Shorthand for Nothing

For Nigel.

I.
You were the king of dingy bathroom tile,
unafraid of
discarded towels
clustered hair
or sudden lights
and stomping feet.
You stood there, just watching,
as the world moved by
your bathroom tiles.

Your reign was silent
and brief,
your explorations
infinitely vast,
infinitely small,
infinite. The world was
yours, and you took your time.

II.
When I was a child,
I was frightened of dark places.

III.
Some things are always left unsaid,
little quiet ideas that no one
dares express,
or just no one thinks to.

And these are the things lives are made of:
quiet thoughts and inner moments,
secrets that die out
before they are born, completely unnoticed
by any who might remember them.

IV.
“You are the only person
who has ever seen this part of me.”
We all make mistakes. Not every choice
is obvious.

V.
I have trapped myself in a prison of ivory and metal,
vast beyond my comprehension. I should worry,
but everything seems at peace. I will know no escape,
but I need no escape.
I, alone among men, have known everything I desired.
The waters are rising. I will not resist.

VI.
You were the king of dingy bathroom tiles.
Your reign was silent
and brief.

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The Dead Baby Downhill Race (14th annual!) was more of a parade than a race, at least for most people I saw there. The pack of cyclists was huge, and most of them were content to ride slow. It was probably the most fun I’ve had on a bicycle since I started biking again. The downhill was fairly gentle (and was actually a bit of an incline at the very end), so I was never going the speeds I get going down 10th on my daily ride. No, mostly the fun was from being in a huge mass of people having fun and blocking traffic.

Bikers are a fairly weird group (and I say this in the best possible way), and if there’s one thing I like it’s large groups of weird people. If there’s another thing I like, it’s pissing off impatient drivers. (A bike mechanic asked me on Monday, “Are you sure you’ve never been a messenger?”) The sheer mass of bikes basically makes the road into one giant bike trail. A bike trail occupied with people who are doing nothing but enjoying the fact that they are on a bike.

Despite having biked 20 or so miles before, I was still passing people on the uphill at the end, convincing my tired legs to do things I was pretty sure they couldn’t.

On arriving at our destination, we got our water bottles of beer, talked to some fun people, and watched some of the events. Amongst Hammercising and dances by the Sprockettes, there was the Save the Baby/Kill the Baby race. Basically, this is a head-to-head sprint on BMX bikes to try to grab the (horribly beat up) baby doll that’s resting on top of a traffic cone.

Gregory’s attempt resulted in a low-speed wreck in which he fucked up his hand, and perplexed the medics by salting the wound instead of accepting some slightly more high-tech medical attention. (”You guys need a vest that says ‘Healing hurts,’ and has a salt-shaker on it.” Personally, I think it would make a better sticker.)

And then it was home, with a nice gentle incline most of the way. It was a nice end to a day where I decided to bike to Shoreline just to prove I could.

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I got back into biking a few weeks back, but today was the first day I was actually impressed with myself.

Someone suggested that biking to Shoreline from Capitol Hill was unreasonable. I assumed it was just a dodge, but I took it as a challenge, so I looked it up on Google Maps, which told me it was probably about 11 miles out, then called up Greg and said “Hey, want to go for a bike ride?” He said he just needed to finish his laundry, so I rode up to the U District.

We biked up to a little south of where Google Maps tells you to go when you feed it “Shoreline,” rode around aimlessly for a while, then headed back. We stopped for a sandwich in Northgate, then took a moderately hilly route back to the U District. Chris was at home, and reminded us that the Dead Baby Downhill Race was tonight–and that we should probably leave in about fifteen minutes if we wanted to go.

I was pretty tired by then, but we biked back up Capitol Hill, made it to the race in time, and biked from there down to Georgetown. There were probably something like 400+ bikes there, eating up the road and blocking traffic. (This was incredibly fun, and I may write more about it later.)

After the race’s after-party we biked back up to Capitol Hill once more–12th has a nice gentle slope and we were taking it slow. If Google Maps is to be believed that puts today’s ride at about 25-30 reasonably hilly miles. My usual daily ride is about 15 and it’s flat for most of the way.

