turning to leave—
moment frozen in time
on the threshold
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
acorn
by Karyn Huntting Peters
he leans against the oak, his pain filling
trunk, branches, leaves. the shade
is lulling, his eyes see no shell
surrounding his world.
autumn winds blow the leaves of pain
about me, and the sun is beginning to set.
I bend to pick up a tiny acorn. shaking it
to my ear, I near a tiny man crying inside.
he leans against the oak, his pain filling
trunk, branches, leaves. the shade
is lulling, his eyes see no shell
surrounding his world.
autumn winds blow the leaves of pain
about me, and the sun is beginning to set.
I bend to pick up a tiny acorn. shaking it
to my ear, I near a tiny man crying inside.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
parchment and ink
by Karyn Huntting Peters
soft, flowing characters
of some ancient alphabet
painted with sharpened reeds
upon hand-pressed parchment
black ink of yore makes images
of peaceful streams and mountains
hanging in the gentle spring sun
slowly drying to permanence
delicate parchment is at peace
reflecting the tranquility within
never cognizant in its free expression
of inherent fragility and grace
of the pointed, cold steel blade
thrust into its woody fibers
by the hand of the very artist
who had brought its words to life
it falls now from its hanging place
waving to and fro in the breeze
comes to rest in the moist grasses
its still wet ink crying into itself
tales of joy and beauty lost
as stream and mountains run together
bleeding tears of ink and despair
beneath the artist's loving hands
soft, flowing characters
of some ancient alphabet
painted with sharpened reeds
upon hand-pressed parchment
black ink of yore makes images
of peaceful streams and mountains
hanging in the gentle spring sun
slowly drying to permanence
delicate parchment is at peace
reflecting the tranquility within
never cognizant in its free expression
of inherent fragility and grace
of the pointed, cold steel blade
thrust into its woody fibers
by the hand of the very artist
who had brought its words to life
it falls now from its hanging place
waving to and fro in the breeze
comes to rest in the moist grasses
its still wet ink crying into itself
tales of joy and beauty lost
as stream and mountains run together
bleeding tears of ink and despair
beneath the artist's loving hands
Friday, September 22, 2006
never mended
by Karyn Huntting Peters
so long a sacrifice
wore bitter in his breast
turning ashen and hard
save for the stone’s center
from which seeped slow words
onto a long hour’s parchment
emptiness never mended,
a parched thirst never sated
in a soul left divided.
now and again sleep came
or verse floated in a dream,
and the life after this
rode swift with the wind of promise
enough to keep the shadow of
day’s mirage in sight
so long a sacrifice
wore bitter in his breast
turning ashen and hard
save for the stone’s center
from which seeped slow words
onto a long hour’s parchment
emptiness never mended,
a parched thirst never sated
in a soul left divided.
now and again sleep came
or verse floated in a dream,
and the life after this
rode swift with the wind of promise
enough to keep the shadow of
day’s mirage in sight
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
mirage
by Karyn Huntting Peters
long wandering lost the desert sun
tatters of cloth 'tween the heat and thou
closer thou came in such saddened state
eyes seeing not any water there
only mirage did thine eyes reflect
no hope reflect for thy long dry mouth
long wandering lost the desert sun
tatters of cloth 'tween the heat and thou
closer thou came in such saddened state
eyes seeing not any water there
only mirage did thine eyes reflect
no hope reflect for thy long dry mouth
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Morningsong
by Nathan Hays
I come again to the sylvan glade that
Latent sense awakens
From aerie perch and rooted self
Unfolds my fiat
Effortless gestures enrich my vision
Commanding life
I draw returning breezes to refresh and fulfill
Misting my face
I leap into buoyant aerosols to glide
Among the dryads
Fairy moths and parasols fervently coruscate
About my arms
I descend to a cool shade along a stream
To lay upon the moss where
Whispering gurgles and pixie dances
Lull me to sleep.
A tiny hand upon my cheek stirs me,
My child is watching over.
I come again to the sylvan glade that
Latent sense awakens
From aerie perch and rooted self
Unfolds my fiat
Effortless gestures enrich my vision
Commanding life
I draw returning breezes to refresh and fulfill
Misting my face
I leap into buoyant aerosols to glide
Among the dryads
Fairy moths and parasols fervently coruscate
About my arms
I descend to a cool shade along a stream
To lay upon the moss where
Whispering gurgles and pixie dances
Lull me to sleep.
A tiny hand upon my cheek stirs me,
My child is watching over.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
letters i'd written
by Karyn Huntting Peters
For many years, just about everything I wrote took the form of a letter. It was always a "letter I'd written never meaning to send," to quote the Moody Blues. Oh, I'd fool myself and tell myself I was going to send it each time, but I almost never did.
My whole life I should have been more careful with words, I fear. But I scattered them about like I did the bags of grass seed I bought when my house was built, thinking that a lush, green lawn would sprout effortlessly. Wrong on both counts.
For many years, just about everything I wrote took the form of a letter. It was always a "letter I'd written never meaning to send," to quote the Moody Blues. Oh, I'd fool myself and tell myself I was going to send it each time, but I almost never did.
My whole life I should have been more careful with words, I fear. But I scattered them about like I did the bags of grass seed I bought when my house was built, thinking that a lush, green lawn would sprout effortlessly. Wrong on both counts.
trip to paris
by Karyn Huntting Peters
I want to go and just hang out.
Shop, drink coffee on
the street that Van Gogh painted,
in that same sidewalk cafe.
Hit the back alleys and find used Parisian treasure.
I’m going to smell the city, you know.
The age of it, the people, the coffee.
Drink cognac by candlelight.
Feel the invisible mystery that hides
somewhere near this cobblestone street
I keep seeing in my dream
(the one that haunts me).
I can't tell you the address,
but I'll know it when I see it.
And I can see it with my eyes closed.
I'd like to dress in all black
and wear Jackie O glasses,
very dark and deep.
I’ll walk through time in my
Chanel spectator pumps
along the Siene, and watch as the dust
of the ancient city forms far-off fortunes
on my pristine new shoes.
I want to go and just hang out.
Shop, drink coffee on
the street that Van Gogh painted,
in that same sidewalk cafe.
Hit the back alleys and find used Parisian treasure.
I’m going to smell the city, you know.
The age of it, the people, the coffee.
