Author Archives: parmanifesto

Ran

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“Hi Ben, this is Terry from American Family Insurance. There’s been a legal action filed for that accident in ’08. Do you remember that?”

Oh, Terry, I remember. I remember the ’01 Chevrolet Cavalier in yellow.

When it was mine, many people tried to name it – the banana, mellow yellow, sunflower – but I never tried; I knew it was too cool for a name, even a nickname. I coated my acne-afflicted skin in makeup, indulged in $50 haircuts, hid in vintage outfits, got lost in craigslist, climbed in that car and saw through the windshield.

Then a man ran a red light in his blue car, I ran a green light in my yellow car, the colors ran together. We got out. It was not a beautiful day in the neighborhood, but this neighborhood didn’t have beautiful days. We stood around waiting for the policeman, locked in the walk-in freezer of a Wisconsin winter; me shuddering in a thin sweater which I had decided that morning was too incredible to be concealed by a coat, him making conversation instead of making amends. When the policeman arrived an hour later, he asked questions, we answered them. There was only one Witness, and He was respectfully silent.

The insurance company determined that the car was a Total Loss, which I could have told them before the accident. It always needed repairs, maintenance, attention.

“…Do you remember that?”

Oh, Terry, I remember. The car’s grill hangs on my wall, the only piece intact, set apart from the wreckage. Blazing eagle beak yellow, with the Chevrolet cross in the middle.

Home Alone

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This post and its comments were originally published on Transformation City Church’s blog.

 

The wind blows from its diaphragm and the trees do the wave like a crowd at a sports game. For a moment I marvel at the movement; it’s paradoxically collective and individual. It would be maddening to animate. Maybe this is why there aren’t many animated movies starring trees.

For three days the housemates have been at a conference. Every day I have the same conversation with a different kid, or the same kid. “Where Kevin at?” they ask. “At a conference.” I answer. “Where Ben and Megan at?” They ask. “At the same conference.” I answer. They walk away.

The conference is hosted by the Christian Community Development Association, and I was invited, but I declined. It’s held in Indianapolis. Indianapolis, Minneapolis…what stupid names. “Welcome to the city of the state we live in.” That’s more Original than Werther’s! Oh I know, there are several Greek scholars who could expound on Polis in terms of Philosophy and History, but I would get angry and argue with them, and then gyros would be ruined, ruined, and I don’t know why that matters since I don’t eat gyros due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

A chill tickles my spine but I refuse to go inside and put on a sweater because I would soon take it off. Tonight is the restless middle child of summer and autumn; so desperate is its desire for approval, and its denial of it, I am almost moved to pity, but move past it to repulsion.

On the curb, several stacks of furniture and garbage form makeshift memorials, commemorating those who have recently moved out – people of various sizes and textures, each one of them a feature in the topography. Opening the door to my car, sometimes I patted a hand on the kids’ heads, waved a hand at the adults. Closing the door to my room, I laid hands on the keyboard.

A friend calls. I do not answer. They leave a voicemail. I listen to it: “I’m feeling lonely, but that’s not your fault.”

Across the street I see a man on his front porch holding a cell phone. I wonder if he sees me.

All For One

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This post and its comments were originally published on Transformation City Church’s blog.

 

That afternoon, the intersection of North and Fond Du Lac Avenues was busy being the busiest intersection in Milwaukee. Everyone was Pooh with their head in the bee hive, selfish selfish selfish and stupid stupid stupid.

In the crosswalk, there was a man wearing a Packers jersey, a floral scarf on his head and carrying a single plastic white hanger. Each footstep seemed a philosophical statement: No one cares, therefore I do not care. No one honked, no one looked, no one pointed. To us he was a human construction barrel, to be avoided.

As I turned, there was a woman standing by the bus stop, not waiting for the bus. The combination of her clothes – or what was left of them – suggested a costume. I wanted to give her a ride, but I realized that might be misinterpreted by her, and the police.

Further down the street, a young couple waited to cross. She held the child like a bag of groceries and he stood five feet away like he didn’t know them. The smoke from his cigarette slipped into my cracked window.

I looked into the rear view mirror and a pair of narrowed eyes looked back. I rubbed the gunk from the corners. I looked away. I looked ahead.

When I arrived at the community house, it was time for Bible Club. A boy gripped my arm like it was a branch hanging over a rushing river. “What do you think God looks like?” Asked Kevin. “He’s a yellow spirit,” Shouted one kid. “I bet He’s got big sandals,” Shouted a second. The third was so quiet Kevin had to repeat it for us: “Maybe He looks like all of us put together.”

