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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 5 of 5. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on August 21, 2004, at 15:56:37
Red-Tinted World of Slow Time, 1988
Coke machine is hungry,
Starving,
Ravenous
For money
As it slurps
The dollar bill
Abruptly
From my left fingers,
Waits for me
To punch one
Of its big plastic buttons,
Then sends
An aluminum drum
Clattering
Down an unseen chute
Into the tray below,
Like an animal’s
dropping.
I pop the top,
Sip,
Then pass it
To Temple,
Who takes
A long slug
Of the sugar-saturated
Brown gunk inside.We lean
Against the worn
Red brick
Of the school’s hallway,
The flaps
Of our fencing jackets
Open and hanging loose,
Our masks and sabers
Dangling from our
Gloved right hands,
As we take a breather
From practice
And tally up
The fresh welts
Marking our bodies
Under two layers
Of thick, protective cloth.Tokin’ Tiny Tim
Joins us,
Fresh from smoking
A bowl,
Flattening
And re-flattening
A dollar bill
In an effort
To get the machine
To accept his offer
And spit out
Something
To cool
His parched throat.
After his fifth attempt,
I pass
My Coke to him
And he gratefully
Chugs some down
Before handing
The can back to me.
He slumps
Against the wall
Next to a bulletin board,
As caffeine and cannabis
Begin
A pitched battle
For control
Of his brain.Then an
Unwelcome
Figure
Struts
Into view,
Tripper,
Big Assh*** on Campus.
He pushes Temple
To one side
As he sidles up
To the machine.
She stumbles
For just a second,
Then regains
Her footing.
“Watch it, pr**k,” I say,
Even as Temple mouths
The word, No, to me
And softly
Shakes her head.
Tripper’s eyes narrow,
And he growls,
“You say something?”
I remain silent,
And Temple looks relieved
As he begins
To lumber away.
Then he stops,
Pivots,
And adds,
“Next time
Tell your kike girlfriend
To get out
Of the fu**ing way.”
Temple visibly flinches
At the repulsive
Word,
And her pale, pale
Skin seems,
Impossibly,
To drain of color
Even further.The next moments
Seem to flow by
In the special type
Of hushed
And suspended
Time
That I glimpse
When I look
Into the dome
Of a snow globe
That’s just
Been shaken,
The tiny
White pellets
Drifting
And drifting
For an eternity
And a day
Before finally
Settling
To the bottom
Once again.
And I don’t
Know it yet,
But my actions
In the seconds
That follow
Will define
Me,
For better
And
For worse,
During the remainder
Of my time
In high school.I drop my mask
And fling my can
Of Coca-Cola
To my left side,
Noting
The spray
Of caramel-colored
Droplets
Streaming
In loose spirals
From the opening
As the red-and-white
Projectile
Tumbles end
Over end
Before striking
The nearby bulletin board,
Shattering
The pane of glass covering
The announcements
Affixed to the cork
With brightly colored thumbtacks.I notice Tim flinching
As a beautiful
Shower of
Sparkling shards
Suddenly fills
The air
Around
His head.
Temple’s left hand
Is stretching out
To clutch
My right arm
But she’s too
Late
To stop this now,
The program’s already
In progress.
I lunge
Toward the rat-bast**d
With the tip
Of my saber,
Moving unerringly
Toward his face.
Tripper,
Suddenly alert,
Mouth straining
To form the words
“Are you crazy?”
Throws his hands
Up protectively
Which is exactly
What I want.
The blade
Whisks through
The air
A good six inches
Above his scalp,
And now his arms
Are where I’d hoped
They’d be
After the feint
To his head,
Away
From his sides,
As I drop the
Blade
To his right
And
Hit him
With a flank cut,
The weapon
Snapping
Against his ribs
Like a supple
Steel whip
Before
I withdraw it.
I can still hear
The tinkling
Of glass
Striking
The hallway’s floor
Over
My left shoulder
And the hiss
Of carbonated
Sugar water,
Agitated
To eruption,
Fountaining
From the fallen
Can.Tripper’s expression
Of sheer disbelief
Quickly slides
Into a grimace
Of pain
And he falls
To the floor
Clutching
His now-torn
Shirt.
Tim looks ill,
Stricken
As his frantic eyes
Meet mine
And find
Not the slightest
Trace
Of remorse.
I turn to Temple,
Whose gaze
Pivots,
Pendulum-like,
From Tripper
To me,
Then back again,
And it is what
I see in her features
That finally
Draws me back
From the
Red-tinted world
Of slow time:
Fear.
Fear of me.I toss my weapon
To the ground,
Hurl my mask
Down the hall
Where it lands
And spins
Away
Down the corridor
Into the shadows.
I step past Tripper,
Beyond all caring
About the sh**storm
That I’ve just
Set in motion.
He’s cursing
And groaning,
A faint trickle
Of blood
Seeping
From between
His left fingers
As they clutch
His injury.