Drink cognac by candlelight.
Feel the invisible mystery that hides
somewhere near this cobblestone street
I keep seeing in my dream
(the one that haunts me).
I can't tell you the address,
but I'll know it when I see it.
And I can see it with my eyes closed.
I'd like to dress in all black
and wear Jackie O glasses,
very dark and deep.
I’ll walk through time in my
Chanel spectator pumps
along the Siene, and watch as the dust
of the ancient city forms far-off fortunes
on my pristine new shoes.
pendulum
by Karyn Huntting Peters
origins unknown, reaching ever-upward, yearning
for its birthplace, home of fire, ball of fire and light
and eternal day in the sky, place where perpetual
yet imperceptible movement first began
string long and deep, twisted helix of metal
shining silver in dusky pink skylight,
proceeding quietly eastward, led by solemnest
weight it carries, the burden of all time
end perfect wholeness and roundness,
mirror, conductive fire and ice of metal once living
deep in earth’s heart, reflecting every thing in
all directions, baring illusions without robes
origins unknown, reaching ever-upward, yearning
for its birthplace, home of fire, ball of fire and light
and eternal day in the sky, place where perpetual
yet imperceptible movement first began
string long and deep, twisted helix of metal
shining silver in dusky pink skylight,
proceeding quietly eastward, led by solemnest
weight it carries, the burden of all time
end perfect wholeness and roundness,
mirror, conductive fire and ice of metal once living
deep in earth’s heart, reflecting every thing in
all directions, baring illusions without robes
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
the potter
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Creating form from thought,
hands of the potter caress
wet clay,
seeing yet creation as it
was in the mind,
wet and soft against
his knowing fingers.
She takes a form.
In silence, they touch.
Hands penetrate clay's center and
she grows hollow
Possibility of new heights comes
with the thinning of her walls.
Gentle still,
he caresses,
hands now covered in her.
He has given a part of his
own soul
to bring form to life.
Come into being now,
she caresses his heart.
Sweet wine of him
into the chalice,
they drink,
ghost of their lips existing in
the same space.
Form and thought blur,
potter and clay
both chalice and wine.
And in this world
they exist.
Creating form from thought,
hands of the potter caress
wet clay,
seeing yet creation as it
was in the mind,
wet and soft against
his knowing fingers.
She takes a form.
In silence, they touch.
Hands penetrate clay's center and
she grows hollow
Possibility of new heights comes
with the thinning of her walls.
Gentle still,
he caresses,
hands now covered in her.
He has given a part of his
own soul
to bring form to life.
Come into being now,
she caresses his heart.
Sweet wine of him
into the chalice,
they drink,
ghost of their lips existing in
the same space.
Form and thought blur,
potter and clay
both chalice and wine.
And in this world
they exist.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
of the same sea
by Karyn Huntting Peters
waves of the same sea,
of the same salt water,
from the same sand and clouds,
cried the same tears.
waves out of time,
crossing in the night over and over again,
shores haunted by moist sand and foam,
strewn with seaweed left behind
and solitary starfish left for dead
on the slippery tidepool rocks
waves of the same sea,
of the same salt water,
from the same sand and clouds,
cried the same tears.
waves out of time,
crossing in the night over and over again,
shores haunted by moist sand and foam,
strewn with seaweed left behind
and solitary starfish left for dead
on the slippery tidepool rocks
Thursday, September 07, 2006
VCR Cars
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Alrighty then. So, I'm just back from five days in Scottsdale. I turned in my mini-van at the Portland International Airport and boarded a plane headed for hell. Oh no, wait. Hell is only 109. Scottsdale was 110.
So, I get to the rental place in Phoenix and guess what I get there? A freaking Daewoo. Daewoo, you ask? Daewoo?
Yeah. That's what I said.
Daewoo?
Yeah, Daewoo, says the guy.
What, like you want me to drive a cheap-ass VCR around Scottsdale?
No, says the guy. They make cars.
You're kidding.
No, really. They make cars.
You mean cheap-ass cars.
Well, yeah. Cheap-ass cars.
And you rent them.
Well, yeah.
And I get to drive one.
Well, yeah.
You guys have roadside assistance with this rental?
Umm, nope.
Nevermind. Probably cheaper just to buy another one than fix one anyway.
So, the midlife crisis continues. From minivan to VCR-car.
Woohoo!
More to come. I have to unpack. And you know what, Mel? When I saw that Daewoo thing, I actually almost said, "Woohoo, I was hoping for a minivan!"
Just shoot me now.
Alrighty then. So, I'm just back from five days in Scottsdale. I turned in my mini-van at the Portland International Airport and boarded a plane headed for hell. Oh no, wait. Hell is only 109. Scottsdale was 110.
So, I get to the rental place in Phoenix and guess what I get there? A freaking Daewoo. Daewoo, you ask? Daewoo?
Yeah. That's what I said.
Daewoo?
Yeah, Daewoo, says the guy.
What, like you want me to drive a cheap-ass VCR around Scottsdale?
No, says the guy. They make cars.
You're kidding.
No, really. They make cars.
You mean cheap-ass cars.
Well, yeah. Cheap-ass cars.
And you rent them.
Well, yeah.
And I get to drive one.
Well, yeah.
You guys have roadside assistance with this rental?
Umm, nope.
Nevermind. Probably cheaper just to buy another one than fix one anyway.
So, the midlife crisis continues. From minivan to VCR-car.
Woohoo!
More to come. I have to unpack. And you know what, Mel? When I saw that Daewoo thing, I actually almost said, "Woohoo, I was hoping for a minivan!"
Just shoot me now.
