Did you have a girlfriend in high school?”

“No,” Josh said. “There’s lots of reasons to get married, but there’s also a lot of reasons not to get married. Not being in love is perhaps the biggest reason not to get married.” The response elicited a slight laugh from the reporter.

“And I wasn’t in love. Not with another person, that is.” Josh stood up and walked to where a well-organized pile of firewood in the form of a pyramid sat in the room’s corner. Josh picked up the top log and placed it on the dying flames, the coolness of the object momentarily reduced the heat from the fire, but soon, the new fuel emitted warmth for the inhabitants. Josh sat and continued. “I made the mistake of telling a friend that I really didn’t care about starting college in the fall, or going to parties, or being in the stands when USC played Notre Dame in football. When I told him I just wanted to get married and look at sunsets, the look he gave me was telling.”

“Telling, how?” the reporter asked.

“You need to understand, my high school friends had few goals, and those goals were to play videogames, party on the weekends, have a girl when a girl is wanted, and get a job where those things can remain unimpeded. Marriage—for any reason—goes against the entire social structure of my culture. The look I got was ‘telling’ because he basically let me know that I was some sort of social and cultural freak. I mean, I knew it was a little different, but I guess I had no idea.”

The reporter’s mind raced. He heard what Josh was saying, but it didn’t make any sense. He had friends, not many and mostly girls, who wanted to get married after high school. Some got married—most didn’t, but no one he knew ever abandoned society and moved to the land of total darkness six months out of the year just because they didn’t get married.

Josh stopped and looked at his guest. “You’re probably thinking, why would a guy leave college and move to Alaska just because he didn’t get married? That’s a fair question. So everyone I grew up with went to college and I joined them. But a funny thing happened when I got there. It seemed no one wanted to go out anymore, and by ‘out’ I mean ‘outside.’ All anyone ever wanted to do was stay in their dorm and surf the net, or play games, or chat on Facebook. No one seemed to care about interacting with friends, strangers, any other human, and certainly not nature.” Josh’s voiced raised as emotions came into play. “It was like I was surrounded by zombies, captives of electronic prisons.”

The reporter found himself nodding in agreement. “I see,” he said.

Josh continued. “But I could handle that; I’d been putting up with that for years, honestly. But what really surprised me, and to be truthful, what caused me to quite school and move here was the reaction of people I didn’t know at all. In class or even when out to eat, it seemed everyone wanted to know if I was ‘on-line,’ if I had a MySpace page yet, or if I had a character for Warcraft. I just got tired of it and I realized I didn’t want to live in that world anymore, so I withdrew. The irony is, I withdrew to one of the most open and boundless places on earth. You can’t see it now, but Alaska is almost limitless in its ability to amaze and inspire—it’s a perfect place for a poet.”

The reporter smiled back at this young man, someone who was willing to leave family, friends, and everything he knew, to escape. “Josh, I think I understand now. Not the choice I would have picked, but very brave none the less.” He decided to ask just one more question. “Now, I’m almost done here, and I’ll thank you for your time. I have just one more question. Your poetry, do you think you’ll be sharing more of it with the rest of us, or will it forever stay locked within your memories?”

Josh sat and stared at the flickering flames, obviously facing a decision—one considered many times. “You’ve heard,” Josh said finally, “authors say their writings are like their children.” The reporter agreed. “I don’t look at it that way. To me, it’s more personal than that. I don’t throw my words out to just anyone; I keep them close to my heart, from where they were born. It’s just too private, too personal. Two days ago, I was sitting here with my animals and Kilgrow, here,” the golden Labrador lazily raised his head at the mention of his name, “Kilgrow walked over to his bed and just stood there. He didn’t lie down, he just stood there looking at the place he sleeps every night. I don’t know if he knew I was watching or not, but that wasn’t the point. Finally, Kilgrow slowly turned, walked over to that corner,” Josh pointed to a different corner in the room. “He picked up his favorite dog toy and carried it over to his bed where he dropped it right in the middle. He then circled the bed three times before he laid down right by his toy and went to sleep.”

“Now,” Josh continued. “How in the world can I possibly express that incredible scene, that wonderful act of nature, in words? And if I even could write that down, do you—someone who is thousands of miles away at the time—deserve to share what happened here between me and my dog? I don’t know….maybe. Maybe not.”

The reporter continued listening, interested and educated by this young man.

“You ask if I’ll ever release any more writings,” Josh said. “Right now, I don’t think I will, but,” a big smile crossed Josh’s face. “I’ll never say never. There are too many strange and beautiful things happening on this earth to keep me bound by the philosophy I now expound. But if I do change my mind, I’ll let you know. You’ve earned that.”

The reporter knew the interview was over. The two men exchanged pleasantries, saying things people say to each other when they know their shared time had ended. The reporter left Josh’s house and stepped into the black of noon, hoping his car would start and he could get to the airport to make his flight. As he settled himself into the driver’s seat the reporter looked around at the world of the young poet. Streetlamps and illumination from homes denied total darkness its victory outside. Before the reporter started his car to leave a thought came to his mind. “This really is a beautiful place,” he said.



Isolation and Emily Dickinson

Alfred Habegger begins the introduction of his Emily Dickinson biography My Wars Are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily Dickinson with the following quote, “Any great writer who stand aloof from customs seen as fundamental is certain to be mythologized by posterity. For no one is this truer than Emily Dickinson, whose reclusiveness, originality of mind, and unwillingness to print her work left just the sort of informational gaps that legend thrives on” (xi). On the surface, my story of Josh and his famous poem mirrors much of Dickinson’s life, but only to a point. Dickinson’s exit from society is dissimilar to the path chosen by Josh, the young poet from California. In fact, the argument can be made that Josh’s friends turned to live a Dickinson-like life and Josh Hansen did something Emily Dickinson would never do, namely leave the safety and security of home and family to begin alone an adventure in one of the planet’s last frontiers.

I chose to focus on the external forces of the young man and not the actual poem which garnered so much attention. The purpose is twofold. Since, as Habegger also includes in his biography’s introduction, quotting George Steiner when discussing a poem from Paul Celan, “At certain levels, we are not meant to understand at all, and our interpretation, indeed our reading itself, is an intrusion” (xii). If I had included a poem, it may not adequately persuade the reader of Josh’s passion when it comes to poetry. And the second reason for not including, or focusing on, Josh’s now-famous poem is that I’m not that good a poet to create such a masterpiece.

In studying the reclusive nineteenth century author, I often think of things I would ask Emily if given the chance. I decided to create a fictional Dickinsonian modern-day character, someone who went against the social morays of this culture, so much so he eventually retreats from the world around him to further his creative expressions.

Though Josh and Emily’s situations differ, much of their experience is the same. In Dickinson’s day a woman of fine social standing was expecting to marry and become a homemaker, complete with children. Much social pressure would be brought to bear to achieve this goal. Dickinson did neither. Josh is expected (by his culture) to remain unmarried, attend college and “fit in” by devolving into a world of solitary electronic contact. Both authors wish to not have their works enter the public arena. R. W. Franklin, editor of The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition included in the book’s introduction an insight into Dickinson’s works. Franklin writes, “Unlike diaries, journals, or letters, poetry is commonly considered a public genre, to be brought editorially into line with public norms of presentation, but Dickinson’s poems, never published by the poet, may be seen as a private genre—a journal of her effort, with a distribution of poems that, like letter, was a part of personal communication with the individuals” (9).