I’m pretty much exhausted now, of course, but it didn’t kick my ass nearly as hard as I thought it would. And I could probably have kept going–possibly not up all of Seattle’s hardcore hills, but definitely most of the places you can get to easily from Capitol Hill.

All this on an old, fairly cheap (on the high end of cheap, though) mountain bike, with its fat knobbly tires and its way-too-heavy frame. It’s a good feeling.

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Dear R,

I’m sorry I didn’t laugh at your joke. You had pretty clearly planned for it in advance, and I feel like I disappointed you.

This was September of 2008, I think. I was going off to Boston and decided to pay you a visit before I went. We met at the mall. When I walked up, your friend said, “Hi Rob, this is my friend Ashley.” I think it was Ashley, anyway. I’m sorry if I remembered that wrong. She pointed at you when she said it, and then you both laughed.

I don’t know what sort of reaction you were hoping for, but I am pretty sure a blank stare wasn’t what you were hoping for. I didn’t laugh or say anything or play along. I probably just said “Hi,” and probably “how’s it going?” It’s possible I even went so far as to say “What’s up?”

Even though I know it’s kind of arrogant to assume, I feel like you hoped I’d do something more than stare. It could have been a good joke. But I blanked, instead, and we both know I could have done better.

Yours,

RM

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A lot of urban explorers like posting their exploring kits. Maybe one day I will have a real exploring kit, but until that day, these are the things I carry with me pretty much anywhere I go.

• zombie attack messenger bag - this reads “during a zombie attack, please follow me.” It stores most of my stuff. I think it makes a good bag, and it was fairly cheap.
• lockpicks - in my messenger bag. I am not any good with these, but I like to practice, and in the event it is really necessary I could probably do something with them, given time. Maybe.
• mini maglite - on my belt. This comes in handy a lot more often than you would think. It also doubles as a blunt instrument. I’d keep it in my bag, but I put the bag down from time to time and it sucks fumbling for a light or using your cell phone.
• bigger flashlight - it cost like $5 and uses D-cells. This one goes in my bag. I’ve only ever used it once, and that was when someone else was exploring with me. It worked pretty okay, though! It’s a backup. I’ll probably replace it with another maglite eventually. Probably another mini-mag to save space.
• cell phone - this is shitty and cost like $4. It doesn’t have voicemail anymore and the battery sucks. I usually keep it in the bag these days, but sometimes in a jacket pocket.
• bike lock - a bigass U-lock, courtesy of Chris. The bag goes where I go, so I can always lock my bike.
• toilet paper dispenser thingy - this was a gift from my brother-in-law, before he was my brother-in-law. I’ve tried to keep it with me since. Though there have been times when I’ve been lax, it now resides in my messenger bag, and I am never without it. It has no practical purpose except for confusing cops, border patrol, and TSA agents.
• wallet - I got it in England. It goes in my bag, since the back pocket is a terrible place for it. Some days I long for a slender wallet, though, that I could keep in my front pocket.
• camera - for taking pictures! I got this with my ex-girlfriend in Spokane. It’s actually missing its SD card right now. It has taken some pretty good photos, though, and there’s a small amount of room on the camera itself.
• USB key - mostly I store music on here that I think other people ought to have. It comes in handy on other occasions too, of course, but that’s its primary intention. It has a big lanyard on it. I am pretty sure I got both from my dad, but I don’t remember why. This is in my front pocket.
• keys - I actually don’t have any reason to unlock anything anymore, but I keep a bottle opener, which always comes in handy. I got it from Harvard’s Berkman Center. These go in the same pocket as the USB key.
• handkerchief - red, ancient, has a small hole in it. I use it mostly to clean my laptop and my sunglasses. Same pocket as the keys.
• aviator sunglasses - these are the actual aviator sunglasses worn by an actual navy aviator (my dad). I should probably tighten the screws. I’ve lost and found these about a million times.
• batteries - AAA and AA, for my mini-mag and the rear light on my bike. These go in my bag.
• playing cards - Aviator playing cards, I think. Never underestimate the utility of a deck of cards when you’re bored. In one of the pockets of my messenger bag.
• electrical tape - this comes in really handy, and it’s a hell of a lot less bulky than duct tape. I’ve used it for repairing shoelaces and injured fingers in the past. This is in a pocket of my messenger bag.
• tiny Swiss army knife - I always forget this exists.
• flask - I actually use this for drinking water when I’m out biking these days. It has about six ounces or so. It lives in a pocket of my messenger bag. It needs a funnel or something.
• And I am pretty much always wearing my green Converse, some skinny jeans or black cords, a t-shirt, and one of a rotating array of jackets. I love jackets. I have a black hoodie, a white hoodie (with fairies on it), and a black jacket that makes me look kind of like an emo kid that I’m wearing these days.