Intelligent Seductions I: Cat's Game
by Nathan Hays
On into the night the cat's game runs with neither gaining the other. Aroused and hackled they circle the room, their eyes locked in fervent tension. Ten hours since an innocent brush of their hands had uncorked the cask of desire, the mounting dance has spiraled. Over are the coy glances and testing smiles. The requisite enjoinder has held sway for a time, but vacuous and fallow it does not sate the growing hunger. Now, hearts racing in pheromonal exertion, their circle tightens. Shackled in the agony of brittle restraint, he steals a darting glance to her poised form. In perfect rhythm, she falls ever so slightly closer, held only by a precarious virtue. Though crouched apart, they draw each other's heat while adrenaline demons chip and hack at their bonds. Desperate for fate to throw them together and relieve them of cause, they remain at bay. Suddenly, by intent or caprice, the light above them fails. In the darkness there is movement and by ironic chance, their hands brush again. The end game has begun…
On into the night the cat's game runs with neither gaining the other. Aroused and hackled they circle the room, their eyes locked in fervent tension. Ten hours since an innocent brush of their hands had uncorked the cask of desire, the mounting dance has spiraled. Over are the coy glances and testing smiles. The requisite enjoinder has held sway for a time, but vacuous and fallow it does not sate the growing hunger. Now, hearts racing in pheromonal exertion, their circle tightens. Shackled in the agony of brittle restraint, he steals a darting glance to her poised form. In perfect rhythm, she falls ever so slightly closer, held only by a precarious virtue. Though crouched apart, they draw each other's heat while adrenaline demons chip and hack at their bonds. Desperate for fate to throw them together and relieve them of cause, they remain at bay. Suddenly, by intent or caprice, the light above them fails. In the darkness there is movement and by ironic chance, their hands brush again. The end game has begun…
Scenes From an Office
by Karyn Huntting Peters
(actual words heard from my cube the morning of Wednesday, 10 Jun 02)
don't want to irritate your butt, you know.
good. shows a little intestinal fortitude.
you stumble over it and can't find it. i know where it's at now.
but on the flip side of the coin, if they want their money...
why do you always have that look on your face?
what? what? is there some problem?
we're looking at, uh... that's where you come in.
that tells me that portland district is giving everyone the runaround.
they want to know where you got that number.
do you think this gum would stick in your hair if i threw it at you?
i'm not sure what all this money is for.
it's just one of those things.
we're spending a bunch on that ani-terrorism thing.
ruben, all we hear is your keyboard this morning.
if there's ever a time when there aren't actually any envelopes, they're not even required.
want go on a break, mike?
i'm going to go get some water now.
call me sherri. it's really cheryl.
how long ago did you give me that?
i think jerry used to keep a fully-stocked bar in his credenza.
what is the emergency evacuation plan i keep hearing about?
you're sending a government order to where?
i hear you can get this from paper to an electronic file. is that true?
this is not my fax. this is her fax.
didn't you work on that seismic engineering thing?
and here i thought you were so erudite and worldly.
my focus here is to kind of give you an overview on one of our performance indicators.
is there any coffee left in the coffee pot?
i just don't want to have to go to larry for it.
so i just said that this is the start of a new program that's got to last for seven years.
why do you keep walking back and forth like that?
i have a bunch of custom orders i need you to financially approve.
it's so quiet without carol here.
so it would be a hydropower thing, obviously.
walter's girlfriend went back to germany--that's why he's not yawning so much.
i put a copy of that permanent order on your chair.
so that's your justification?
yeah, it was me. you got a problem with that?
i am so totally not motivated.
mine hasn't done anything in two months.
(actual words heard from my cube the morning of Wednesday, 10 Jun 02)
don't want to irritate your butt, you know.
good. shows a little intestinal fortitude.
you stumble over it and can't find it. i know where it's at now.
but on the flip side of the coin, if they want their money...
why do you always have that look on your face?
what? what? is there some problem?
we're looking at, uh... that's where you come in.
that tells me that portland district is giving everyone the runaround.
they want to know where you got that number.
do you think this gum would stick in your hair if i threw it at you?
i'm not sure what all this money is for.
it's just one of those things.
we're spending a bunch on that ani-terrorism thing.
ruben, all we hear is your keyboard this morning.
if there's ever a time when there aren't actually any envelopes, they're not even required.
want go on a break, mike?
i'm going to go get some water now.
call me sherri. it's really cheryl.
how long ago did you give me that?
i think jerry used to keep a fully-stocked bar in his credenza.
what is the emergency evacuation plan i keep hearing about?
you're sending a government order to where?
i hear you can get this from paper to an electronic file. is that true?
this is not my fax. this is her fax.
didn't you work on that seismic engineering thing?
and here i thought you were so erudite and worldly.
my focus here is to kind of give you an overview on one of our performance indicators.
is there any coffee left in the coffee pot?
i just don't want to have to go to larry for it.
so i just said that this is the start of a new program that's got to last for seven years.
why do you keep walking back and forth like that?
i have a bunch of custom orders i need you to financially approve.
it's so quiet without carol here.
so it would be a hydropower thing, obviously.
walter's girlfriend went back to germany--that's why he's not yawning so much.
i put a copy of that permanent order on your chair.
so that's your justification?
yeah, it was me. you got a problem with that?
i am so totally not motivated.
mine hasn't done anything in two months.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Intelligent Seductions II: The Garden of Distractions
by Nathan Hays
graphics by Karyn Huntting Peters
Hello again.
I look upon you this morning and recognize a change. Ahh, sweet garden whose fruits about us hang within such easy grasp! Everywhere, sturdy trees have filled these promises of nourishment and lowered them in gracious offering. Your hands feel the smooth skins of the colored orbs and sense the ebullience within. The hardy trunks are thick and vibrant to your touch. The moss upon the roots undulates on slow moving waves and all the blades lean towards you as you reach down. Up grow tiny mushrooms and stems with unfolding flowers to meet your fingertips in proud display for your attention. Warm mists descend from above while the smell of moist clay fills your nostrils. You rest beneath the boughs and contemplate the tempting fruit.
How simple yesterday seems from within this glade of marvels. How sure was the world just moments before you entered. Perhaps you could have dashed through as a bemused tourist, but you dared to dally and explore, attracted by sweet scents carried on gossamer currents. Your path is yet beneath your feet but its urgent pace has abated. You cannot close your eyes to the gifts around you for then you see them even more clearly. Your lip is bit and mournful is your innocence. Your fear demands a smaller place, but you have been caged too long.
How curious a world that refuses certainty, a loving torture that binds your feet and lets fly your mind. How radiant your desire and expansive the universe you would wander. How pleasant that each moment comes before the next. How softly now the whispers from the glade caress your unfolding beauty. How sure is your sense that you are alive.
graphics by Karyn Huntting Peters
Hello again.