Of course, differences between the two poets are numerous, but the desire to create wonderful artistic impressions drives both individuals to make unusual life choices. Josh’s legacy may, like Dickinson, outlive his own life, or the modern, “flavor of the week” world in which we now live may bury Josh’s words under next week’s headlines. To the poets, the outcome is immaterial. They write for different reasons, for themselves.


Works Cited
Franklin, R.W., ed. The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition. Cambridge, MA: Belknap P. of Harvard UP, 1998.
Habegger, Alfred, My Wars are Laid Away in Books: The Life of Emily Dickinson. New York: Modern Library, 2002.

Poems:

My Attempt At Dickinsonian Art


1. The passion deep inside me burns—
My light—to see—a Promise
Small the seed the fire churns—
Releasing vision’s memories


2. Ethereal chartreuse beetles fly
In a world—strategically
Their amber wings kiss the sky
And come to earth again

A child comes—the coffin lies
The wooden lid ajar
Her regal mother—a husk inside
She sighs and turns away

No more shall I forget the sun
And see another day
When I am not the only one
Who grasps the potter’s clay


3. A slide of green—
White is the snow

Redwood all a blaze
From the setting sun

Rope keeps us In
The old tree—supports it all

To think a child’s memory
Will allow the Fragrance Sweet

To Hear the screams
And Feel the pains

Of adolescent glory
Forever gone

Spring brings Anew
More children flock

To the tree—of joy
They play And grow

Til dusk overtakes all
Their happiness—Insured


4. Sweet drink the charm; it’s Icy hold
Engulfs my tongue
And effervescent bubbles—scold
My brain that thirsts for more

Ritual of incarceration persists
As the hands of time swipe past
I say I surely could resist
But I don’t wish to stop

Alas my cup is lonely
Another should I fetch
Or stop and cease but only
Tomorrow I’ll decide


5. Concentric Circles of oxygen
Flitting—in the morning sun
Present a millennial Dance
With Dog and Mule—and Toad


6. To write is to live

Story:

Stars

The stars, at least the ones Talukua knew all his life, were gone. The old priest waited for the sun to set as he done thousands and thousands of times before. However, no one could have imagined the change that was to take place-not only for Talukua-but for every man woman and child on the small south Pacific island hundreds called home.

Brilliant yellows, stunning oranges, and burning reds blazed in the sky as dusk bid farewell to the day. Talukua, the highest religious figure in the village, sat in front of his humble palm-frond roofed hut and rested. This day had been a difficult one. Several islanders came to him earlier seeking advise, wisdom, and general council. He was the group’s grandfather figuratively, though never literally.

Talukua was tired, more so than usual. Many of the day’s dilemmas put extra strain of the old one’s brain. Dispensing wisdom was for a younger man, thought Talukua. He wondered if his village would allow him to stop, as his health would surely fail in the coming years. A feeling of relief began to swell in his aged heart even though he knew this could never be. Traditions surviving millennia set the rules eons before him. Talukua would retain his responsibilities until either his physical health or his mental abilities failed him. And only until he could no longer hear the voice of the Gods would this Terrestrial calling end.
At the end of each day as dusk engulfed the endless sky, Talukua sought comfort from the stars-the same comfort he afforded others. The stars never swayed, never varied their place in the heavens. And so Talukua waited for his favorite time of day.

Only tonight was different. Talukua knew immediately something was wrong. The first star to appear, the eye of Malukia, the Goddess of Life did not show at its appointed time. Talukua knew when this should be. The tide, the macaws, even the spider monkeys told the seasoned leader when the first star of the heavens released its small but beautiful light to the believers down below. But on this night, a night like all others, the space was void of the celestial illuminate.

It took but an instant for the old man’s mind to understand the implications. No good could come from a star failing to show itself in the night sky, and since it was dusk’s first star that went missing, the gravity of its meaning was more ominous than anything else that could have happened on the quiet beach.

Quickly Talukua scanned the beach. He wanted to yell out, to warn all his villagers of the impending doom that faced them all. He saw very few on the beach that night. Only a handful of people came to the ocean’s edge anymore. Talukua had seen generation upon generation of young people slowly turn from their elder’s ways to embrace the “modern” world, but this last generation appeared to be worse than them all. The young children today never listened to their parents, let alone the village leader. They were loud, the stayed up too late and night and arose too late in the morning. They spent the hottest part of the day relaxing in the shade of other’s huts, eating and laughing without embarrassment, and when the sand was not so hot, they spent time chasing each other and playing games for hours and hours. No, the youth would not be on the beach tonight. They would be lying in each other’s arms dreaming of the day they would marry and start families of their own.

Though many stayed away from the beach on this night, a handful ventured to the water. Several children, too young to be burdened with the physical responsibilities of the sea, ran and played games as their parents eyed the young and thought them the cleverest children in the village. For Talukua, the vision of playful youth and watchful parents brought feelings of joy and sadness for his own children. There was a time when Talukua ran as these children ran, and later, brooded on the beach as his own children scampered with their friends. The years separating the young father of yesterday and the old man of today were many. Familiar pains, those Talukua had unsuccessfully tried to bury, returned as they always did to the man’s heart. His wife, who was so strong and wise and loving, died in childbirth along with their third child. Talukua knew he would never again marry. He gave his heart and when his wife died, the part of him that allowed him to love another as a man loves a woman forever died with her.

His children looked to him as both father and mother from then on. Talukua tried as best he could to raise his children, but they were both taken from him in their youth, the beautiful daughter-the one who looked so much like her mother-died from a monkey bite, and the son, trying too hard to be a man, drown in the sea as he was fishing with those older than himself. The entire village mourned for the family’s survivor, so much so he became a village elder, the youngest ever to be anointed as such. The culture recognized when a member suffered more than most and felt they had knowledge and wisdom to benefit all. Talukua knew why he was chosen and vowed to turn his heartache into something positive. He honored his loved one’s memories by helping others. It was a decision made years ago, so many years ago.

The moments of reflection lasted a short time, however, a flicker of hope burned in Talukua’s chest as he awaited the arrival of the next star. Surely this star would enter the darkening skies. A single point of light would announce to the heavens that Poliuua, the God of War, had indeed come to protect the worlds of day and night. The first star would be the tip of Poliuua’s mighty spear, followed quickly by the two bright eyes of Ozlimooi, Poliuua’s huge snake, the one on constant guard throughout the night. Surely Poliuua would not fail Talukua in the time of greatest need.

It’s not known how long Talukua waited for the spear, but the spear did not come, nor did the serpent’s eyes, nor Poliuua’s head. Instead of friends, no one greeted Talukua on the warm summer evening. Frantic he scanned the skies. There must be an explanation! Something must have happened to make this night different from all others! A reason must be found!
And then he saw something low in the horizon. It was a light, a bright star flickering in the south. Talukua was not sure he saw it at first, but as the light of the sunset continue to fade, he could not look away from the piercing light. One might think seeing a star, any star would bring comfort to the old man, but the reaction was just the opposite. If Talukua was afraid before, he was terrified now, for this star on which he stared had never before appeared at this place in the sky. It was new. It was foreign. It was evil. It was wrong!

As the gravity of the situation rested upon Talukua’s mind another star, just left of the other found its way through the dark. Soon another appeared and another until slowly thousands and thousands of tiny lights blanketed the sky. To Talukua each star, each light was a lie, fornication to the Gods. The enormity of the situation caused Talukua to bury his face in his hands and cry.

It took a while for the old Polynesian to get control of his emotions. Tears brought relief to his soul. Perhaps he cried for the stars, perhaps for those in the village who used him for comfort, or perhaps it was for his wife and children. He didn’t know, nor did he care. It brought healing, much needed healing.

