Klee Machine

t w e e
t t w e
e t t w
e e t t
w e e t


t w e e~~~~~t

Pry Bars

I’m trying to learn to trust myself.
Why, are you trustworthy?

It lacks depth.
Worse, it lacks surface.

I control my destiny.
Is it that small?

Nothing can be done.
Everything may be tried.

Intimacy

Can I tell you a secret? There are two things I could tell you about myself. The first is just a single fact, but it is unforgettable. When you hear it, an aspect of my life will instantly become clear to you; I will seem to jump into sharper focus. It is like the lightning flash that gives an incandescent glimpse, and whenever you recall it, I will stand before you vividly. The other secret is much more important but also more elusive. It is harder to explain and harder to understand. As you listen to it (it will take a while to tell), you will feel simultaneously that you are understanding more and becoming more confused, drawing closer to a central truth even as it slips away. Soon after you hear it, or as you are hearing it, you will begin to forget it. The experience of having been told will endure, while the substance of what was told will evaporate. It will be in every respect the opposite of the first secret: essential but unmemorable. Like fog, it surrounds, envelops, clings to, and leaves. Which secret do you want to hear?

Tell me both, or neither.

December haiku

where leaves were now hangs

pendulous the hornet’s nest

great and globed and gray

The Tale of Good Enough

The Tale of Good Enough

The Betterthans were a large and vigorous clan, known to all in the village. Each member of the family was superior in one way or another, and sometimes in several ways. It was no wonder that every villager looked first to the Betterthans to find a husband or wife, an employee, or a friend.

Choosing the right Betterthan was no simple matter, however. It wasn’t like picking out one of the Bests (who, if they had ever really lived in the village, had left long ago). For every Betterthan had, along with undisputed fine points, one or more flaws. Sometimes obvious, sometimes hard to spot. Sometimes trivial, sometimes serious indeed. Over time they would emerge. Eventually you might find yourself with someone whose outstanding qualities more than made up for a few minor defects. Or you could wind up with someone whose superficial virtues paled beside egregious faults.

Knowing this, some people jumped in with their first instincts, made their choice of Betterthan and hoped it would pan out. Others conducted long and anxious deliberations, which somewhat improved their ability to predict, but also, not infrequently, wore them out.

Sometimes, to one worn down in just this way, there appeared a member of another clan: the Goodenoughs. They made no promise larger than their name.

And the one seeking a spouse might conclude, “Leave Betterthan for later. For now, this Goodenough will do.”

And the one seeking a worker, “Goodenough will do.”

And the one in need of a friend, “Goodenough will do.”

And, sure enough, the marriage, factory, friendship was built with Goodenough as the ground floor. And seeing that it could be done, others followed suit. And soon none, or very few, bothered with the risky spin of Betterthans. And none, or very few, perceived a loss.

And almost no one would undo the intricate expanding architecture—kids, houses, factories, relationships, whole movements and histories—predicated on the once-provisional choice of Goodenough.

Only once in a great while would one, remembering the shine of the Betterthans, round with vehemence upon a mate or tradesman or friend, and exclaim, “You’re not Goodenough. You’re not even Good. You’re Horrible. You’re a Disaster.”

Only to receive the mild retort: “I’m none of those. And never claimed to be.”

“You said you would be Goodenough.”

“I never did. I said I was Goodenough on the day we met. And so I was, then. Goodenough.”

Before there was PhotoShop...

...there was Window Glass.


















Highland Train






















Return Ferry

Not

Three times today the radio (different channels) announced the murders of “three prostitutes.” Not women; not persons—it struck me that it is commonplace to refer to sex trade workers by their livelihood, deferring, or omitting entirely, any mention of their humanity. One station mentioned that the victims were women a few sentences later; the other two never bothered.

When did you last hear a crime story lead paragraph about the murder of three mechanics, or administrative assistants, or genetic researchers, or claims adjusters?