I look upon you this morning and recognize a change. Ahh, sweet garden whose fruits about us hang within such easy grasp! Everywhere, sturdy trees have filled these promises of nourishment and lowered them in gracious offering. Your hands feel the smooth skins of the colored orbs and sense the ebullience within. The hardy trunks are thick and vibrant to your touch. The moss upon the roots undulates on slow moving waves and all the blades lean towards you as you reach down. Up grow tiny mushrooms and stems with unfolding flowers to meet your fingertips in proud display for your attention. Warm mists descend from above while the smell of moist clay fills your nostrils. You rest beneath the boughs and contemplate the tempting fruit.
How simple yesterday seems from within this glade of marvels. How sure was the world just moments before you entered. Perhaps you could have dashed through as a bemused tourist, but you dared to dally and explore, attracted by sweet scents carried on gossamer currents. Your path is yet beneath your feet but its urgent pace has abated. You cannot close your eyes to the gifts around you for then you see them even more clearly. Your lip is bit and mournful is your innocence. Your fear demands a smaller place, but you have been caged too long.
How curious a world that refuses certainty, a loving torture that binds your feet and lets fly your mind. How radiant your desire and expansive the universe you would wander. How pleasant that each moment comes before the next. How softly now the whispers from the glade caress your unfolding beauty. How sure is your sense that you are alive.
Intelligent Seductions III: Fire Dance
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Both searching and found, strong and weak, quietly demanding and silently pleading. It is you. It is both of us. I see the pools in your eyes. The fire burns in your soul. The pain lives in your heart. The depths, both yours and mine. The endless caves, further and further into the earth until the true sea shines crystalline in a light from some unknown star. It is not the sun as you know it. The sun pales beside it. It will burn you to your very core if you fear its coals beneath your feet.
It is here that this melted and flowing gift of the volcano finds its place deep within the waters that surrender to it. It is here that the stuff of a new world unseen by the dreamers is forged. It is here. This journey has lain dormant within your soul since its birth. You must have come to this by years of searching, by the quest for the grail. You must have found chalices of gold and jewels only to see them shattered and melted before reaching the deepest fire within. You must have stood in awe of your own ignorance to think you were looking for such treasures from a poor carpenter.
A warm breeze is blowing about you now. It caresses your thoughts as only one other would. It is not unlike the wind, warm and soft around your nakedness, that will enfold you when you dive from that cliff in search of the lost pearls that live beneath the earth. Close your eyes and breathe in the poignant density, the sensation of this other world. Feel the heady air enter your lungs. Inhale the scent as even now your presence alters it.
Release your thoughts. Feel the ancestral beckoning as the far-off music begins to echo in your mind. Feel yourself irresistibly drawn into a slow sway as you throw back your head, close your eyes, and in one breath release the façade. Let it burn away. It has lain so deep within for so very long. See the images before your closed eyes grow vivid and come alive as the boundaries between dreams and reality shimmer and fade into nothingness. You are falling, falling into caves where burning torches set ancient secrets aglow, where all becomes part of that which has existed since the beginning of time.
The dance has begun...
Both searching and found, strong and weak, quietly demanding and silently pleading. It is you. It is both of us. I see the pools in your eyes. The fire burns in your soul. The pain lives in your heart. The depths, both yours and mine. The endless caves, further and further into the earth until the true sea shines crystalline in a light from some unknown star. It is not the sun as you know it. The sun pales beside it. It will burn you to your very core if you fear its coals beneath your feet.
It is here that this melted and flowing gift of the volcano finds its place deep within the waters that surrender to it. It is here that the stuff of a new world unseen by the dreamers is forged. It is here. This journey has lain dormant within your soul since its birth. You must have come to this by years of searching, by the quest for the grail. You must have found chalices of gold and jewels only to see them shattered and melted before reaching the deepest fire within. You must have stood in awe of your own ignorance to think you were looking for such treasures from a poor carpenter.
A warm breeze is blowing about you now. It caresses your thoughts as only one other would. It is not unlike the wind, warm and soft around your nakedness, that will enfold you when you dive from that cliff in search of the lost pearls that live beneath the earth. Close your eyes and breathe in the poignant density, the sensation of this other world. Feel the heady air enter your lungs. Inhale the scent as even now your presence alters it.
Release your thoughts. Feel the ancestral beckoning as the far-off music begins to echo in your mind. Feel yourself irresistibly drawn into a slow sway as you throw back your head, close your eyes, and in one breath release the façade. Let it burn away. It has lain so deep within for so very long. See the images before your closed eyes grow vivid and come alive as the boundaries between dreams and reality shimmer and fade into nothingness. You are falling, falling into caves where burning torches set ancient secrets aglow, where all becomes part of that which has existed since the beginning of time.
The dance has begun...
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
mr. peabody clones
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Now.
Listen up, kids.
I wanna see a life story full of Mr. Peabody clones and comic book guys.
And I wanna see it now.
Stand up and be counted
all you
smart
clever
shy
know-it-all
friendless
trekkie
die-alone
loser
geeks
and show your posterity
right here...
Now.
Listen up, kids.
I wanna see a life story full of Mr. Peabody clones and comic book guys.
And I wanna see it now.
Stand up and be counted
all you
smart
clever
shy
know-it-all
friendless
trekkie
die-alone
loser
geeks
and show your posterity
right here...
Midlife Crisis
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Oh, and the car.
Well, unfortunately, it had a major midlife crisis. Or shall we just say it bit the big one. See, Friday night on the way home from work...
No, wait.
I work in Portland. Downtown. I live in Vancouver. Another state. There are two bridges between Oregon and Washington in the Portland area that cross the Columbia River: the I-5 Bridge (old) and the Glenn Jackson Bridge (new). Now, if you live here and you had to pick the one place in the entire city where you would least want your car to up and crap out on you, it would be
on the middle of the I-5 bridge
See, the lanes are very, very narrow. No shoulders. No hedge room at all. No room to breathe. The bridge shakes with each passing car. It's a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You're enclosed in a green steel cage that was recently rehabbed because it was known that an earthquake would leave it a mangled, twisted heap of greensculpturewithcars.
So to make a long "my worst nightmare come true" very short, my car up and died on the I-5 bridge. Right there. Yep. Just died.