My pale blue eyes
Feel
As if they’ve
Turned
To chips of ice
Embedded in my skull,
And Tripper
Skitters back
Just a little
As if anticipating
A coup-de-grace kick,
But
He needn’t worry,
He’s just a bug
To me right now
And he’s been
Swatted
Enough.“I need a smoke,”
I say to Temple
In a voice
So indifferent
That it doesn’t sound
Like my own,
Trudging off,
Sneakers squeaking
Loudly
Amid the hallway’s
Frozen tableau
Of pain
Of confusion
Of astonishment
To my locker
To grab my Marlboros
And my leather jacket
Before heading outside
To the blacktop
Of the basketball court
Encircled by
A wire-mesh fence.I’m on my third cig
When Walter bursts
Through the door
To my left.
“You alright?”
He asks breathlessly.
“Don’t know,”
I answer, exhaling
Into the frosty
February night.
“What the f***
Did you do?”
He asks,
A slight shiver
Running up his spine.
“Gator,” I say,
“I have no fu**ing idea.”Temple emerges
From the building next,
Knowing,
Like Walter,
That this macadam
Refuge
Is where
She’d likely
Find me.
“Listen,” she says sternly.
“Here’s what Tim
And I came up with.
Drake tried
To feel me up,
Then called me – you know – ”
(She can’t spit out
The hateful word)
“When I tried
To get loose.
You stepped in
To help
And got carried
Away.
Got it?”
She’s on the verge
Of tears now,
And as I stamp out
My Marlboro
With my sneaker
And take her
Into my arms,
Long lines
Of salty black mascara
Begin to run
Like liquefied tar
Down her cheeks.
“I got it,” I whisper,
Caressing her hair
And kissing
The side
Of her neck
In the secret spot
That’s so ticklish.
“I got it.”
I turn to Walter.
“The cops
On the way?”
He says no,
Because he
And Temple
And Tim
Have made it
Very clear
To Tripper
That Temple
Will press charges
For sexual assault
If he doesn’t keep
His pie-hole shut.
Three witnesses
Against one,
All of them
Honors students.
Even a sh**-for-brains
Like Tripper
Knows
That he’s been outplayed.My father
And Temple’s,
Both ferocious attorneys,
Threaten
Hellfire
And damnation
On the administration
And on Tripper
If this doesn’t
Go away.
Tripper’s anti-Semitic
Comment
Is passed on
To the Anti-Defamation League
By Temple’s dad,
And their representative
Argues
That while the group doesn’t
Support violence,
My response
Clearly came
In a school environment
That is far too tolerant
Of bigotry.I end up suspended
For four weeks,
But not expelled,
And no charges
Are brought
By either side.
I’m also
Kicked off
The fencing team,
But I kind of figured
That was a given.
I also
Have to attend
Anger-management classes
And do 50 hours
Of community service.
Doesn’t matter much,
I’m already
Into college
Early decision.
My old man’s pissed at me,
His default state
For the past
Four years,
But I have
To give him credit,
He had my back
In a pinch.The day I return
To the scene
Of the crime,
I find Acid-Addled Walter
And Temple
Waiting
By the school’s
Front doors,
And feel a pang
That I haven’t been
As good a friend
As I could’ve
And should’ve
Been
Since we met.
“Welcome back, Zorro,”
Grins Walter.
“S’up, Gator?” I reply.
I scoop up Temple
In a tight embrace
And we kiss,
But I can feel
Something different
In the movement
Of her lips,
And I sense
That something more
Than the bulletin board
Was broken
Four weeks ago.
“Talk later?” I whisper,
Making no attempt
To conceal
My unease.
“Later,” she says, “Alone.”
I nod,
And she slips
Out of the crisp March air
Into the building.I light a Marlboro,
And ask Walter
What people
Are saying.
“They think
You’re crazy,”
He says.
“A nutcase.”
I pause
To consider this,
Taking a long, slow drag.
“Well,” I finally murmur,
Breaking into a smile,
“Just as long
As it’s nothing untrue.”
-- Atticus
Posted by malthus on August 21, 2004, at 23:32:10
In reply to poem ... Red-Tinted World of Slow Time, 1988, posted by Atticus on August 21, 2004, at 15:56:37
As I read "Red-Tinted World of Slow-Time, 1988" I realized how desirous I am of reacting the way you did to the bigots and bullies I sometimes encounter as a teacher. I experienced a vicarious rush as you charged Tripper with your saber and he falls (Trips) to the ground. I enjoyed the way you juxtaposed this swift event in slow-motion. When I finished reading it I wondered if you were making a play on words in the title: Slow-Time and Show-Time?
"Executioner" was about the same person as "Methuselah" and "Backwards". The bitter aftertaste is something I wish to rid myself of, but evidently it is alive and (not so) well.
Malthus, fellow broken-hearted babbler.