Darker and darker it became. Still Talukua remained in front of his home; strange stars continued their entrance. An seasonally cool breeze rolled off the sea, hitting Talukua gently in the face, caressing him, calling him home. It was only then Talukua noticed something. No one was on the beach. The families previously enjoying the summer evening had gone home. But families missing from the beach did not bother Talukua nearly as much as the lack of anyone else, either on the beach or at his home. No one came to speak to him of the terrifying sky that lay before him. Not a single person questioned the loss of the Gods, those who controlled the village and everyone in it. It was at that moment Talukua knew he was truly alone, not only on in front of his home, but alone from everyone, the village, his family, everyone.

Again Talukua gazed upward to a confusing scene of lights where lights should not be. Their hold upon the old man’s mind was broken only by the continual cascading of water against the sand several feet from where he now stood. The water, maybe that was the answer to all his questions. After all, the water had not changed, it remained the same warm salty mixture it had always been. Talukua always thought the ocean to be a cruel mistress. It had taken his son, robbed him of his posterity. No, the stars were the ones to trust. They were the sentinels, the guardians of all that was right and good.

But it was the beach now calling to the old man, beckoning him, wanting him. The beach, the mother of all life desired his return and Talukua found the draw irresistible. The old man, the last of his family, left the front of his bamboo hut and began walking slowly toward the water’s edge. He did not look again to the heavens-the same heavens that had betrayed him. He had left them forever just as they had forsaken him.

Talukua did not pause as the first wave gently touched his ankles, nor did he slow his progress when a stronger wave knocked against his arthritic knees. As the old man continued deeper and deeper into the sea’s loving arms a joy never-before known to him swelled inside his heart. It was the relief he so longed to possess, the reward for living a life full of sorrow and pain.

There was no one who saw the village elder disappear beneath the foam of the ocean waves, no one to record the last moments of a spectacular life. Talukua was gone never knowing the mystery of the stars, why none of the constellations-not only in his world but also for the entire planet-had forever changed. He would never hear the great scientists try and explain the sudden-and seemingly unrecorded-relocation of the planet Earth to a completely new solar system. Even if he did hear the endless theories and counter-theories of so many “learned” men and women, he would not have understood it. To Talukua he only knew the last friends he ever had were gone and there was nothing left for him but the sea.

Story:

Johnny Tom

The piercing noise shattered the dry cool summer air in Johnny Tom’s darkened bedroom. The 10-year old quickly sprang from his bed as if shot from a gun, he dressed as quickly and as quietly as possible so as to not wake his little brother, grabbed his prized basketball, and silently left the room. It was going to be a great day.

Most kids on summer vacation would not wake up at 5:30am to go shoot hoops. But Johnny was not your average kid. And this was not your average day. Today Johnny would hopefully meet his hero, Billy “Speed” Banks, the best prep basketball player Johnny had ever seen.

It took only a few minutes for Johnny to get ready (for he slept in his basketball clothes), creep downstairs, go outside, and close the front door behind him. No one inside heard or saw the child slink into the crisp dry desert air of Mesa, Arizona. It’s unlikely any neighbor heard him through closed windows either. It is true that even in summer the windows on most homes remained closed all night; for most people were sound asleep during the time it becomes most advantageous to open a window and enjoy a rare cool summer night. The blistering and sometimes deadly daytime temperatures fail to relent until well after almost everyone is asleep.

But on this particular morning, Johnny found the cooler air refreshing and the prospect of what could happen later that day was exciting. In fact, Johnny had been looking forward to this specific day for several weeks, ever since he heard that Speed, his neighbor’s cousin, would be coming to stay with his family for a few days.

Every kid who followed Arizona high school basketball knew about Speed Banks. Most adults followed the spectacular career of the prep star as well, and thanks to extensive coverage from local and national sports media, Speed was quickly becoming a household name among sports enthusiasts across the country. According to Speed’s cousin, Ricky Banks, letters from every major college program in the country arrived at the Banks’ household daily. The family unofficially ‘hired’ a ‘consultant’ to make sure their son’s interests were considered. And this young superstar would-in a matter of a few short hours-be playing ball on the same court where Johnny and his friends played every day.

As soon as the front door clicked shut, Johnny began dribbling his basketball as he made his way from his front yard to the court situated directly across the street from his home. The sound of the ball hitting first the cement of his walk to the pavement of the street could be heard echoing off the stucco-sided walls of the homes in Johnny cul-de-sac. A single streetlight illuminated just enough of the basketball court for Johnny to make out a shape of an old 10-speed bicycle and an outline of a child sitting cross-legged at the court’s far end. Johnny smiled realizing he would not be the first to enter the playground in anticipation of this big day. Johnny’s best friend Karl beat him to the court.

Karl Simpson lived at the other end of the planned community known as Shade Glen, a development barely four years old situated southwest of downtown Mesa. Newer homes dotted the labyrinth of roads where in Johnny and Karl’s homes rested, saplings of oak trees, still braced with wooden supports, gave precious little shade in Shade Glen, however, developers planned for beautiful mighty trees to one day line the streets and provide shade for all to enjoy.

The park facing Johnny’s house contained four full-length basketball courts, several tennis courts, eight soccer fields, and various playground equipment for those too small to enjoy the thrill of organized sports. In the three years Johnny lived at Shade Glen he never even set foot in the playground areas, keeping exclusively to the basketball courts. Playgrounds were for little kids, Johnny would say and Karl would concur. And so it would be most summer days, Johnny and Karl would practice for hours until the heat of the mid-morning sun drove them to cooler environs.

“Hey,” Johnny said to the form sitting before him. He knew Karl had clicked off the music on his IPod just as Johnny’s foot touched the first court. Karl loved music as much as Johnny loved hoops, and it was only fitting each boy excelled at what they loved most-Karl was an excellent musician. Karl would, however, shoot baskets with Johnny, but it was obvious Karl lacked the physical ability to keep up with his talented friend. Sometimes the two would have a game of one-on-one, and at those times Johnny would intentionally go easy on his friend. When he did Karl knew Johnny wasn’t really trying, but neither child would say anything about the soft treatment. They were too good of friends for that to ever happen.

When the two weren’t ‘competing’ against each other, Karl usually fetched errand basketballs on the rare occasions when Johnny missed a shot. The two spent hours, Johnny shooting and Karl retrieving under the basket, all the while they talked about school, basketball, videogames, basketball, movies, basketball, and even-but with strictly limited occurrence-girls. After that the two usually discussed basketball.

Off the court and especially on the court, the two friends made an unusual pair. Johnny was tall for his age, a gifted athlete, who was socially adept in any situation. Karl could best be described as a nerd, even the glasses fit the stereotype. Karl was uncoordinated, awkward, and socially backward to the point he had few friends. There was a time when Johnny actually had to choose between sticking up for Karl in public, or being cool in the eyes of his peers. The decision was an important one for a newly relocated seven-year old who desperately wanted friends. He once asked his dad what he should do about the situation and the advice he received from his father turned out to be exactly what a young boy who wanted to do the right thing needed.

Johnny thought about his father’s advice several times in the past three years. “Son,” he said. “You’ve been taught what is right and what is wrong. Making fun of someone who is different is never the right thing to do. Remember, right is always right and wrong is always wrong.” After that, there was never a question in Johnny’s mind as to what he should do. He stuck up for Karl every time. Sure, it probably cost him some friends, but then again, Johnny didn’t want to be friends with people who picked on Karl anyway.