Forty fricken' minutes for a tow truck to get there. Meanwhile, cars and semi trucks screeched to a halt behind my tiny red Mustang (its hazards blinking madly, of course), one after the other nearly slamming into me and sending me flying into the Columbia River. They'd then sit there, flashing their brights, honking wildly and flipping me off. Like, what? Did they think this was Candid Camera or something? Did they think I was doing this just to see what their reaction would be, that I was planning to start my engine any moment and continue on my merry way?
Some people's kids. I swear.
A tow truck, a cop car, a $95 tow, and a few escapades later, it's the next day. My car's in the shop. It's now Saturday. I'm at the rental car place, trying to get the dang car before I'm late for my hair appointment at the trendy place in Portland with the purple sparkly walls and effeminate male hairdressers with orange dredlocks. They serve Starbucks coffee in big purple mugs, so you can drink while they're messing with your head.
The girl at the counter had said on the phone that they were out of compacts. Meaning, of course, that I was not going to get off cheap. So I said fine. I'll shell out a ridiculous $37.99 + hidden fees daily for a midsize. I get there and the phone rings. She says yernotgonnabelievethisbut...
but what?
The midsize (my midsize, that is) was in a wreck or got somehow mangled and is unrentable. So, she says, you get a free upgrade.
I don't like the sound of that. I don't hear the word luxury in that sentence, so it is not good.
"How would you like a minivan for the price of a midsize?"
"A what?"
"No extra charge!"
"Holy shit. I don't want a minivan. I don't do minivans."
"Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got."
I can see a midlife crisis being forced upon me.
So, I'm driving this Sherman Tank around town. And it looks like it'll be for longer than I would have wanted. The car is dead. But, like the bionic man, it can be rebuilt.
They can fix it.
They have the technology.
And for the low, low price of only $4,300 to $4,800 they can give it a new long block!
Okay.
So it's not new.
It's a remanufactured long block.
Wow.
What a bargain!
Vroom, vroom...
Just shoot me now.
Life at 40 is off to a roaring start! ;-)
Oh, and the car.
Well, unfortunately, it had a major midlife crisis. Or shall we just say it bit the big one. See, Friday night on the way home from work...
No, wait.
I work in Portland. Downtown. I live in Vancouver. Another state. There are two bridges between Oregon and Washington in the Portland area that cross the Columbia River: the I-5 Bridge (old) and the Glenn Jackson Bridge (new). Now, if you live here and you had to pick the one place in the entire city where you would least want your car to up and crap out on you, it would be
on the middle of the I-5 bridge
See, the lanes are very, very narrow. No shoulders. No hedge room at all. No room to breathe. The bridge shakes with each passing car. It's a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You're enclosed in a green steel cage that was recently rehabbed because it was known that an earthquake would leave it a mangled, twisted heap of greensculpturewithcars.
So to make a long "my worst nightmare come true" very short, my car up and died on the I-5 bridge. Right there. Yep. Just died.
Forty fricken' minutes for a tow truck to get there. Meanwhile, cars and semi trucks screeched to a halt behind my tiny red Mustang (its hazards blinking madly, of course), one after the other nearly slamming into me and sending me flying into the Columbia River. They'd then sit there, flashing their brights, honking wildly and flipping me off. Like, what? Did they think this was Candid Camera or something? Did they think I was doing this just to see what their reaction would be, that I was planning to start my engine any moment and continue on my merry way?
Some people's kids. I swear.
A tow truck, a cop car, a $95 tow, and a few escapades later, it's the next day. My car's in the shop. It's now Saturday. I'm at the rental car place, trying to get the dang car before I'm late for my hair appointment at the trendy place in Portland with the purple sparkly walls and effeminate male hairdressers with orange dredlocks. They serve Starbucks coffee in big purple mugs, so you can drink while they're messing with your head.
The girl at the counter had said on the phone that they were out of compacts. Meaning, of course, that I was not going to get off cheap. So I said fine. I'll shell out a ridiculous $37.99 + hidden fees daily for a midsize. I get there and the phone rings. She says yernotgonnabelievethisbut...
but what?
The midsize (my midsize, that is) was in a wreck or got somehow mangled and is unrentable. So, she says, you get a free upgrade.
I don't like the sound of that. I don't hear the word luxury in that sentence, so it is not good.
"How would you like a minivan for the price of a midsize?"
"A what?"
"No extra charge!"
"Holy shit. I don't want a minivan. I don't do minivans."
"Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got."
I can see a midlife crisis being forced upon me.
So, I'm driving this Sherman Tank around town. And it looks like it'll be for longer than I would have wanted. The car is dead. But, like the bionic man, it can be rebuilt.
They can fix it.
They have the technology.
And for the low, low price of only $4,300 to $4,800 they can give it a new long block!
Okay.
So it's not new.
It's a remanufactured long block.
Wow.
What a bargain!
Vroom, vroom...
Just shoot me now.
Life at 40 is off to a roaring start! ;-)
Brake Job
by Karyn Huntting Peters
This is not working quite like I planned it.
So, I take my car into Firestone yesterday--with a coupon, mind you--for a $190 front and rear brake job. That's front and rear brakes. Brake job and pads. Semi-metallic. First off, the guy tells me that, no, this Mustang has to have ceramic pads. Has to. No two ways about it. Can't use semi-metallic. Can't. Must have ceramic at about $60 more a set.
Obviously this guy does not know me.
Furthermore, this guy does not know that Brian picked me up at the airport Saturday night and we went to Vancouver Ford to get said Mustang out of jail to the tune of over four thousand dollars for one remanufactured long block.
The guy at Firestone--correction--the guys at Firestone now know me. I kindly informed them (okay, at first I was kind until they pulled the "you're a girl and a customer and you don't know shit about cars" crap) that my 1996 3.8L Mustang does not require ceramic pads, thenkyouverymuch. Funny how these mechanics don't know that, you know? I then inform them that ceramic pads were original equipment and that the manufacturer recommends them--but does not require them as replacements for the OE pads--because they generate less brake dust and result in a bit less noise than the semi-metallic (or organic, though I'm not even going there) pads, but I can have whatever pads I damned well please. End of story.
I mean really, now. Unless I'm going to hook up a hose from a securely-fastened face mask to the brake assembly while I drive or, as a cheaper but somewhat more daring alternative, hang my head out the window and snort brake dust while I drive with my feet and watch the road with my third eye, I really don't think I have a lot to worry about.
