All the Dynamos Within - Part One

On cold, wet days I had a habit of trekking into the woods - because no one else did. I enjoyed the privacy. The quiet creaking of the old growth trees and the stillness of the moss cleaned the wretched thoughts in my head. It snowed softly, but the thick canopy above me blocked most of it. The forest floor growled with an intense green, save for open thickets of fern and mountain grass, which the snow had enveloped in white. A small creek dribbled nearby, appearing like a shiny scar curving through the undergrowth.

Air formed as short-lived clouds in front of my face and I stood quietly with my gloved thumbs in my pockets. I surveyed the area. Two mountains ascended on both sides of me, a sheer cliff on the left and a gentle grade on the right. The lush green gully in which I stood had not changed much from when I walked it as an adolescent.

I continued to walk, absentmindedly palming the underside of my backpack to make sure it had not miraculously fallen from my shoulders. The small pack had three days of survival gear even though the hike lasted only a day. I was halfway through, hugged by mountains.

When I came up over a rise in the terrain I nearly fell flat on my face, distracted by the sudden disappearance of the trail. I ignored the entanglement of tree roots at my feet and stumbled forward in disbelief. The trail simply ended.

"What the - where the hell did the trail go?" I said aloud.

A thicket of sword ferns swallowed the path. Quickly, I deduced there must have been a mudslide years ago, which had now been colonized by ferns. But that thought seemed short-lived because the rampant footfalls of other hikers would have produced, at the very least, a sliver of a trail. Regardless, I pressed on, convinced the trail would reappear at the far edge of the supposed "mudslide."

I walked 200 meters. Nothing. Just thick vegetation and no evidence of the trampled, muddy path that was supposed to be underneath it. I looked over my shoulder, studying where the thicket had started. The strange border taunted me, but I shrugged my shoulders and walked another 200 meters. Still nothing. My pant legs were wet from pushing through ferns when I arrived at the apex of another rise.

The calm of the forest faded and confusion set in. Eyes wide, I noticed below me a juncture at which the two mountains touched. I had hiked between these mountains probably fifty times and they were never joined at any point anywhere! No manner of mudslide, or even earthquake for that matter, could have pushed these mountains together within 20 years. Besides, one side of the path always had a moderate slope. The sudden appearance of a second cliff made my head spin. Having a moment of panic I thought I was lost for a brief moment - but I couldn't be lost with the trail not that far behind me.

I inspected the area and an awful heat rose in my chest when I realized the creek was missing. The creek was supposed to run the entire length of the hike. I definitely remembered that. Scratching my head, I swiftly backtracked through the fern to where the path ended. About 20 feet from the path I found the creek again and followed it in the direction of the hike.

The creek ended just like the trail. The water flowed into a bed of ferns and disappeared. My stomach churned and I began to sweat. And then my ears started to ring. I rubbed them with my gloved hands, still staring at the disappearing creek. When I moved my hands away it occurred to me the ringing was getting louder - and it sounded more like a tune.

I heard whistling! Someone was whistling . . . 

The Shelf-life of Lemonade

Hey folks. I decided to post one of my more entertaining stories so you don't get the impression I only write dark, brooding diatribes. The story below is entirely true and when I finish building my website it will be posted there as well. I wrote it several years ago while on a trip to Eastern Washington to visit my ailing maternal grandfather. Hopefully, the story will produce more smiles rather than knitted eyebrows.

The Shelf-life of Lemonade

It took no time at all to realize that the Greyhound bus terminal in Seattle was a tough place to be. The shrill lights dried out my eyes instantly and the video game arcade assaulted my ears with space-rifle blasts and karate-chop grunts. Amid the commotion and noise, I felt lucky to avoid a seizure. And good grief, the bathroom was ahead of schedule for the apocalypse–busted tiles, indestructible stains, exposed pipes, glass-scratch graffiti, the imperfect aim of men, the unfortunate guy sitting in the one stall with no door and sinks that seem to serve the purpose of spreading disease instead of keeping it at bay. It was unclear how old the station was, but the janitor, a rough-looking man in his early seventies, seemed he might have opened the place sixty years ago. He knew his job well, but he was slow and beaten down; he wouldn’t be rushing to stock the stalls with toilet paper.

My curiosity pointed to a particular passenger who had fallen asleep at one end of the ticket counter. He laid face down on the floor, sprawled between two duffle bags with his head resting on a third. I couldn’t understand how a person could put themselves in such a vulnerable position. There is no way I could fall asleep in such conditions. It’s too dangerous. It’s also too filthy. He didn’t seem to mind, however, as he rubbed his body and clothes all over the trodden tiles. Maybe he had some sort of pact with the janitor, something about cleaning the floors while feigning the tossing and turning of sleep. After all, the sluggish janitor did need the help.