It wasn’t just basketball Karl put up with in order to hang with Johnny. He also endured the talk of basketball and the watching of game after game being played on TV. And if there happened to be a Phoenix Suns game on, well, that night was blocked out on both the young men’s schedules as soon as both the pre-season and regular season schedules were announced. For these two, there was nothing better than to spend an evening sitting in Johnny’s basement, sprawled out in front of the biggest television Karl had ever seen as the Sun’s reduced another team to middle-of-the-league mediocrity. Of course-though neither boy would admit it-the really close games proved even more enjoyable just as long as Steve Nash hit a game-winning three-pointer from the top of the arch. At which time the boys (and anyone else who happened to be in the basement at the time) would jump as high as they could and scream long and loud as the men clad in purple and gold walked off the court victorious-it was how life was meant to be.

Even in the off-season, Johnny followed the Sun’s acquisitions, their prospects for the best free agent available, even checking the team’s website on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. There were few things-very few things-that could possibly steal Johnny’s attention away from his beloved Suns. One of those rare things was the news of Speed Banks arrival. Ricky said Speed would be visiting from Tucson for three days. Both he and Johnny talked at length of having Speed come by and shoot some hoops with his cousin and some friends on this very day. Johnny even had trouble thinking about the inevitable meeting, telling anyone who was not already sick of hearing, that this event would be bigger than Christmas, because Christmas comes around every year. Speed Banks’ appearance was an once-in-a-lifetime event. No doubt the teenage phenom would never set foot in this tiny park in the middle of Shade Glen again. If some predictions held true, Speed was destined for greatness by way of Duke University, then early entry to the NBA lottery. After that, the only time Johnny would ever get to see his idol again would be either on TV, or when Speed’s team would play the Suns. Yes, this was going to be a very special day, indeed.

“So, what do you think he’s like?” Johnny asked Karl as he made a three-point shot and Karl calmly passed him the ball from under the basket.

“Don’t know,” Karl said with a shrug. He had answered that same question the same way dozens of times in the past few days, and at least five times that morning. Johnny was so excited he didn’t realize the questions he asked Karl had, for all intensive purposes, become the equivalent of rambling.

“I’ll bet he’s really cool. I watched that ESPN interview of him from last March again last night. You know the one-after they won the state championship?”

Of course Karl remembered the interview. He had almost memorized every question and every answer during the entire 11 minutes interview, a feat Johnny mastered within days of its airing. Sometimes after Johnny made a spectacular move to the basket, or a tough angle shot off the glass he would repeat one of Speed’s many interview answers as if pushing the play button on the video recorder. He even copied Speed’s voice reflections to the point Johnny almost sounded just like him.

As the boys played and talked, the desert sky slowly lightened; a precursor to the sun’s inevitable arrival. The illumination heightened Johnny anticipation. When would Speed show? It could be anytime! He might even wake up before his cousin’s family and come to the court to practice those sweet moves on his own, just like Johnny did hundreds of times before. After all, you don’t get that good by sitting around all day. I’ll bet he practices every second he gets, thought Johnny.

Swoosh! Another shot. Man, thought Johnny. I can’t miss this morning, and the accuracy of his shots supported the claim. Even Karl noticed Johnny’s game had improved this morning. Maybe Johnny might even get to play with Speed. Wouldn’t that be something! Karl smiled at the possibility.

A car would now and then pass by the park. The neighbors who knew Johnny found his practicing normal. It would seem strange had he not been there. Few noticed however, the look of pure joy on the young man’s face as the ball seemed to find its target every time on this warming summer morning.

Another twenty minutes passed, and more cars drove by the park. The boys were oblivious to the commuters until a big silver Cadillac pulled up and parked in the lot west of the basketball courts. The boys heard the car stereo before the car had even come into view and knew exactly who drove the behemoth. Charlie Walker came to play. This wasn’t unusual-Charlie showed up many times while Johnny and Karl went through their summer morning ritual. This morning, however, Charlie’s car was followed by another, and then another until six older teenage boys left their cars and sidled on the court-each dribbling a brand new $100 basketball. Charlie’s ‘posse’ had arrived.

“Great,” Johnny said completely dejected. “They’re going to hog the whole court. I’ll bet Ricky invited them to play with Speed.”

The 10-year old who only moments before was making shots like a pro and hustling to find his next launch point now turned and walked over to the bench at the far end of the court. Karl had seen some of these guys before. Charlie was a friend of Ricky’s older brother and most of the kids now shooting the ball (and missing most of their shots) lived in Manor Estates, a housing project ½ mile west of Shade Glen. He and Johnny had seen them around, mostly hanging out at the 7-Eleven after school. They seemed okay-they never gave either Karl or Johnny any trouble, but they did seem to pick on any girl within earshot of them. And they seemed to be extra mean to Becky, the nice lady who worked behind the counter. She always said ‘Hello’ to Karl and Johnny whenever they walked in.

Karl looked at his friend sitting at the far end of the court watching the older boys pretend to be real basketball players. He knew his friend well enough to imagine what Johnny was thinking and Karl’s assumptions proved true.

Man, those guys are terrible, thought Johnny. When Speed shows up, they’ll just act all big and tough to impress him and I won’t get a chance to play. Johnny was hoping no one else would show up, but in re-thinking this, he realized there could be dozens, even hundreds of people showing up this morning. After all, Speed would be playing for thousands and tens of thousands of screaming fans in a matter of months. Why should this morning be any different? Karl retrieved the loose ball and awkwardly dribbled the ball over to where Johnny sat.

“Don’t worry about those clowns,” Karl said in an attempt to comfort his friend. “Speed will see how crappy they are and he’ll want to play with you.” Against his own doubts, Johnny believed what Karl had said and he actually felt better. A smile told Karl he’d said the right thing.

“You’re right, Karl. Look, they can’t even hit a lay-up.” Both boys began laughing at the older players, though not too loud to be heard. The last thing a 10-year old kid wanted to do was to be found laughing at a teenager.

Johnny jumped up, ran to the top of the key, and called for the ball. Gladly Karl hurled it in his direction. In one fluid move, Johnny caught the ball as he jumped and before he started coming down released the round globe toward the basket. The ball sailed beautifully, its arch perfect as it reached the nylon net. Swoosh, the intoxicating sound of cowhide and nylon merging in a manner is if nature had intended these two elements, one natural, one other man-made, to come together in just such a fashion.

“Sweet shot.” The words hung in the air. Johnny had heard that voice before; it came from someone he knew, but these were not the words of his trusted companion Karl. These words came from somewhere behind him. Even before Johnny turned to see the person who witnessed his shot and commented on it, an anticipation gripped the boy’s stomach and a wave of excitement and fear almost make him unable to move. He knew who has spoken those words, and when at last he did turn to see, his assumptions were confirmed. Standing behind Johnny stood Billy “Speed” Banks and his cousin Ricky. The two had walked to the park, something Johnny had not anticipated, and surprised everyone by their blind entrance.

“Uh, thanks,” was all Johnny could manage to say.

“I’m serious, that was sweet. Bet you $50 you can’t do that again.”

Johnny didn’t know what to think. Karl obediently tossed him the ball. Johnny grabbed and held it on his hip trying to figure out if this was a valid offer.

“You serious?” Johnny asked, the obvious confusion shown in his voice.

“Nah, I was just kidding.” Both Speed and Ricky laughed. “Can’t bet on the game if you want to play with the big boys. Those NC-Double-A boys are everywhere.” The two cousins kept laughing as they began walking toward the group of teenagers who also noticed a star in their midst.