So the guy shuts up and agrees to the semi-metallic pads. But not after first trying to tell me that the rear pads for the Mustang have to be special ordered and that the semi-metallic Raybestos pads cost $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads" (that, of course, being their cost, which they would not charge me more than. He says he found this out when he actually searched for the part number in the computer and found that they were not a regularly-stocked item and had to be special ordered.
Funny, I say. I wonder where you get your parts.
Why? He asks.
Because they're ripping you off.
Oh? And he gives me this nice try little girl smirk.
I'll tell you why. Because I can go out and get a pair of Raybestos ceramic pads for less than sixty bucks, and that's not the cheap ceramics, either. And they're a stocked part within a mile of here. It'd take about ten minutes to have them in hand for about $30 bucks, and that's retail, sweetie. Now, if you want to talk semi-metallic--and we're still talking Raybestos, mind you, because I do not want you to put some generic K-Mart crap on the drive axle brakes of my Mustang you understand, the price is going to drop to about $17 bucks or so. Not $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads." So, I don't know where you're getting your information, but I have a real hard time believing you could possibly be paying anywhere near what you just quoted me.
Well, I'd like to know where you shop then.
Try partsamerica.com for starters. You order online and it'll be ready for you to pick up at Shuck's. And Shuck's has the Raybestos pads I mentioned in stock right now. That is if you know how to order online.
Well, you could do that and put them on yourself, but then you wouldn't have the lifetime warranty.
Oh? Who said I wanted to put them on myself? Isn't that what I'm paying you for? And most pads, even Raybestos, don't have a lifetime warranty. And if it is, it's limited. And if you read the fine print, it's generally limited to manufacturers' defects and does not apply to normal wear. The warranty I'm interested in is the warranty on labor right here. I'm willing to pay you people to do the work. I just want to make sure you're competent and that you know what you're doing and don't screw up. Human error is the most common cause of premature brake wear, and the Raybestos warranty doesn't cover that, does it?
We'll see if we can get the semi-metallic brake pads at a lower cost.
Good. Thanks. If you can't get a cost as low as I quoted to you, call me and I'll help you. If my car weren't here getting its brakes done, I'd bring you the pads myself.
Anything else?
Yeah. The rotors should be machinable, but if there is any problem with them and any of the rotors can't be turned, call me to discuss it. If you don't have rotors for the 3.8L Mustang in stock and have to have them brought in, they start at just under $30 for the K-Mart models. Just so you have an idea.
and later:
Looks like you're going to need new calipers in the back.
Looks like I what?
New calipers. The old ones were spread so far, I don't think I can get them to fit on the new rotors. It's going to be another $317 for new calipers.
No it's not, because you're not putting them on.
But we may have to.
Not if I don't authorize it.
We could put it all together and then find that the old calipers just don't work right. If that's the case, we'd just have to take the old ones off and replace them.
Then put it back together. I'm already late for an appointment in Vancouver.
But--
Listen. My car was supposed to be done at 2:30. Now you say it'll be 3:30. My appointment was at 3:15. I want my car back. And I will not have new calipers on it. You tell me how long it'll take to finish getting the old calipers adjusted with the new pads and rear rotors and get everything ready to go, and I'll be there to pick it up. I assume you've already been working on it?
Well yes, but--
I can be there in ten minutes.
How about fifteen?
Fine. I'm picking my car up in fifteen minutes. Brake job, semi-metallic pads, new rear rotors and front rotors turned. Right?
Okay, right. We'll see you in fifteen minutes.
Yes, you will.
This is not working quite like I planned it.
So, I take my car into Firestone yesterday--with a coupon, mind you--for a $190 front and rear brake job. That's front and rear brakes. Brake job and pads. Semi-metallic. First off, the guy tells me that, no, this Mustang has to have ceramic pads. Has to. No two ways about it. Can't use semi-metallic. Can't. Must have ceramic at about $60 more a set.
Obviously this guy does not know me.
Furthermore, this guy does not know that Brian picked me up at the airport Saturday night and we went to Vancouver Ford to get said Mustang out of jail to the tune of over four thousand dollars for one remanufactured long block.
The guy at Firestone--correction--the guys at Firestone now know me. I kindly informed them (okay, at first I was kind until they pulled the "you're a girl and a customer and you don't know shit about cars" crap) that my 1996 3.8L Mustang does not require ceramic pads, thenkyouverymuch. Funny how these mechanics don't know that, you know? I then inform them that ceramic pads were original equipment and that the manufacturer recommends them--but does not require them as replacements for the OE pads--because they generate less brake dust and result in a bit less noise than the semi-metallic (or organic, though I'm not even going there) pads, but I can have whatever pads I damned well please. End of story.
I mean really, now. Unless I'm going to hook up a hose from a securely-fastened face mask to the brake assembly while I drive or, as a cheaper but somewhat more daring alternative, hang my head out the window and snort brake dust while I drive with my feet and watch the road with my third eye, I really don't think I have a lot to worry about.
So the guy shuts up and agrees to the semi-metallic pads. But not after first trying to tell me that the rear pads for the Mustang have to be special ordered and that the semi-metallic Raybestos pads cost $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads" (that, of course, being their cost, which they would not charge me more than. He says he found this out when he actually searched for the part number in the computer and found that they were not a regularly-stocked item and had to be special ordered.
Funny, I say. I wonder where you get your parts.
Why? He asks.
Because they're ripping you off.
Oh? And he gives me this nice try little girl smirk.
I'll tell you why. Because I can go out and get a pair of Raybestos ceramic pads for less than sixty bucks, and that's not the cheap ceramics, either. And they're a stocked part within a mile of here. It'd take about ten minutes to have them in hand for about $30 bucks, and that's retail, sweetie. Now, if you want to talk semi-metallic--and we're still talking Raybestos, mind you, because I do not want you to put some generic K-Mart crap on the drive axle brakes of my Mustang you understand, the price is going to drop to about $17 bucks or so. Not $60 more than "normal Raybestos semi-metallic pads." So, I don't know where you're getting your information, but I have a real hard time believing you could possibly be paying anywhere near what you just quoted me.
Well, I'd like to know where you shop then.
Try partsamerica.com for starters. You order online and it'll be ready for you to pick up at Shuck's. And Shuck's has the Raybestos pads I mentioned in stock right now. That is if you know how to order online.