The hysterical antics in the lobby began to grow when I observed the rent-a-cops on duty. The first one, an average Joe white guy, masterfully depicted the persona of the Terminator, only, he looked more like a fucking dork instead of a killing machine. Try to think of someone you know with a really big head and then double it in size. This would be the exact size of rent-a-cop boy’s head. He patrolled the area, moving at about the same speed as the janitor and for some reason he thought it very important to inspect the vending machines on a regular basis. I mouthed the word “creep” as he hovered over people who were napping. He stood over them, zooming in absurdly close to their faces, appearing to contemplate on whether to wake them or not. Each time, however, he just shrugged his shoulders, filled his cheeks with air, squinted through his thick-rimmed glasses–to look intimidating I assumed–and continued walking in circles. Twenty minutes later, the second rent-a-cop, a short and street-hardened African-American woman, relieved the thick-headed one and immediately woke up all the people the first guy had ignored. Some people are just better Terminators than others.

About halfway through the trip we arrived in Yakima, a city whose name translates to “runaway.” Legend claims that a Chief’s daughter disobeyed some tribal rules and fled from her home to later settle in the Yakima valley, a region that is now more well-known for its successful vineyards. It wasn’t until we pulled into the Yakima international bus station that things, once again, started to become interesting.

I started seeing walruses.

As people around me shifted uncomfortably, worrying about who would sit next to them, I became very curious about a cop-related situation brewing about a block away.

One of Yakima’s finest, lights flashing and all, had pulled over a man driving a crappy, white-trashified Trans-am. The driver of the Trans-am was a white man wearing a turquoise tank top, a baseball cap, sandals, and a pair of flimsy gym shorts. He got out of his car before the officer could meet him at his window and they met halfway. After I got over the initial glare of the Trans-am driver’s “Top Gun” sunglasses, I noticed his absurdly huge push-broom moustache and his belly hanging dangerously low over his shorts, dangerous in the kind of way it pulled the shorts a little too low in the back. He looked like a walrus.

The man pleaded his case to the officer, pointing his fingers dramatically in every direction and raising his voice to the sky–as if God would summarily answer all of his complaints. The cop deserved a lot of credit; he listened to the whole tirade patiently. Then, matter-of-factly, the officer whipped out his citation tablet and promptly wrote the turquoise walrus-man a ticket. I enjoyed this whole play of events, and the most interesting part . . . the cop was Hispanic-American. This made it nothing short of a bona-fide racism role-reversal, only the cop was just doing his job well. I couldn’t help but draw some kind of odd pleasure from the situation.

I looked away from the cop scene to the front of the bus and saw another heavy man with a push-broom moustache waddling down the aisle toward me. And boy, he was the real deal. I had officially laid eyes on the royal king of the walrus clan. He looked twice as big as the turquoise walrus-man because of his “humpback” backpack, which swung precariously close to passengers’ heads each time he turned to the bus driver to shout about his hungry belly.

“Yep, uh-huh, I’m starving! Fact is, I was almost late ‘cause I was gettin’ this here food.”

“Great,” the bus driver said, feigning interest.

“Yep, yep! So hungry I got me some french fried taters and tacos right here. Mmm, good stuff. Yes sir!”

Showing his loot, the man dangled two grease-stained paper bags in the air. I winced while I helplessly watched his overstuffed backpack knock a plastic superhero out of a little boy’s hands. Incensed by the plundering backpack, the boy punched the walrus king in the back of the leg. His Highness didn’t notice.

The bus got moving again and everybody took their preferred Greyhound positions. A few people tried to catch naps by constructing impossible pillows out of jackets and jamming their heads between windows and seats. Others sought solace in blaring music through their headphones. Some tried to hush screaming babies; and the folks in the back, they inevitably found a sneaky way to get wasted without getting kicked off the bus. Not me, though, I was engrossed with the walrus king. Hmm, “The Walrus King,” that’s a Disney movie I hope and pray they don’t make. Regardless of that ugly thought, I decided that the walrus king would be my entertainment for the next fifteen minutes, and that turned out to be an excellent choice because . . . well . . . he began eating.