Johnny watched the two as they made their way over to the older boys. Without a word Johnny threw the ball at Karl who instinctively knew what to do. As if a ‘replay’ button was pushed on a VCR, Karl threw the exact same pass to Johnny, same speed, same location. Johnny jumped exactly like he did before, caught the pass on the way up and released the ball as he reached his apex. Just like before the ball found its sweet spot and fell to the court.

The second shot was as impressive as the first and Speed once again took notice. It was something good ball players knew when they saw something almost no one else could do. Speed and Ricky again stopped to admire the kid’s talent.

“It’s a good thing I don’t bet, or I’d be out 50 bucks.” Speed changed directions, and walked away from Charlie and his boys. He made his way over to Johnny as Karl obediently passed the ball again to his friend.

“I’m Speed Banks,” he said and a hand, a huge hand came forward towards Johnny. In awe, Johnny shook his hand noticing just how big this superstar was.

“You’re Johnny, right? Ricky’s told me you were good.”

No way! If Johnny was overwhelmed at the thought of even seeing his idol in person, the fact that this ball player actually knew Johnny’s name was enough to send him into orbit.

“You’ve heard of me?” was all Johnny could say.

“Well, Ricky said you had skills, and for once, my cousin may be right. Let’s see what you got. What do you say you go one-on-one with your friend there?”

A panic hit both Johnny and Karl at the same time for the same reason. They were both afraid of embarrassing the other. It was Johnny who tried to prevent that from happening.

“No, how ‘bout I play against Ricky, he’s….”

“Come on,” said Speed. “No, you’re already playing with him.” He pointed to Karl. I mean anyone can learn to shoot, it’s defense that wins games. You,” Speed pointed to Karl. “What’s your name?” Speed spoke like a person who demanded respect.

“Karl,” he said, the lack of power in his voice made the sounds barely audible to the group.

“Yo, Karl. Come up here and try to prevent Mr. Swoosh from scoring.”

With almost painful trepidation Karl walked over to his friend. He did not want to be in this position. Should he just stand there and let Johnny drive past him? That wouldn’t make Johnny look good. If Speed wanted to see what Johnny could do, he needed some competition on the court, even if he was no match for his friend. Karl made up his mind that he was going to try his best to keep Johnny away from the basket. What ever it took.

Johnny watched Karl walk toward him. He casually bounced the ball while he waited. By now everyone from the other court had gathered around the two in anticipation of a showdown. Johnny wondered what Karl would do. He knew Karl wasn’t any good on the court. Maybe he’d just move aside and let him make a quick lay-up. He wasn’t sure. He felt bad for his friend because whatever Karl did, these guys were going to see just how bad he was at basketball. The though of embarrassing his friend made Johnny feel sick inside.

Finally Karl stopped five feet in front of his friend. Johnny looked at Karl and the two seemed to know what the other was thinking. Johnny looked down. While dribbling the ball, he looked up at Karl and began shaking his head-his movements so small as if not to attract attention of anyone watching. Karl saw Johnny say ‘no’ and nodded as if to say, ‘bring it on. I won’t embarrass you.’

Johnny could feel every eye boring into his back like hot irons in a blacksmith’s fire. He had to act. Once again Karl nodded. He was ready.

In a move Johnny had practiced thousands of times, Johnny immediately took a quick step directly at Karl closing the distance between the two. The speed at which Johnny moved surprised everyone, including Karl who had seen the move so many times and knew exactly what Johnny was going to do next. Even with this foreknowledge, Karl instinctively stepped back. Johnny stopped hard on his right foot, at the same time dribbled the ball from his right hand over to his left. As the ball made the transition, Johnny pivoted turning his back to Karl and jumping to the left, his left hand directed the basketball to bounce away from Karl as his body rotated to the right. With his back to Karl, Johnny charged to the right in order to blow by Karl on his way to the hoop.

So, he’s going to go right, Karl thought. I know how to stop him. In a speed faster than Johnny anticipated, Karl darted to his left, knowing exactly what Johnny was going to do having seen him execute that move thousands of times before. The consequence of his familiarity with this move proved costly for Karl. As Johnny swung around expecting Karl to be a step or two behind he smashed into Karl’s body, the two boy’s heads collided and Johnny’s weight advantage and momentum powered over the smaller boy. Karl wilted under the force of the blow, folding to the court, his head aching from the contact. Johnny rolled several times; eventually coming to rest yards away. The ball flew forward and Karl’s glasses bounced across the hard surface of the basketball court.

It was embarrassment Johnny first felt, a feeling soon replaced by rage as most of the spectators were laughing at the sight of the two boys. Johnny took one look at Karl holding his head with his two hands and his anger disappeared. He was worried about his friend.

The teenagers continued laughing as they walked back to their court. Johnny began moving. He wanted to pick up Karl’s eyeglasses before he made his way to where Karl sat. As he started to get up, he saw Speed walking toward him.

“Man,” Speed said. “If it weren’t for him, that would have been a nice move.” Speed looked down at Karl as he walked right by him to reach Johnny. “Here, brother,” Speed said as he offered Johnny his hand to help him up.

Johnny took his hand and accepted the help. This time Speed’s hand didn’t see so big. “Come on,” Speed said. “Why don’t you come over and we’ll get a game going with those guys?” Speed pointed to the group already on the other court. Johnny stopped, looked at the teenagers and then walked over to where the glasses lay. He picked them up and looked at Karl. The moment seemed to last a while as he saw his friend, still sitting on the court gently rubbing his head with the palm of his hand, a small tear rolled silently down his cheek. “No thanks,” Johnny said as he walked past Speed to check on his friend. “I need to check on Karl. I think he’s hurt.”

Johnny knelt and handed the glasses to Karl. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just bonked my head. You okay?” Karl took the glasses and put them on.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine-scraped my elbow a bit.” He lifted his right arm to show where the skin around his elbow was missing. It was red, but not bleeding too badly.

“Nice,” Karl said as he was helped up in a similar fashion to Speed’s gesture. “I would have thought you’d be screaming home to your mommy right about now.”

Karl’s comment told Johnny no permanent damage had occurred. Karl was always razzing his friend. It was endearing.
The two boys started walking to where the ball came to rest below the basketball standard, each giving their own version of the great crash between the two. They were oblivious to the fact that Speed stood at the place Johnny had fallen. He obviously wanted something.

“Hey, kid,” Speed’s tone was less than friendly. “I asked you if you wanted to play with me, instead of hanging around this loser.”

The two boys stopped and turned to look at Speed who stood alone waiting for a response. Johnny was shocked at what Speed just said, but he was still concerned about Karl’s head. He chose to ignore the future multi-millionaire and continued walking with Karl to a bench at courtside.

“Man, Ricky said you were cool,” Speed said as he began walking toward the group of teenagers waiting his arrival. “You’re nothing, man. See you at the Staples Center.” And Speed entered a circle of admiration on the other court. A pick up game began which quickly turned into a series highlight moments featuring Speed throwing down spectacular dunks and jams, thrilling everyone, except two friends sitting quietly on a bench.

“You sure you’re okay?” Johnny asked for the fourth time.

“I’m fine,” came the reply, Karl still rubbing his head. “You should have gone to play with him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a loser-most people do.”

