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By Eithne (Eithne) on Thursday, March 21, 2002 - 09:29 am
�Down by the river� I shot my baby�� Neil Young whines from the stereo speakers as Teresa stares unfocused out the window, hypnotized by the rain that never seems to stop coming down. She watches as it puddles on the ground, unable to sink down into the earth, which is saturated to capacity from a record forty strait days of measurable precipitation. With no place left to go, the puddles overflow into the little streams, which now flow constantly down to the mighty Willamette River, joining the steady flow down to the ocean. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of recyclables enters the view, breaking her trance. Usually she hears the cacophony of rattling bottles and shopping-cart wheels on asphalt long before she actually sees anyone, but today the music obscures the announcement. She watches him riffle through the neighbor�s trash until he looks up suddenly, and catches her spying. �Oh God, now I�ve done it� she thinks as he comes toward the house. Two cans are all a quick search yields before he knocks on the door. �Sorry, this is all I�ve got today� Teresa announces, before the man can say anything. She�s heard the spiel enough times to predict exactly what he will say; though she hasn�t seen this particular man in the neighborhood before. He�s quite large, and more than a little intimidating. His long black hair and tanned skin mark him as one of the legions of down and out Native Americans so prevalent in the Pacific Northwest. An enormous gray plastic garbage bag protects his body from the rain, but water drips down off his hair in little streams. �Hey Neil Young, all right!� he says, in the fait accent of someone brought up 'down on the Res'. When he speaks the smell of booze overlaps the already present reek of sweat and smoke and damp. It is the smell of the river. �Hey I�d never normally ask but times is tough with all this rain and I�ve been a little down�� Nona cuts him off by handing him the two dollars she has in her pocket. �Hey, alright, thanks�wait--I�ve got something here for you� Nona dreads what this could be. He fumbles under the plastic and hands her a beat up religious tract-- �The Story of Noah and His Arc�. �You be sure and read that right away.� He looks down at her curiously and then adds, � You know this is day forty� in the hushed down tone reserved for those privileged to the conspiracy. �Oh, alright; I�ll do that right now� she answers seriously, trying her very best not to sound condescending. �Well thanks, and God Bless� �Yeah, you too� she says as she closes the door and goes back to her seat by the window. She looks down at the tract in her had and shivers a little, remembering how her mother always said that Jesus walks among us as a homeless person. She watches as the man returns to his cart. With nowhere else to go, he continues back down toward the river, just another part of the city�s constant overflow. �Down by the river� I shot her de----ad.� Attempt at repeated syntax: I ran thorough the woods, and into the clearing, before I realized that you were not there. I sat for a while, alert for your presence, but then I fell prey to the Oránágh Mór. It came through the trees, and surrounded the meadow, the song of creation some say it may be. Surrounded I was, by the magical music, no longer resisting the truth that I knew. So I offer this now, as some explanation, for my permanent absence from Dún Morághea. I hope you will know, my dearest Finnéadan, why I will not ever be seen here again. |
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By KateC (Katec) on Wednesday, March 27, 2002 - 08:38 am
I love both of these. I love all the water images in the first part: rain, rivers, puddles overflowing, and the impending flood. The repetition of the word "down" gives me a feeling like Pleasant Street. And "down" of course sounds a lot like "drown." The second part flows beautifully, and the rhythmic cadence suggests that after hearing that magical music, the narrator is changed forever and can speak only in that same rhythm. |
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By Sarah (Sarah) on Monday, April 01, 2002 - 10:37 am
Eithne, Your "I ran through the woods" paragraph is absolutley gorgeous. I love the rythm and the great Celtic names. Also, it's really cool that the lyrical paragraph describes a person trapped by magical music. A meta-repetition! Beautiful!! I appreciated your first story. It's a very effective "mood piece" (if that term exists). Really liked the description of the homeless man. Wished for a little bit more info about the woman. What's going on in her day? Does she often look out the window or did she just happen to be doing so when the guy came along? You know, that sort of thing. Probably, a few choice words would flesh her out a great deal. I'm curious: are the places mentioned in the 2nd piece real places? And does the story reference an existing myth/lore? |
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By Eithne (Eithne) on
Monday, April 01, 2002 - 08:24 pm
Oh good, you asked me questions directly so now I have an excuse to respond! Here�s the deal with the lyrical paragraph: There�s some professor (Frank Mills, I think) who teaches �Celtic Studies� type classes at Marylhurst University and publishes a lot of articles on the Internet. He frequently refers to something called �The Oran Mór, song of creation�. I�ve never seen it mentioned anywhere else and I suspect he may have made it up. I have read that there is no known �Celtic� creation myth so this may be his theory as to what the myth would be if such a thing existed. His articles are intriguing, but are either way over my head, or way out on limb to the point of not making much sense. Anyway, that�s where the Oránágh Mór idea came from; I made the place and the fellows name up, though I think Finnedan is a real name. I just learned how to make those fada marks and needed an excuse to use them a lot;-)(Unfortunately the code for the accented e just inserts a capital J at the end of my sentence on this thing, grrr) Teresa stares out the window all the time because there�s nothing else left to do in the house after it�s rained for forty days strait. Welcome to the Northwest:-). |
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