The man fisted his paper bags, making obnoxiously loud crinkling noises, and began shoving food into his mouth, moving like a well-oiled piston. He consumed a total of six tacos and about two pounds of french fries. The only portion of his lunch he did not eat was the half-chewed taco shavings that either fell surreptitiously from his lips or launched from his mouth during several bouts of coughing. Now, it’s perfectly normal to accidentally spit out a bit of food from a surprise cough or sneeze, but the last time I checked it’s customary to cover one’s mouth. The walrus king, in all his glory, seemed to have missed the class on that bit of etiquette. The splattering came out in chunks, thudding against the seat in front of him and sounding a lot like cumbersome raindrops falling on the roof of a tent. I wondered if I should have informed the woman sitting in front of the walrus king, but thought against it when I realized that her hair, overdone and teased with heaps of hairspray, served as a perfectly good helmet to deflect the food projectiles.

We arrived in the town of Toppenish a little while later for a forty-minute meal break. The view of the town gave me the uneasy feeling that we had just driven into an episode of the Twilight Zone and that Rod Serling was outside, lurking in the parking lot. I stayed on board, trying to avoid Toppenish altogether, but the driver started to get on my nerves. He began hitting on the “cute girl” passenger by asking her to translate everything on a menu for some local Mexican restaurant.

“Heh, heh. And what did you say “Carnes” was? Something about beef, is that right, sweetie?” he said, draping himself over the seat in front of her.

Sickened by the driver, I decided to exit the silver Twinkie anyway, not giving a damn if Rod Serling suddenly materialized. He didn’t appear. But I think he was there in spirit, however; Toppenish was imprisoned in a fucking time warp.

The great metropolis of Toppenish seemed to be stuck in several different decades, but none more recent than the eighties. In every direction I saw vast, empty fields spotted with broken-down farm equipment and various decaying automobiles. And in front of where I stood, at the center of these fields, a group of slightly more youthful cars – but not that much younger – rested around a small-town diner. The restaurant mimicked the state of transportation surrounding it, appearing to have been reluctantly dragged from the happy-go-lucky fifties into the coke-crazed eighties and left for dead. Like the Seattle bus station, it was a hard place to be. The only thing probably keeping the business afloat was its convenient location next to the highway.

I entered the restaurant with the intentions of charging the battery in my laptop and reading more from Howard Zinn’s People’s History of the United States. I was able to charge the battery, but only after some cool Mexican-American man, who seemed to be in charge, joked with me about paying rent for the use of his electrical outlet. I ordered an over-priced orange juice and started reading.

And then, I stopped reading.

Some kind of aggravating sorority-type girl had become enamored of the juke box, which isn’t that obnoxious in and of itself. You see, the real problem was that she had a particular affinity for the song I Will Always Love You, by Whitney Houston. The girl played the sappy tune three times in a row and on the third round she came up to me to introduce herself.

“What’re ya reading?” she asked, smacking chewing gum between her teeth.

“Uh, The People’s History of the United States.” Mentioning the author seemed irrelevant for some reason.

“Do you study that?”

“No, I just read it for fun.”

“Oh, I’m going to Spokane,” she blurted, not paying attention.

“Great. What’s in Spokane?”

She smiled triumphantly. “I’m going there to take the A-C-T.”

I congratulated the girl and wished her well, but my words didn’t seem to have any affect on her because she immediately launched into an award-winning presentation of how much she loved the screeching love ballad that still wafted through the air.

I said nothing.

She stared at the ceiling.

I waited.

She chewed her gum.

I waited some more.

After a couple squeaky sighs and a bit of hair twirling she finally said goodbye. I wished her luck on the ACT again and she sat down, thankfully, away from the Whitney Houston machine.

My urge to read had faded during the conversation with the ACT girl so I focused on my surroundings instead. A waitress mistakenly offered to warm up my orange juice with coffee. I politely declined. The juice looked nuclear, but it was refreshing. The walrus king had just gobbled up a full plate of tamales. What would he eat next? His plate and silverware? His seat cushion? The insatiable appetite of the walrus king made me afraid – no, very afraid – to go back onto the bus. Enter Rod Serling stage left.

The entire bus ride took close to eight hours to drive just four hundred miles. This could have made me bitter – maybe, in some way, it did. Nevertheless, I boldly pretended to be one of those ultra-cheesy, positive reinforcement counselors who preach the gospel of lemons. We all know this gospel. Our grandparents taught us this gospel; that is, the gospel of turning lemons into lemonade. With a bit of naiveté I had figured this lemonade trick would be effective for the whole trip. But when, with only thirty miles to go, our bus driver suddenly pulled off the road and aggressively confronted two people in the bathroom who were “doing something,” I learned that lemonade only lasts for so long. On such a bus ride and in many other life situations lemonade just flat-out rots; it simply goes bad before anyone can enjoy it. Maybe our grandparents already know – it’s likely they do – but, just in case they don’t, we should let them know that even lemonade has a shelf-life.