“Na, he’s the loser,” Johnny said with a smile. “I mean, he’s a Laker’s fan. Come on, let’s go to my house and get patched up.”
As the two wounded players hobbled from the bench to Johnny’s house, the morning sun reached higher in the summer sky, warming the air. Johnny and Karl laughed as they walked, completely ignoring the crowd of boys still enthralled with the athletic ability of Billy “Speed” Banks. It had already been a really good day.

Story: APRIL NINTH 1928

‘Sure enough, that Jason don’t know nothing. I tell you, he don’t know what hit him,’ I says to Harry. As Harry turned toward me on the bed, shards of placid light filtered through the deep blue taffeta curtains surrounding a frosted window, a window that looked like all the other windows in the small motel just outside Mottstown, the light giving the bed the look of sand laying just under the water at the edge of a pond. When Harry spoke, his words seemed to stir the minute flecks of dust swirling above our heads, bringing life to the very air we breath, the same air we inhaled last night, or was it early this morning? I don’t rightly know when we arrived. If I had a watch on a chain I would know, but I learned years ago, time is only important to busy people. Folks too worried about time, that’s what Dilsey say anyway. She say that about Jason, she say he too tied to the clock, chained to it, she say. He be a slave to ol’ Father Time, she say. Then she laugh.

But Jason don’t laugh. He just get mad, mad at Dilsey, mad at me, mad at grandma, even mad at Big Dummy Benjy—he get mad at him most of all. Boy, I bet he be madder than at us all together when he find out what me and Harry did night before last. Has it been two days? I forget—it all be a blur to me now. I bet Jason be so mad, I bet he still mad even now, so mad I bet he crazy, crazy like Big Dummy Benjy.

Harry stretched and made wrinkles in some parts of the soft sheets and removed other wrinkles on parts closer to me. He sighed and the smell whiskey and two-day old toilet water rose to the ceiling, mixing with the already congested space overhead where smells and words spoken throughout the night, and to be honest, there weren’t many words spoken between the two of us, swirled with the infinitesimal bits of dust and the sound of nightingales as they squawked and cackled outside the morning window, a window already streaked in melting tracks of condensation. ‘Em birds just sayin hello to da new day,’ Dilsey say, but I say ‘I hates those damned birds, with all that screeching.’ This morning they don’t sound so bad.

‘Little girl,’ Harry says, ‘you done right good, yessir. The way you took that money, well, I aint seen nothing like that before in my whole life.’ I smiled so big I almost saw my own teeth reflect in those beautiful pools of white and indigo that shimmered as they looked at me in the morning light. ‘Sugar, I’ve seen a lot of scams in my day, but you,’ he looked at me again and I could almost feel the sun drop from the eastern horizon and rush right in to our little room, firing it up a thousand degrees. ‘The way you slipped out with that old man’s stash, well, it was the cat’s pajamas. I still don’t know how you did it though’ he says.

‘Do what?’ I says, even though I knew what me meant.

‘How in all that’s holy did you get that money out of the house?’ he says. ‘Didn’t you say he kept it in a strongbox? What, you got magic in those pretty little fingers?’

Now it was my turn to laugh. As I did Harry kissed me gently on my forehead and rose, the sun shown from his skin like a gleam shinning off the armor of one of King Arthur’s knights. It left a crimson hue across the beige sheets and pale walls. I noticed a thin, darkened haze under his nose and chin, growth that did not exist yesterday. I wanted him to reach for me again so I could feel his beard in its infancy. It gave his boyish face a manly quality, which conflicted with his somewhat high-pitched voice.

‘Harry, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I got lots of secrets,’ I says.

‘Like what? You tell me some of those secrets. I promise I wont tell a soul,’ he says.

‘I dare anybody to know everything I do’ I says.

Jason says something about how he’s so important in the town and all.

‘I don’t care,’ I says. ‘I’m bad and I’m going to hell. I’d rather be in hell than anywhere where you are.’ I was so mad at Jason. Who’s he to tell me what’s what? Says if I skip school again I wish I be in hell, like he going to send me there. I know I don’t know everything, but one thing I do I know, and that is I don’t want to be where Jason is. That man already living in a hell, self-made, too. Well, I showed him and when he yelling at me and causing a fuss, I didn’t even look back! Who’s in hell now you old man? Is this hell, skipping school, sharing a bed with a man who’s seen more of this big world than Uncle Jason ever hope to see in this life, a man who knows things and can do things and sure enough knows how to treat a Southern lady, better than Jason treat any woman he knows? I showed him, I skipped school that very day. I went in one door and left through the other—didn’t even slow down. Might be I would have gone to class had he not told me to go. And when I get to the street, who should I happen to see once I get there, but Harry. He pull up in his big ford motorcar, and ask me what’s the Jake. I says, it aint nothing that I couldn’t show you myself. And he says, ‘get in and sit yourself down,’ he talks like a gentleman, says I look real pretty. He be a damn sight better than Jason and his lot. It was warm inside the car. And he fired up that ford. And we shot off like a bullet out of a gun. Like I says, I dare anybody to know everything I do, dare Uncle Jason anyway.

‘Yeah Harry, I knows things. Like I knows where a girl can get a whisky, or which Negro house has the best music for dancing on a schoolnight,’ I says.

‘Hell,’ Harry says. ‘Aint many who don’t know that, even in your small town.’ He stood, a man, not like those other boys who called themselves such and thought themselves more. Then he didn’t move, as if he was waiting for me to move first, speak first. He finally grabbed for his shirt, the wrinkled dress shirt thrown haphazardly in the corner of the room hours before. It looked unkempt in the morning light. He authoritatively placed his brawnfilled arm through the arm of the shirt, the fabric adhering to his contours as if by memory. The hours and hours of driving and drinking and spending as much of Uncle Jason’s horded money to patronize any business risking possible Christian damnation and choose to assist willing customers on Easter Sunday took the shine out of his clothes, though anything would look good on Harry, even garments long due for a cleaning.

He waited and I thought he might want me to join him, but I didn’t feel like joining him. I wanted to stay in bed, stay under those soft sheets. It was still too cold and too early and besides, we had paid for the room up full for several days—thank you Uncle.

‘Sweetie,’ he says. ‘I believe you have not answered my original question to my satisfaction,’ he says and he flashes me a smile that turned me inside-out.

‘What question,’ I says trying to match his charm, charm shown to me by my prince, my hero, the man who saved me from that hell I was bound to enter if left to my own devices.
‘Not many people can crack a box like that, and there’s a future for anyone who can.’ he says. ‘Tell me honey, how did you open that strongbox?’

It must have been the drink or the hours in the car that made me think his tone changed, if only a little. Was he colder, harder, more like Uncle Jason? Or Uncle Maury, maybe, when his plans didn’t work out? To be honest, I can’t rightly remember.

‘Oh, that,’ I says. ‘That dumb-idiot, sometimes I think Big Dummy Benjy got more sense, Jason thinks he’s so smart. He thinks no one in that house has any brains, not brains like him, anyway. He thinks no one knows where he hides that cash box but him. Hell, I knew about that secret hiding place last year. And it wasn’t two months ago, I was climbing down that pear tree one night and I seen him myself, seen where he hid that box in the closet, and I seen him stowing money into that metal box like it’s a ticket box at the picture show. He thinks he’s so smart,’ I says.’

‘But how did you get the box open?’ Was it one of those five-and-dime tin boxes that cant keep out a child?’ he says.

‘Oh no,’ I says. ‘Uncle Jason order it from the Montgomery Ward catalogue, cost him a pretty penny. I know cuz he done complained about the price for three weeks until it showed up, It was top of the line.’ I says.