Well, you could do that and put them on yourself, but then you wouldn't have the lifetime warranty.
Oh? Who said I wanted to put them on myself? Isn't that what I'm paying you for? And most pads, even Raybestos, don't have a lifetime warranty. And if it is, it's limited. And if you read the fine print, it's generally limited to manufacturers' defects and does not apply to normal wear. The warranty I'm interested in is the warranty on labor right here. I'm willing to pay you people to do the work. I just want to make sure you're competent and that you know what you're doing and don't screw up. Human error is the most common cause of premature brake wear, and the Raybestos warranty doesn't cover that, does it?
We'll see if we can get the semi-metallic brake pads at a lower cost.
Good. Thanks. If you can't get a cost as low as I quoted to you, call me and I'll help you. If my car weren't here getting its brakes done, I'd bring you the pads myself.
Anything else?
Yeah. The rotors should be machinable, but if there is any problem with them and any of the rotors can't be turned, call me to discuss it. If you don't have rotors for the 3.8L Mustang in stock and have to have them brought in, they start at just under $30 for the K-Mart models. Just so you have an idea.
and later:
Looks like you're going to need new calipers in the back.
Looks like I what?
New calipers. The old ones were spread so far, I don't think I can get them to fit on the new rotors. It's going to be another $317 for new calipers.
No it's not, because you're not putting them on.
But we may have to.
Not if I don't authorize it.
We could put it all together and then find that the old calipers just don't work right. If that's the case, we'd just have to take the old ones off and replace them.
Then put it back together. I'm already late for an appointment in Vancouver.
But--
Listen. My car was supposed to be done at 2:30. Now you say it'll be 3:30. My appointment was at 3:15. I want my car back. And I will not have new calipers on it. You tell me how long it'll take to finish getting the old calipers adjusted with the new pads and rear rotors and get everything ready to go, and I'll be there to pick it up. I assume you've already been working on it?
Well yes, but--
I can be there in ten minutes.
How about fifteen?
Fine. I'm picking my car up in fifteen minutes. Brake job, semi-metallic pads, new rear rotors and front rotors turned. Right?
Okay, right. We'll see you in fifteen minutes.
Yes, you will.
Monday, September 04, 2006
elusive one
by Karyn Huntting Peters
he forever eluded me these long years,
thinking, chancing here and there,
and dizzy in night dreams, lost in a surreal
world of the never-to-be.
i heard his thoughts, elusive one,
felt his pain, knew the things that slipped
from his grasp, for they were my own,
just as the longings he held within.
he forever eluded me, never arrived,
yet i inhaled the air on quiet nights
by the water’s edge and i could smell
the memory of moments that might never come.
he forever eluded me, yet perhaps he was here,
standing in the space where i was,
breathing the air that filled my senses,
but in another dimension or time,
wondering why i forever eluded him.
he forever eluded me these long years,
thinking, chancing here and there,
and dizzy in night dreams, lost in a surreal
world of the never-to-be.
i heard his thoughts, elusive one,
felt his pain, knew the things that slipped
from his grasp, for they were my own,
just as the longings he held within.
he forever eluded me, never arrived,
yet i inhaled the air on quiet nights
by the water’s edge and i could smell
the memory of moments that might never come.
he forever eluded me, yet perhaps he was here,
standing in the space where i was,
breathing the air that filled my senses,
but in another dimension or time,
wondering why i forever eluded him.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
shadow box
by Karyn Huntting Peters
White birch tendrils
Bare in winter's cold hands
Glow against the shadow box
Of nighttime's ink.
Pinpoints of faraway stars above
But echoes of a million years ago
Cover the unknown universe
As earth's clouds are blown past our sight.
White birch tendrils
Bare in winter's cold hands
Glow against the shadow box
Of nighttime's ink.
Pinpoints of faraway stars above
But echoes of a million years ago
Cover the unknown universe
As earth's clouds are blown past our sight.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
remnant
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Colors of vegetable ink,
bright and running
in the cool stream,
but hues of the rainbow
inside white light.
Colors of vegetable ink,
bright and running
in the cool stream,
but hues of the rainbow
inside white light.
Killer (for Poe)
by Nathan Hays
Ah, thank you my friend for coming on such short notice. Yes, it is urgent business but I must start at the beginning so you will not think me crazy like the others. Please sit for a moment and have some tea while I relate to you my recent experiences.
You see, there's been a murder in our town just last month. A young woman was found discarded on the side of the road, her neck slashed. Yes, it was horrible crime and we are all in a somber mood. It has the police quite perplexed because they have no leads on who the killer is. I wasn't going to get involved - with the medium stuff and all - but I've had such bad dreams. Until this is solved, I don't think I'm going to sleep well ever again.
If you remember, the last time I tried to help was when we had that ugly spate of dead animals that were showing up all over town. I spent a good deal of time searching for the subtle cues that hang in the air after a violent crime. My efforts weren't exactly rewarded though. The police got it all screwed up and thought I might be the slasher! Just because I have special sensitivities and can intuitively piece together a viable description of events, they thought I must've had something to do with it. Seems I knew details I shouldn't have but see, there's the proof of my talents. They had no substance to their suspicions and after a while they got off my back. They still haven't found the real perpetrator.
And so it was with a good deal of trepidation that I began hanging around the crime scene. I never ask questions and try not to listen to the gossip. All those words can fool us into thinking we are on to something and lead us astray. Instead, I just sat there on the side of the road and tried to conjure a vision of her falling from the car. Suddenly, an image of extreme violence flashed into my mind. Her neck had been cut as she was pushed out, presumably to avoid blood in the car. The image was too much for me to bear and it took a several days before I could muster the strength to return.
I went back several times and each time the picture became clearer and clearer. Soon I gained some insight into the killer's mind, the thoughts he had leading up to her death. He had forcefully suggested she get into his car. He wasn't being violent or anything, he was just impatient with her skeptical demeanor. Surely she would see that he was really a nice person and like him, but she wouldn't succumb to his advances. She started screaming absurdities about being kidnapped and that enraged him. He felt he had no choice, that she would ruin his life if her crazy reaction were spread all over town. His blind rage over her attempt to destroy him was what led him to kill her. How sad he was over the waste as he sped away! I can feel his grief even now. This is the point where the images become incoherent. There is however one more engram which I will relate in a moment.