© Chance Wolf Koehnen

This Light Is Not My Own

I'm a little ashamed to say it, but I'm tired of holding up other people's torches. And I say I'm ashamed because it seems so self-serving to make such a claim. But this nevertheless seems true. I often look to my arms and they are thronged with the torches of others and my own light is nearly extinguished at my feet. Simply put and not trying to sound high and mighty, I suffer from the afflictions found in caring for others more than myself. This runs in my family in varying degrees.

My father once told me he's "done" with helping others, that he's been in way to many situations where his extensive efforts went disregarded and without reciprocation. Some days I don't blame my father for feeling this way. I sometimes find it difficult to fault him for maintaining certain selfish proclivities. And, to be clear, even though my father once said he's "done," he still answers effort in kind, which is an attribute wholly vacant in some folks. I didn't start this day supporting the inclination of being "done," nor will I necessarily be this way tomorrow, but for a heap of reasons - stretched across several years - I feel a lot like my father in this late hour.

I'm not sure exactly what set it off, but it seems to stem from the occasional self-righteous privilege I see in others. To be clear, I think my frustration is catalyzed by people who assume success should fall into their laps just because they are breathing. Their assumption, naturally, belies reality.

And so I ask:  What happened to solid personal effort? What happened to the good old-fashioned notions of trying? Why do I find myself holding up the light of others so often?

It seems to me everyone knows how to hold up the light of others, and yet they only hold their own. In many cases, folks even expect others to carry their light for them, that they afford this right much the same way royalty makes use of servants.

This cannot last. It must end. Such notions of privilege are childish and indolent.

And, to be sure, I am not exempt from such vagabond thinking. I too, at one time or another, have dumped my light into the open arms of someone more willing than I. Be that as it may, I still find myself holding the torches of others more often than not. And in this I beckon myself to heed a particular warning, which is to know the right time to abandon the lights of others so I may reignite my own.

With a somewhat vague success I understand the more torches I hold, the brighter I am . . . and that such makes me more likely to catch fire and descend from flesh to ashes.

Nevertheless, I continue to hold bundles of light (I know I'm not the only one). But I do so with what wisdom I've gleaned from the dissatisfaction of my father. And don't be surprised if I hand your light back to you - because the effort I put into social relationships is back-breaking. But if you can reciprocate, then it's easier to carry your light. And given the right circumstances, I'll even sing your anthems.

But in this moment I look down at my arms and see . . .

. . . this light is not my own.

A Gentle Reminder for Your Tongue

Imagine for a moment you have had your tongue cut from your mouth.

No, I mean it. Take a moment, close your eyes and know this imagery. If you need help, consider the following:

As I said, your tongue has been cut from your mouth. It was tossed to the ground as if to be a snack for a dog. Blood pours from your mouth and despite the copious red liquid you taste nothing. You will taste nothing for the rest of your life.

Think on that.

You focus on the pain. Just after your tongue is pulled from your mouth your adrenaline pumps to a furious level, a terrible heat rises in your chest. Your eyeballs point upward; they search for the back of your head. The pain pushes you to the brink of darkness, unconsciousness a beckoning scream. You choke on the blood. You cough violently and - like lightning - the pain spiderwebs through your entire body.

It gets worse.

Imagine a weak person you know, someone who does not deserve the air they breathe. Maybe they are your enemy. Maybe they are basal and selfish. Maybe that person was someone you once loved. Maybe he or she is a tyrant. Know this person. Consider them. What is the color of their eyes? How do they stand? Hear their voice. Now imagine . . . this ugly person is the one who separated you from your tongue. You hear them laugh at you. The cackles are followed with words of derision. Their voice stings you because you realize the most awful thought of all.

You will not speak again.

And this is when the tears begin streaming down your cheeks. Your body convulses. You try to think of a way to reverse your loss, but there is no help. No more will you utter a word. You will never be able to say "I love you" again. Your words will come forward as mutilated vowels, stemming from your throat. You will have the vocabulary of a ghost. Your voice is at your feet, in the stomach a dog, buried in the dirt.

Think of these things. Really consider them. These grotesque images will guide you if you surrender your ego to the absence of your tongue.

Yes, imagine for a moment you have had your tongue cut from your mouth - and then - with pain of mind . . .

. . . choose your words carefully.

Music Short Fiction: A Peanut Butter and Pickle Art Sandwich?

Suddenly, I'm writing stories for a couple of bands - as if music did not have enough depth in and of itself. But such a collaboration seems to be underutilized . . . maybe for a good reason. I don't know. Nevertheless, imagine a world where writing short fiction was a staple in the construction of a music album, that the liner notes would reach past it's normal musings and extend a welcome hand to a literary representation of a song collection. Let the crunch of a guitar be a window crashing. Let the howl of a vocalist be a parade of banshees. Let a bitchin' beat crescendo as a frantic run through the wilderness. We have music videos, right? So why not music short fiction!?