I may have missed a few random items here or there, but I tried to search through my bag and pockets. It is the only reason I remembered the knife! What do you carry?

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The Legend of Zelda has been around for as long as I’ve been aware of Nintendo, and I was a bit of a dork when I was a kid. (If you’re curious, I started playing Zelda around Ocarina of Time, and yes, it is still excellent. I’ve been playing Nintendo for about as long as I can remember.) Most Zelda fans and probably a good chunk of nonfans have probably heard rumor of the short-lived cartoon series. They have probably heard rumor of it because it is really fucking terrible, in the best possible way.

Each episode runs for about fifteen minutes, and there’s thirteen of them. Watching more than a few at a time tends to be kind of painful, but one or two can be hilarious.

Link is an obnoxious slobby teenager who goes out of his way to shirk his responsibilities (which, for some reason, include cleaning up the castle), and is constantly demanding that Princess Zelda give him a kiss. He shoots laser beams out of his sword. He and Zelda spend most of each episode trying to thwart the latest evil schemes of Ganon, the evil pig-wizard, whose idea of a clever scheme is to send a single easily defeated minion to attempt to kill or kidnap our heroes. It’s noteworthy that the single greatest threat to Hyrule is incapable of cooking up a scheme that can’t be thwarted in a fifteen minute cartoon.

Ganon has at his disposal some really powerful magic, however–in one episode, he uses a thought-control amulet on Zelda. Unfortunately, instead of using the thought-control amulet to install a puppet ruler on the throne of Hyrule and usher in an era of corruption and bring Hyrule to slow ruin in that way, he instead uses the power to have Zelda almost marry him. He also ruins any chance of subtlety by abducting her in plain view of Link, the kingdom’s sole defender.

On the plus side, this Zelda is actually kind of a badass, if you can ignore the fact that she’s stuck in the worst possible television series and is wearing the distilled essence of the late 80’s as her princessing attire. She fights and does flips and actually does more than get abducted constantly. That would get old real quick.

You could definitely find worse things to do on a boring Sunday afternoon than hunt these down and watch them. And if you feel the need for a bad movie but only have fifteen minutes to spare, I can’t think of any better suggestions.

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Dear classmates from my graduating class,

I’m sorry I didn’t bother doing anything for my graduation. I didn’t even record one of the little speech things that you all had.

That second part isn’t exactly true, actually. I recorded something, and even then, at 18 years old, I bristled at the idea of saying the expected things. We were supposed to thank everyone we knew, I think, and say something cheerful about the future. Instead I wrote something like “I never really liked the idea of giving thank-you speeches because they feel disingenuous.” I still think that, really, but I’ve learned artful since then. In any case, the administrators didn’t like the message, and said I had to do another one, and I just said that I wouldn’t. For some reason they let it drop.

I wasn’t even at the graduation ceremony. I was in Florida, for a cousin’s wedding. I had no interest in going to graduation anyway, though. One of you thought it was hilarious to call me at four am and ask when I was showing up. I wasn’t sleeping very well because I never do on trips, so I was a little annoyed, and I’m sorry about that, too. I hope nobody missed me. I always assume that nobody does. But it had to have been noticeable. Did they call my name? Did they point out that I wasn’t there? Did they dress someone up like me? I know that when it came time for my section of the video, with the recorded speeches, they just played the music louder.