The Night Before

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Only the threat of nakedness persuaded Vera to do laundry. Hugging a mound of clothes, she lifted, lowered them in the washer, closed the lid…and they floated around and around. For a moment she considered climbing in with them, but that seemed redundant, or parallelistic, since she already felt like she was swimming inside of herself. Her scientific hypothesis: it was the wine. Best to repeat the experiment to prove the hypothesis. She walked away from the washer and dryer – which had started rattling spare change like Lucy at her psychiatric booth – and into the kitchen, to fill her glass.

The freezer was still there. She opened it, just a little bit, and the carton of chocolate hazelnut ice cream saw her. She laughed once, at it, at herself, at herself for laughing at it. There was no longer a reason to crave it, no longer a reason to cave in to the craving. Gripping the carton, she held it over the trash until her hands were numb. She thought about it. She thought about not thinking about it. She thought, it takes more effort to think about not thinking about it than to just think about it. So she started thinking about it.

Well, not about it. But about the night before.

It began with her having a staring contest with her wardrobe. They both won – the closet didn’t blink and she found something to wear: a pair of tailored trousers, a collared blouse. It was sort of Marlene Dietrich. Maybe it was just lesbian. But pretty lesbian. Vera didn’t like ugly lesbians. She never admitted to herself that she didn’t like them, she just avoided them, like spilled tomato juice in a grocery aisle. Not that she knew lesbians by sight. Just the ugly ones. Anyway, the pants fit, and that was important.

A large painted sign on the theater read “Carneville.” Now this was not a new word; Shakespeare made new words. This was a hybrid word, a half and half word. Of course it was supposed to be a fusion of carnival and vaudeville, but Vera thought it sounded more like a very festive town of carnivores.

After reading that sign, the bar sign seemed earnestly simple. Vera smiled at her waving friends, Ron and Louise, and ordered a glass of white wine, a gin and tonic and a screwdriver. Carrying all three drinks over to them, she said, “you two fight over the cocktails; the wine is for me.” They were married, Ron and Louise, but that was incidental; she had known them both individually before that. Their tastes were different but complementary; their mutual interest in this show convinced her to accept their invitation.

Most of the show was rather tedious, the juggler accidentally catching the balls and purposely dropping them, the fat singer punching the stuffing out of every consonant, a strong man who could bend a license plate but couldn’t do a proper victory pose.

But Vera was not prepared for the masochist.

The title “masochist” irritated her. Yes, it presumed credibility, as though he had earned a degree and did his clinicals and now he was an -ist of some kind. An -ist with tattoos stitched all over his skin, and a vest stained with thread, and black grease clinging to his teeth. What was that for? She didn’t know. He rubbed his cheeks with a clear liquid and swished it in his mouth. What was that for? She didn’t know. Long needlenails were held high, one end sparkling with beads, the other gleaming with sharpness. What were those for? She knew.

The first one went in easy. Through one cheek, through another.

The second one was a little harder. Angled from one corner of the mouth to the other. Why was she watching? She couldn’t understand why she was watching. She stopped watching.

The third one was very hard. She could tell from the audience’s reaction. She couldn’t understand why she looked up, but she did.

On the underside of his chin, the needlenail was pushing to poke through, raising a steep teepee of skin.

She looked away again. It felt as though there were millions of miles between her and the floor, and she was afraid of heights. One of her hands attacked the other, squeezing and blanching and cracking.

She looked up again. It was through. People were clapping. The masochist, smile glinting with metal and grease, was leaving the stage. There was a woman waiting in the wings, holding out a baby to him. Taking it from her arms, he held it high, whooped, danced, the poltergeist of a primitive.

Something shifted and clicked in Vera’s mind. Legs lifted her body, fingers curled into fists, neck extended head forward. A mangled growl of words came out of her mouth:

“Put down the baby.”

Louise looked up at her. “Vera – ”

“Put down the baby.” People, and the masochist, were staring now. Her voice was crumbling in pieces, and everyone was afraid one would fall on them.

Louise reached out a hand. “Please. Let’s go. I’m sorry.”

“Put down the baby!”

She dropped the ice cream carton in the trash. There was no longer a reason to crave it, no longer a reason to cave in to the craving. She thought about losing the weight. It was pitiful to people who knew what happened. But the weight held her in place.