‘But I showed him, I was smarter than that fool. I found the key and didn’t tell no one, not even Luther. Jason thought he lost it when he dropped it outside church last year. He looked for hours in the dirt, got his trousers all dirtied up. He finally gave up, saying ruining a damn pair of nice dress pants wasn’t worth it, and after all, he said he had another key. But I was watching him and after he left I looked at a place where he never looked. I went straight to that honeysuckle bush, and I saw it, and I picked it up, and I never told anyone, not even Luther, that I found the key. And when you asked if I knew where any money was and you’d take me away if I did, I knew all I had to do was sneak into Jason’s room and get that money, so I broke his window, found the box, used Uncle Jason’s key to get the money, then the last thing I did was take that paperweight he kept on his dresser, a big cast-iron one he likes shaped like a bull he got from the bank, and smashed that lock to pieces just to show him, then I threw the paperweight out the window. Like I said he think he so smart. Dumb old man; he never knew nothing,’ I says.

Harry stopped getting dressed. In fact, he didn’t move a muscle. He was almost fully dressed now, except for his red tie, a tie that had landed almost at a place of honor on the footboard of the bed. Then he did move, quickly as if with purpose, the dust hovering in the chilled air seemed electrified by his body.

‘Listen Baby,’ he says. ‘How would you like a top-notch breakfast? I know it would sure do me good. I spotted a fine eating establishment a piece down the road when we drove up last night,’ he says.

‘Mmmm. That sounds great. I’ll get ready,’ I says and I begin to get up.

‘No, don’t move a wink. I have an idea,’ he says. ‘I’ll go get something extra fine and bring it back here. You look so good lying there all bundled warm in those sheets, so good, in fact, that I’d hate to disturb this wonderful scene that meets my unworthy eyes. I’ll be back directly.’ he says.

And before I could answer, he was halfway out the room. ‘Wait! What about your tie?’ I says. ‘Know what,’ he says. ‘You keep it, Yeah, keep it here and it can keep you company.’

And he was gone, the door closed with a finality leaving me alone, the familiar smell of man lingering, wafting into every corner and every cranny of the musty room where I remained, tucked in the motel’s finest linens. Soon after, I heard the engine of the ford roar to life, tires spinning, sending gravel hurling through space as the car motored down the road, the sound of my mythical carriage fading into the breaking dawn.

‘Sure enough, that Jason don’t know nothing, I tell you. And I’ll tell Harry again just as soon as he gets back. I’ll tell him as soon as he comes through that door. I’ll tell him again and again until we stop talking all together. I miss him already.’

List: Differences Between Myself and Walt Whitman

My ancestors are not buried in the Old Whitman and Van Velsor Cemeteries
I am not the poet of women as well as men
I do not continually notate my thoughts in a 3 ½ “ X 5 ½ “ notebook
I am not the poet of little things and of babes
I have never walked alone on the shore of Coney Island
I am not the poet of the body
I have not had a short conversation with either General Lafayette or Edgar Allen Poe
I am not the poet of the soul
I only have eight gigs of memory on my IPod Touch

Story: Walt and Sam in a Bar

 On a day like most a lone figure enters a muggy, low-lit room through a creaking oaken door, the heavy dust—once immobile—is now forced to react. Shards of sunlight quickly flood the darkened room until, just as quickly, they disappear as the door connects with the doorframe with a gentle thud. Those inside the musty room barely acknowledge a change in their collective population, for the thoughts of those within the room rest within themselves. The only one in the room to notice the newcomer is the only one in the room with a financial interest in the newcomer.

“How do?” the bartender calls from the far end of the long, hickory bar. As he walks from almost total darkness into the diffused orange haze brought on by twilight filtering through warn glass and faded curtains, the hardened man’s features are softened presenting the stranger with a man whose gruff voice conflicts with the optical gentleness of the scene before him.

“What can I get you?” By now the two gentleman have convened in the center of the bar, buyer and seller continuing the age-old game. The visitor speaks. “Whiskey,” he says; his graying orange-tinged mustache wiggles as he speaks. “Whiskey for me and for all of earth’s downtrodden who are fortunate to be in the general vicinity of these four walls. Drink up brothers, for who knows what tomorrow may bring?” An ever so subtle charge of electricity courses through the handful of gentlemen occupying sparse seats at even sparser tables.
As the bartender lines up five small crystal glasses, one for each patron in the bar, a lone voice emanates from the room’s deep shadows. “I’ve no occasion. Besides, my mother has often pray’d me not to drink, and I promised to obey her” (1117).

 
The stranger turns to the darkness. “My good man,” he says as he gathers two drinks and the bottle from which the gold elixir came, and walks slowly—but with purpose—to the room’s corner from which the sound came. “I’ll have you know,” he stops before an old table with an even older man as its only occupant. “How solemn and beautiful is the thought that the earliest pioneer of civilization, the van-leader of civilization, is never the steamboat, never the railroad, never the newspaper, never the Sabbath-school, never the missionary—but always whiskey! Such is the case. Look history over; you will see” (Twain, “Life” 446-47). Even in the dimmed light, the standing man’s gesture to request an audience with the one sitting can be seen. So can the slight tipping of the seated man’s head signifying an agreement has been made. Sitting, the new arrival continues. “The missionary comes after the whiskey—I mean he arrives after the whiskey has arrived; next comes the poor immigrant, with ax and hoe and rifle; next, the trader; next, the miscellaneous rush; next, the gambler, the desperado, the highwayman, and all their kindred in sin of both sexes; and next, the smart chap who has bought up an old grant that covers all the land; this brings the lawyer tribe; the vigilance committee brings the undertaker. All these interests bring the newspaper; the newspaper starts up politics and a railroad; all hands turn to and build a church and a jail-and behold! civilization is established forever in the land. But whiskey, you see, was the van-leader in this beneficent work. It always is” (Twain “Life” 447).

A wry smile, barely visible underneath clumps of think bushy hair crosses the lips of the room’s original customer. He is older than his new benefactor, but with a longer beard. An aged, weathered, large-brimmed brown hat sits on the table at a place of reverence to the man’s left. “Sam,” he says with affection. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Walt, my good friend. I’m here on business”, says the recognized one. And as Pudd’nhead says, “Prosperity is the best protector of principle” (Twain “Following” 23).

“Business?” questions the second. “After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, love, and so on—have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear—what remains? Nature remains” (780-81).

“Of course, I owe very much to nature,” Sam says turning the small glass of liquid in his hand. “Behold, the same gust of wind that blows a lady's dress aside, and exposes her ankle, fills your eyes so full of sand that you can't see it. Marvellous [sic] are the works of Nature!” (Widger).
“Yes,” a small chuckle forces its way through the older man’s beard. “Nature seems to sow countless seeds—makes incessant crude attempts—thankful to get now and then, even at rare and long intervals, something approximately good” (1185). “Lo! Nature, (the only complete, actual poem)” (988).

“Poetry,” grumbles Sam under his breath. “Anybody can write the first line of a poem, but is a very difficult task to make the second line rhyme with the first” (Gutenberg). To which Walt responds, “The poetic quality is not marshalled [sic] in rhyme or uniformity or abstract addresses to things nor in melancholy complaints or good precepts, but is the life of these and much else and is in the soul. The profit of rhyme is that it drops seeds of a sweeter and more luxuriant rhyme, and of uniformity that it conveys itself into its own roots in the ground out of sight. The rhyme and uniformity of perfect poems show the free growth of metrical laws and bud from them as unerringly and loosely as lilacs and roses on a bush, and take shapes as compact as the shapes of chestnuts and oranges and melons and pears, and shed the perfume impalpable to form” (11).