That part made me happy, at least. I hope nobody was offended. I hope you all had a lot of fun celebrating the end of your high school careers.

Yours,

Rob Mason

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We played a one-off Call of Cthulhu session the other day. The system is really nice for the cosmic horror genre. It’s pretty easy to understand, doesn’t have a lot of fancy things going on for it, and ultimately your skills are probably going to be insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Sure, you can equip yourself to deal with the eldritch monstrosity, but the odds are pretty good it will still shatter your mind. This is how horror works. There may be a solution that works, but it’s hard, it’s not obvious, and even then it’s only dubious–maybe it only works half the time, or maybe it’s only put things off for a while.

You are alone in an uncaring universe. Your character is unremarkable, and even if you win it was probably mostly because of luck, and the odds are you’re probably permanently scarred by the experience.

The most interesting thing, to me, is that in CoC and some other horror-genre games, you’re not playing anyone special. Almost every other system, from D&D to White Wolf, is about playing someone who is more awesome than regular people. In horror, you play someone who at best knows how to use a gun or pick a lock, neither of which are impossible for anyone with the time and the tools to learn. It’s fundamentally a story about real people in situations that are beyond them, and the depths of the human psyche.

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My sister broke her arm when we were both in elementary school. She fell off the swings playing a game she and her friends had devised. This was during recess. I didn’t see it happen, or know what was going on, but I remember it.

It’s mostly just this weird image I have of standing in line after the bell rang, waiting to go inside. I remember seeing the playground teacher leading her inside, and my sister crying, and being worried and confused. Was she in trouble? Had she done something wrong? I remember it felt weirdly alone. I knew something bad was happening but I had no idea what.

That’s all I really remember. I don’t remember how I found out about her broken arm. Some more weird images of the school’s office are floating around through my head but I don’t know if it’s real or imagined. But that moment really stuck with me. Maybe it’s because I always figured that if anything were to happen to one of us it would happen to me. That’s how it usually worked out. We were playing on some TV trays and I was the one who ended up with the two-inch gash by my eye. Later on, when we were teens, when she was teaching me to skateboard I was the one who fell off and fucked up his teeth and tore open his lip.

I still have the scars from both of those. She told me she felt bad about it once. I’m just happy for the stories.

My sister got a plaster cast and had lots of friends sign it. A few years later, when I was in fifth grade, some kid broke my arm and I didn’t go to the doctor for days, because I refused to believe that it wasn’t going to be okay. He put my arm in a sling and made bad jokes, and I felt like everyone was staring at me all the time.

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When I was a kid my father worked at the community college, and we’d spend a lot of time around his work after school. Often we’d go to the bookstore and someone would buy us some snacks. For some reason I associate it particularly with gummi worms; for the longest time this was my only association with the place. I didn’t really notice or care that it sold books, so long as there was candy in it for me.

I remember an occasion where someone asked if I wanted to go to the Snackbar. This is apparently what the cafeteria used to be called. Naturally I said yes, because I assumed they meant the bookstore, where we got our snacks, and I could be relied upon to want candy. And we went to this place which was foreign to me and serving food that wasn’t candy at all, and I was very upset. This wasn’t the Snackbar, this was some other place, some place serving food I wanted none of. It was shattering. I felt cheated. I felt like the world wasn’t working the way it’s supposed to.

I’m older now. I know the context of things, and I understand confusion, as much as any of us can. I still care a great deal about words and what they mean, though, and I still find it shattering when life doesn’t live up to my expectations. I have them so rarely, that when it doesn’t happen I don’t know what to do. I was expecting something. I had every reason to believe it would happen. When it doesn’t, I feel just like I did back then. Like there’s something that just fundamentally broke, and I’m left holding the pieces.

And I’d been thinking of that story lately, because sometimes an old story you’d forgotten for years is the best way to frame the world.

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