Why hadn’t the dryer buzzer gone off? She hadn’t set it. She hated being reminded. Sometimes when someone reminded her of something she had forgotten, or even worse, something she hadn’t forgotten yet, she would imagine herself as a criminal in an interrogation room, developing the most contemptuously decadent lie that irrefutably proved her superior intelligence. She was getting damn good at it.

The dryer buzzer went off. She hadn’t forgotten. Opening the dryer door extinguished the invisible fire – sent a little flood of light into the dark hall – and out came the clothes, scorched and limp and pure.

Domestic Dispute

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This post and its comments were originally published on Transformation City Church’s blog.

 

Some weeks we have Bible Club. Some weeks we have Bible Fight Club. This week was definitely BFC, hot and crispy.

In our meeting beforehand Kevin outlined the lesson plan, which was about Joseph. (Not the one who got to be Jesus’ father, but the one who got a multi-colored coat from his father.) Kevin was concerned that the story was too long and its moral too vague for the children.

He needn’t have been concerned, because he never got to tell Joseph’s story. Instead, the children acted it out. They boasted to, argued with, and betrayed one another. Kevin preached about forgiveness and forgave them all. And somehow it was all right. We all walked away from it like the survivors of a plane crash, giddy, grateful.

That night, above the groaning of my air conditioner and the heartbeat of my stereo, I heard shouting. A limited vocabulary of expletives conveying a broad diversity of hatred. I was sure it was right outside my window, in the backyard, some spontaneous angry cookout, assault with a spatula. But when I opened the blinds no one was there. Walking out of my room I found Kevin, who was darting between watching the basketball game on TV and watching out the front windows.

“What’s going on out there?” I barked, as if the question had the power to restore sanity.

On the balcony, our opera box, we peered at the drama below. Shadows of men and women grappled and shoved. One streetlight respected their privacy and refrained from illuminating.

“I’m going to call the alderman and get him to fix that streetlight,” Kevin scolded, “and I did call the police, but they take forever to get here.”

A siren responded to his accusation. 12 cop cars raced in and cops bounced out of them. They surrounded the scene, dedicated extras awaiting a director’s cue. Then something gave – they engaged – grabbing and separating, commanding and escorting.

Kevin shook his head and sighed, “None of this would happen if people just watched the game.”

Some nights later, as I was driving down our alley that the city calls a street, two cats rolled in front of my car, clawing at one another. Swearing, I slammed on the brake.

They leaped apart and glared at me, eyes glowing green. They were going to kill each other. I was getting in the way.

Prime & Paint

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A fashion designer would describe it as “mesmerize.” I would describe it as “slate.” A normal person would describe it as “bluish gray.” It is the color of our new church building.

I grab a roller and a tray, position my headphones and pick Steve Reich’s The Four Sections. It is minimal and meditative without being simplistic or repetitive. The mallet percussion become little monks ringing little bells in my ears, calling me to divine serenity.

And I need SERENITY NOW! It’s that damn Dallas Willard. Such a harmless name, isn’t it? Like a southern small town high school math teacher. To me, he’s more dangerous than Michael Jackson. Particularly for referring to a certain Bible version’s translation of a verse as “terribly mistaken.”*

Terribly mistaken?

This statement is like selling bombs to terrorists. It’s like giving Satan the key to the front door, the back door, the cat door. It’s like, wrong? God’s not powerful enough to ensure accurate translation of this verse? What about the rest of His Word?**

I remove my headphones and release all of this to my Pastor, who is painting next to me.

“Yeah, well, you know, the original Hebrew doesn’t say Mary was a virgin,” he informs, “it says she was a young maiden.”

“What has been primed and what has been painted?” I snap, waving at the wall. “I can’t tell the difference.”

“I know they’re close, ” he says, “but get some light on it, you’ll be able to tell.”

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*Context of the quote, for those who care: “…translations of Matt. 5:28 that say, ‘everyone who looks at a woman and desires her,’ or ‘everyone who looks at a woman with desire,’ are terribly mistaken.” And now the context of me, for those who care: Although I look at women, especially when they are talking to me, I do not and desire them or with desire them. I do desire to be them, but only when they are touching some intolerably attractive man.

**The slippery slope argument, or, as I call it, the Slip ‘n Slide argument. It’s all fun and games until someone breaks their neck. Which, sadly, actually happened a couple of times.

Kids on the Block

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This post and its comments were originally published on Transformation City Church’s blog.

 

People are looking at us. Not us. Me. I look suspicious. A white man driving a car full of black kids. In the most segregated city in the country. But statistics are made by people; statistics do not make people.