I know there is no logical way I could know this, but it is all too real for me to shove it aside as a sober man of science would. There are many things on this earth that science has no inkling of let alone explanations for. My problem is that the police can be so ignorant of these possibilities. If they can trust the techniques of a DNA machine that they know nothing of, why can't they trust my abilities? I am close to discovering the identity of the killer, but I fear they will not believe me and my life will be in grave danger.
This is why I have asked for your help. You can go to the police where I cannot. I would go to them directly, but given our last encounter, they will not see or hear clearly. You can say that you overheard all this on a bus or something but could not see the face of the one talking. They can do with the information what they want, but you will not be involved beyond your tip. I want this killer to be found. Will you do this for me? Good. I knew I could trust you.
There is the last clue that I have mentioned. This is the key to the identity of the killer as it concerns a bloodstain which surely they can trace. The last image I have is of the killer removing his shirt and throwing it away. I found that shirt in the trash can behind the theater. See! I told you my techniques were powerful! The garbage men have not come yet, so if they hurry, the police will have their best clue yet.
Go my friend and may God's will be with you and all of us.
Ah, thank you my friend for coming on such short notice. Yes, it is urgent business but I must start at the beginning so you will not think me crazy like the others. Please sit for a moment and have some tea while I relate to you my recent experiences.
You see, there's been a murder in our town just last month. A young woman was found discarded on the side of the road, her neck slashed. Yes, it was horrible crime and we are all in a somber mood. It has the police quite perplexed because they have no leads on who the killer is. I wasn't going to get involved - with the medium stuff and all - but I've had such bad dreams. Until this is solved, I don't think I'm going to sleep well ever again.
If you remember, the last time I tried to help was when we had that ugly spate of dead animals that were showing up all over town. I spent a good deal of time searching for the subtle cues that hang in the air after a violent crime. My efforts weren't exactly rewarded though. The police got it all screwed up and thought I might be the slasher! Just because I have special sensitivities and can intuitively piece together a viable description of events, they thought I must've had something to do with it. Seems I knew details I shouldn't have but see, there's the proof of my talents. They had no substance to their suspicions and after a while they got off my back. They still haven't found the real perpetrator.
And so it was with a good deal of trepidation that I began hanging around the crime scene. I never ask questions and try not to listen to the gossip. All those words can fool us into thinking we are on to something and lead us astray. Instead, I just sat there on the side of the road and tried to conjure a vision of her falling from the car. Suddenly, an image of extreme violence flashed into my mind. Her neck had been cut as she was pushed out, presumably to avoid blood in the car. The image was too much for me to bear and it took a several days before I could muster the strength to return.
I went back several times and each time the picture became clearer and clearer. Soon I gained some insight into the killer's mind, the thoughts he had leading up to her death. He had forcefully suggested she get into his car. He wasn't being violent or anything, he was just impatient with her skeptical demeanor. Surely she would see that he was really a nice person and like him, but she wouldn't succumb to his advances. She started screaming absurdities about being kidnapped and that enraged him. He felt he had no choice, that she would ruin his life if her crazy reaction were spread all over town. His blind rage over her attempt to destroy him was what led him to kill her. How sad he was over the waste as he sped away! I can feel his grief even now. This is the point where the images become incoherent. There is however one more engram which I will relate in a moment.
I know there is no logical way I could know this, but it is all too real for me to shove it aside as a sober man of science would. There are many things on this earth that science has no inkling of let alone explanations for. My problem is that the police can be so ignorant of these possibilities. If they can trust the techniques of a DNA machine that they know nothing of, why can't they trust my abilities? I am close to discovering the identity of the killer, but I fear they will not believe me and my life will be in grave danger.
This is why I have asked for your help. You can go to the police where I cannot. I would go to them directly, but given our last encounter, they will not see or hear clearly. You can say that you overheard all this on a bus or something but could not see the face of the one talking. They can do with the information what they want, but you will not be involved beyond your tip. I want this killer to be found. Will you do this for me? Good. I knew I could trust you.
There is the last clue that I have mentioned. This is the key to the identity of the killer as it concerns a bloodstain which surely they can trace. The last image I have is of the killer removing his shirt and throwing it away. I found that shirt in the trash can behind the theater. See! I told you my techniques were powerful! The garbage men have not come yet, so if they hurry, the police will have their best clue yet.
Go my friend and may God's will be with you and all of us.
distance
by Karyn Huntting Peters
distance.
an illusion.
an odd little thought
that once entered our mind.
it passed from your half to mine,
and then it was gone.
we met in the middle.
distance.
an illusion.
an odd little thought
that once entered our mind.
it passed from your half to mine,
and then it was gone.
we met in the middle.
I feel a poem coming on
by Kimberly Lewis
Heart-tugging, squeezing, demanding to be heard it creeps discreetly into my chest and filters away all mundane, filing down the old halls of forgotton memory and ancient paper-dreams, peeping curiously into crevices exposed only to the most insightful days, boundless words constrict to fragmented meanings - tight-lipped fables of pleasant traumas and untold dreams, heard scraping and clawing sweetly to the electric surface, brewing blue moods and yellowing the real, hindsight and the unfolding concoct a present in gilted bows, the muse’s banality on the stage, sophistries rush and twirl tiptoed from this space, rightness crookedly conforms to a page; bellowing, whispering, hotly enveloping a cool heart, tired from the known and the hackneyed tongue; languid primordial, an ooze of word-pageantry; a bubble of utopia bursts to bleed the black ink.
Heart-tugging, squeezing, demanding to be heard it creeps discreetly into my chest and filters away all mundane, filing down the old halls of forgotton memory and ancient paper-dreams, peeping curiously into crevices exposed only to the most insightful days, boundless words constrict to fragmented meanings - tight-lipped fables of pleasant traumas and untold dreams, heard scraping and clawing sweetly to the electric surface, brewing blue moods and yellowing the real, hindsight and the unfolding concoct a present in gilted bows, the muse’s banality on the stage, sophistries rush and twirl tiptoed from this space, rightness crookedly conforms to a page; bellowing, whispering, hotly enveloping a cool heart, tired from the known and the hackneyed tongue; languid primordial, an ooze of word-pageantry; a bubble of utopia bursts to bleed the black ink.
Friday, September 01, 2006
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