Posted by Atticus on August 22, 2004, at 3:55:15
In reply to Re: poem ... Red-Tinted World of Slow Time, 1988 » Atticus, posted by malthus on August 21, 2004, at 23:32:10
Hi Malthus,
Thanks for the kind words. Actually, "slow time" wasn't (at least consciously) meant as a play on show time. It's an actual psychological state I've experienced from time to time. It's very much like what Tom Hanks' character experiences a couple of times during the Omaha Beach invasion scene at the start of "Saving Private Ryan". After "The Matrix" came out, with its famous scene of Neo dodging the bullets, some people started referring to this as "bullet time." Whatever you call it, it's a sense of dissociation with my normal perceptions of time that is so pronounced that I seem to be watching events unfold in slow-motion, and as if from a great distance. I don't have any idea if this is related to my mental illness or not (some kind of dissociative disorder). It always occurs under extreme emotional duress. All I can say is that my response to "Tripper's" real-life counterpart's words and actions -- even given the fact that I was all of 17 years old -- left me as stunned afterwards as he was. And my friends were. And it sure caused me a world of trouble. Poor impulse control has been something I've wrestled with a long time. Granted, Tripper only ended up with a superficial cut and a big bruise, and a whole lot of help from my friends and my father kept me from ending up cuffed in the back of a cop's black-and-white, but the damage to my relationship with Temple turned out to be irreparable. I think the trigger for recounting this sorry episode was that Jai got upset after her attempt at a serious discussion on Psycho-Social-Babble was kind of hijacked from her and she expressed her hurt. I almost wrote a post flaming the people responsible, but decided against it when I thought about this incident. I still earned my first "Please be civil" from Dr. Bob for expressing my disgust on this page, but I guess that's kind of a rite of passage on this site, eh? :) Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 22, 2004, at 8:32:28
In reply to Re: poem ... Red-Tinted World of Slow Time, 1988 » malthus, posted by Atticus on August 22, 2004, at 3:55:15
PBC is no doubt a rite of passage. I almost warned you about the possiblity of this PBC coming then I thought it just might pass unnoticed...
He who watches everything Dr. B would never let an obvious PBC go by.Atticus, dear gentlman of the darker arts I bow and thank you for your assistance.
The conflict on social babble turned out to have a silver lining. I am no longer banned from posting to Larry Hoover. Plus I feel more couragous about speaking out.
I loved this poem...
the romance of it.
I know there was real fear and I can understand why but the incredible sensuous sexual animal tension is maintained through out the poem. To keep that type of tension going is an art.
There is a moral strength to your character that is no longer used in our lives on this level.
I could see this happening in Ireland, England Wales etc as few as 100 years ago.
The insult was very real. The reaction was heroic. Tripper was a weak person.So I am curious, how did that change him? You must have ended up being the alpha male, right?
He must have lost his place in the pack?I too, defended someone as a child. I was quite a hero of the innocent in my family and neighborhood. I was fearless on the outside and filled with fear on the inside. I ran on empty.
Jai Narayan damsel in distress is honored to have Atticus come to her rescue but she will not make a habit of it.
Posted by Atticus on August 22, 2004, at 9:50:32
In reply to Re: poem ... Red-Tinted World of Slow Time, 1988, posted by Jai Narayan on August 22, 2004, at 8:32:28
T'was nothing, milady, to take a PBC in lieu of just observing like some spineless knave. But I will bear in mind that the Lidless Eye is always scanning his kingdom, and not even a Hobbit can evade his gaze for long.
I guess some of us just can't help sticking up for people we care about who have, in our judgment, been wronged. Ironically, though my father backed me up during this incident, I grew into this role of being a "protector" by stepping between him and my mother when he used to go after her. I began doing this at about age 10. I used to get the crap beat out of me for interfering, and I never would have drawn my father's wrath if I hadn't taken the blows meant for her, but who can stand by and just watch something like that happen? I guess he saw it as some kind of challenge to his role as king of the castle. This also goes a long way toward explaining my antipathy to authority, I believe, which I always assume is corrupt until proven otherwise.
Tripper's real-life counterpart didn't change one bit, as is the wont of people like him. He did lose status in his own clique, the Prep/Jocks, for being taken down by a "Grim Reaper," their derisive term for male Goths (they called the girls "Black Widows") -- both terms based on our affinity for black clothing, and in Temple's case, heavy black eye-liner and lipstick. I was kind of an atypical Goth, because I moved easily between the artsy Goth clique and the rebellious punker clique (Walter was purely a punker). The whole story had been so blown out of proportion and mythologized during my four-week exile that it utterly defined how I was seen for the remainder of the semester. The punks loved it, some of the jocks were impressed, the preps hated me, and the Goths were kind of on the fence about the whole thing. I think, like Temple, they reveled in the idea of something as romanticized as swordplay when it was on the strip and no one could get hurt, but when it crossed the line to become a genuine act of violence, some were taken aback by it, and saw me as some kind of barbarian. This is what I sensed in Temple that day I returned: an ambivalence toward a painter and poet who could, without warning, transform into something more frightening. The "darkness" they embraced in Anne Rice novels was something else again when there was real blood drawn. At any rate, "Tripper" kept his distance from both me and Temple. No metal detectors in schools back in the '80s, and he may have been afraid I was carrying something else. Who knows. He's probably a CEO under indictment these days. Ta. :) Atticus, who still has that very saber and the rest of his fencing equipment somewhere in the back of his closet, just in case you call
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