The girl in the front seat? A few nights ago she was crying on our front steps. I wondered how long she’d been sitting there. Kevin asked her what was wrong. Megan sat down and the girl pressed into her, eyes squeezed shut, as if wanting to be absorbed. Someone else’s mother called out. The girl walked over to her. “She just can’t find her mama,” the mother said.

The boy in the back seat? The other night he was holding his baby sister. “’Sup Ben?” He nodded, implying that holding a baby was now cool, because he was doing it. This is the same boy who recently rode his bike right in front of my car without looking. I imagined hitting him, holding his little body in the road, saying, No. No. No.

The boy sitting next to him? A couple days ago he asked, “Could you bring out the hoop?” I followed him to the garage, unlocked it, reached for the handle to lift up the door and stopped. “I’ve got to get a glove to lift it up,” I said, remembering how thin and sharp the handle is. “It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he said, gripping the handle and yanking upward. “You’ve got thick skin.” I told him. He smiled and held up his hand. It was bleeding.

“Does everyone have on their seatbelts?” I ask, checking the rear view mirror. I don’t see any kids. I lower the mirror and three little faces look back. While they are in my car I will keep them safe.

Holding Pattern

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I can turn wine into weakness faster than Jesus turned water into wine. Which is what I am doing tonight.

A night where we sit on the patio, dabbing our pulse points with vanilla extract. It’s supposed to repel mosquitoes. It makes us smell like cupcakes.

Everyone is husband and wife, or boyfriend and girlfriend. Two candles on a mantel, glowing with the relief that at least they aren’t alone. Everyone except me, the one burning at both ends.

This incites a brief debate in my mind about whether to have a second glass of wine. Against: some nice 89 year old with Alzheimer’s. For: a horny Harvard senior with a high IQ. It is a merciful victory. A third glass is poured in celebration.

“I’m so glad you have one another,” I address a candle set, “But I don’t think God wants that for me.”

I’m beginning to resemble Bobby in Company so I walk away. I scroll through my cell phone book. I collect lint from my navel like cotton candy out of a machine. I select someone. I drill for more lint. I text:

“So mysterious and sufficient is the love of God. And yet, some nights I just want someone to hold me.”

It’s a miracle my phone doesn’t throw up after eating that shit.

The next morning, as I undress to shower, there is a gleam of encrusted blood in my navel. Gingerly I clean with Q-tips, who, in their soft sterility, imply I should have employed them to do this job at the start.

When I turn my phone back on, it groans, remembering what it did last night. Pause. Then it receives a text message:

“If you were my son, I would hold you.”

In Our Midst

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We are young but we used to be younger.

Then we were children of the revolution, determined to enjoy ourselves, wringing the beauty out of every moment. Now we are adullts, trying to understand ourselves, wringing our cell phones:

“I’m afraid if I went back to then I wouldn’t take things back like I sometimes say I would. I’m afraid I would do more of them. And that it would be as good as I remember,” She says.

“Now it’s like we’re always before or after and never in the middle of it,” I say.

We hang up. I walk to my car to drive to a safe neighborhood to walk.

Minutes later I am 20 blocks away and several social classes up. Surrounded by huge, staring homes, I light a cigar. The tip grows and burns.

“Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!” Rosalind Russell shouts in my mind. We’re not starving, we’ve forgotten how to be hungry.

I almost walk into a low hanging branch of a lilac tree. Cupping the blossom, like it will leak through my fingers, I lift it to my face. The smell of cigar and lilac drive into the two-car garage of my nose and crash into something in my mind.

I’m laughing. I’m thinking of Him. I’m texting her: He knows the plans He has for us.

It Had To Be You

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a restaurant should not have a stage. isn’t food entertaining enough? but this restaurant does and i am on it. the piano player begins  “it had to be you,” and speaking of which, You are somewhere in the dimness.

my lips part and my voice lilts with timid desire.

talking – (disrespectful but i will be merciful) – scREEching microphone – (i smile louder to dissuade a duet) – bReAKing diShEs – (my eyes shock closed and my shoulders jerk, soldiers disobeying orders before i can give them) – Waiter takes an order and telephone rings – (i grip the microphone like a bullhorn)

Sabotage is a multitasker. i’m distracted by the noise, enraged at the noisemakers, disgusted with being distracted by and enraged at the noisemakers.

finally we’re outside and walking and You’re telling me, “you have a wonderful voice.” i can’t believe it but then i remember: it is a new song, i’m still learning it, and it is for You.