Sam sits, looking at a spot somewhere beyond Walt’s bearded face where men see not with their eyes, but with their hearts. He slowly nods his head and picks up the small glass.
“Walt,” the younger man says, “You speak of the soul—interesting thing, a man’s soul.” Sam drinks the glass empty in one quick motion and returns it to its previous location on the table. “One of the proofs of the immortality of the soul is that myriads have believed it—they also believed the world was flat” (Geismar).

The old friend sits, his drink untouched. “Sam,” he says, “Nature shows in her grandest physical works, and as much greater than any mere work of Nature, as the moral and political, the work of man, his mind, his soul, are, in their loftiest sense, greater than the merely physical” (999).
After a pause, Sam speaks. “Well, Walt, I suppose you are correct.” Sam checks his pocket watch and stands. “And, by my watch, I must now leave.” He pockets the watch and asks his friend if he should leave the nearly-full whiskey bottle, to which Walt dismisses him with a waved hand. “Never refuse to do a kindness unless the act would work great injury to yourself, and never refuse to take a drink—under any circumstances” (Twain “Notebook” 12)
As Sam turns to leave, Walt offers his hand. “Sam,” he says. “I easily tire, am very clumsy, cannot walk far; but my spirits” Walt winks at his friend, “are first-rate” (922-23). The two shake, a warm show of mutual respect.

The two separate. Sam returns the bottle to the bar and flips the proprietor a gold coin, more than sufficient to pay for the little alcohol actually consumed. An accompanying creak follows the opened (and then closed) door as Sam disappears into the already fading light. The original occupants sit as they did before, consumed with their inner demons. Only the tender of the bar moves to return the bottle to a safer location.

In the corner Walt remains, the drink unmoved sits aside his old hat. Inside an inner breast pocket he retrieves a small notepad and inside the opposite breast pocket he retrieves a pen. The old man begins writing and simultaneously, as if to no specific person in particular, he begins speaking to the dusty darkness.

“This moment yearning and thoughtful sitting alone,
It seems to me are other men in other lands yearning
and thoughtful,
It seems to me I can look over and behold them, in Germany,
Italy, France, Spain,
Or far away, in China, or in Russia or Japan, talking
other dialects,
And it seems to me if I could know those men, I should
become attached to them as I do to men in my old
lands,
O I know we should be brethren and lovers,
I know I should be happy with them” (280-81).

Silence answers the poet’s words; the only proof any words were spoken is found in the invisible specks of dust as they oscillate in the darkened room, their movement caused by air originating from the old man’s lungs and traveling forth until the room’s darkness engulfs the vibrations, quieting them forever. Walt carefully closes the small book and returns both the book and the pen to their respective places. With some difficulty he stands and gently picks up the battered hat. Shuffling, he makes his way to the door from which his friend recently left. As if to say goodbye to the human ghosts left behind, creaks from the door and the familiar gentle thud signal his exit into the cool air of a new night.

The story, of course, if fictional; the characters are not. Walt Whitman and Samuel Clemens remain giants in not only 19th century American literature, but also two of the most recognized and most influential writers America ever produced, each masters of their own genre.
The idea for the wordplay comes from a play. Years ago I heard of a theater production called “Copenhagen” in which the central characters, Werner Heisenberg, Niels Bohr, and Bohr’s wife, Margrethe meet in 1941. The scientists discuss their work on atomic energy in German-occupied Denmark. I thought of a possible conversation between Whitman and Clemens and things they might possibly discuss. The quotes from both writers are indeed disjointed and out of chronological order. However, I tried combining a flavor of each man’s unique writing style to present philosophies and perspectives of each man’s worldview. Each previous quote keys the one that follows as the fictional conversation between Walt Whitman and Samuel Clemens unfolds.

As I researched the various quotes, I found myself swimming in a sea of words. Clemens provides a more folksy style, more direct—words the common man might use to prove his point or express his opinion. Whitman also reaches the common man, however, I believe he purposefully explores a deeper understanding, giving the reader a chance to stop, ponder, expound, and above all, think.

Whitman’s contribution to the popular culture of the time is chronicled in David Reynolds’s book Walt Whitman: Lives and Legacies. According to Reynolds, Whitman’s poetry “was [his] way of transforming images from everyday life so that readers would discover America’s highest potential” (24).

The colorful language used by Clemens, especially in describing whiskey, adds greatly to the body of the dialogue. Reynolds identifies Whitman as an active advocate of the Washingtonian temperance movement of the early 1840s. Reynolds writes, “temperance had a formative influence on [Whitman]. He knew the damage excessive drinking could cause by witnessing his own family—probably his father and certainly his brother Andrew. Whitman himself was only a moderate drinker for most of his life” (25). Whitman’s participation in writing about the movement shows a man who feels his words have meaning and can make a difference in other’s lives.

Whitman shows us in Specimen Days the importance of the common man. In a matter of only a few paragraphs Whitman dedicates significant time and effort to identify specific individuals, both those involved in politics, the arts, as well as the workers in the streets. Whitman writes, “I saw, during those times [when frequenting Broadway], Andrew Jackson, Webster, Clay, Seward, Martin Van Buren…the Prince of Wales, Charles Dickens, the first Japanese ambassadors, and lots of other celebrities of the time” (701). Whitman continues only a few paragraphs later, “One phase of those days must by no means go unrecorded—namely, the Broadway omnibuses, with their drivers” (702), and with equaled affection, “This musical passion follow’d my theatrical one. As boy or young man I had seen, (reading them carefully the day beforehand,) quite all Shakespere’s acting dramas, play’d wonderfully well” (704). To Whitman, Broadway Jack, Balky Bill, the brothers Old Elephant (the elder) and Young Elephant (his junior) and others who drove teams of horses in the streets of New York hold a place of importance equal to the actors Junius Brutus Booth or Tom Hamblin as well as other greats of his day. Whitman knew these people, the great and the small, and could not only relate to them, but embrace their personalities, fusing their souls with his own.

As David Reynolds concludes in his book, “At [Walt Whitman’s] best, he was the democratic poet to an extent never matched, gathering images from virtually every cultural arena and transforming them through his powerful personality into art. By fully absorbing his time, he became a writer for all times” (138).

Though there is no documented proof the before-mentioned assemblage between Whitman and Clemens ever occurred. But if such a meeting between these two literary giants did take place in a darkened bar in the late 19th century—oh—to be a fly on the wall in that room that day.


Works Cited
Geismar, Maxwell. Mark Twain and the Three R’s: Race, Religion, Revolution—And Related Matters. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1973. 109.
Project Gutenberg’s Mark Twain’s Speeches, by Mark Twain. Prod. David Widger. 2006. Project Gutenberg. 19 Aug. 2006 .
Reynolds, David S. Walt Whitman: Lives and Legacies. Oxford. Oxford UP, 2005.
Twain, Mark. Following the Equator: A Journey Around the World. Vol. I, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903. 23.
---. Life on the Mississippi. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1976. 44-47.
---. Mark Twain’s Notebook. Comp. Albert Bigelow Paine. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1935. 12.
Whitman, Walt. Walt Whitman: Complete Poetry and Collected Prose. Comp. Justin Kaplan. New York: Library Classics of the U.S., 1982.
Widger, David. Dr. Widger’s Filing Cabinet Book Thirty-Nine: Mark Twain Compendium. Ellicottville, New York: Dr. Widger, 1999. 136.