Imaginary Daughter

I've already started the first story, which is for the band Imaginary Daughter. They just released an EP to drive their upcoming debut album "When the Bough Breaks." It hasn't been fully determined as to how my story will be used. Finn von Claret, the vocalist of Imaginary Daughter, expressed interest in writing the story on a dress in which she will perform, but this is not definite. From my past collaborations, in science and in art, I've learned it is sometimes more savvy to step back and allow such combinations to give birth to their own manifestation. With that said, I'm finding that their song "Transitory Two" is taking an alpha position in driving my story; it's grinding energy and lyrics fit it best.

So far, the Imaginary Daughter story introduces the aggressively stubborn character, Arabelle Manon, a woman with a secretive history. She meets Meyer Vergass, an aimless and submissive man who struggles with just about everything. They become friends under strange circumstances, meeting only once a week at the same cafe for several years (a condition dictated by Arabelle). Through their friendship Meyer finds in Arabelle an unwitting muse and under her influence manages to remember his own aggressive light. Meyer grows in strength and courage, but then Arabelle disappears . . .

I have not started the second story, but a few days ago I met with the talented Nathaniel Johnstone about his self-named project with the Brazilian Surf Mafia. Nathaniel asked me to write a story that embodies the emotional symbiosis of artist and audience. He would like some part of the story or the whole story inside the album case. Plus, he wants me to write an additional vocal narrative to be dubbed over some music. Sweet!

Nathaniel Johnstone and the Brazilian Surf Mafia

This piece currently has several characters, musicians and dancers of varying personalities. The story will be set in an abandoned building and occur during some sacred event celebrated by an all night show of music and dancing. My challenge will be to capture the joy in making art and put it to words. I plan on weaving a modern primitive feeling in the story, begging the notions of something like alterna-nomads celebrating joy overshadowing the hardships of a not-too-distant future in a semi-collapsed society.

These are my current projects. Please check out the links below the pictures to see more of Imaginary Daughter and Nathaniel Johnstone and the Brazilian Surf Mafia.

I love collaborations like this. It's as if I'm helping to make an art sandwich with fixings not normally used. Hopefully, this is a peanut butter and pickle sandwich folks will enjoy eating!

An Awful Case of Paggrosis

Yesterday, I made another attempt at finding a decent venue at which I can share my writing via spoken word. I shudder to say it, but I went to an open mic. Let me be clear; I have a love/hate relationship with open mic events. On the one hand, they are pretty much the only live event where I can share my written work and hear the work of others. On the other hand, I can't stand going to these events because of the awful poetry and monotone deliveries of literary works.

Now, I'm not the most talented writer. In fact, I struggle with dense verbosity, but I am not going to subject the masses with stop-and-go-robot-voiced poetry about "trumpets in a woman's thighs" or "heart-swept washes of sadness." If I'm gonna use a wild metaphor or flowery verbiage, then I'm putting a story behind it. That's just how I write.

What's more I have a great deal of trouble with poetry in general. I just can't stand the cadence. It throws me off. It offends good storytelling, which is my passion. And I know this is a preference. And I know some poets and lovers of poetry would enjoy having my nuts in a sling for this rant, but I ask for forgiveness by making it clear that I cannot deny some poetry is actually quite good. I'm a stout fan of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Pablo Neruda - what grace, poise and conviction! I believe talented poets, however, come as infrequently as the small number of people who can wear an eyebrow piercing and still look good; the rest of us who try to pull off that piercing, including me, would just look like we had a shiny booger stuck above our eye. In the end, I suppose this metaphor can also be coupled with the questionable talents of writers practicing other mediums. Again, this includes me.

At any rate, I was struck in several ways by the open mic last night. I'm pleased to have participated, but only five people shared work and all of them were men. Are women not writing? I'd really love to hear some gals' work. I tire easily of all the "sword-fighting" with the microphone stand. By the time the third fella got up on stage 70% of the clientele had bolted for the door. The cafe was empty, save for me, five other dudes and my supportive girlfriend, who was very gracious to sit with me through the entire word slaughter.

This picture I've painted seems to be an example of a Seattle disease, and I fear it has spread to other cities. I hope it hasn't. And for the sake of Seattle, I hope it's a curable disease. For lack of a better term I will call this Seattle disease "paggrosis," which is explained thusly:   "Paggro" is a term I heard recently from my dear friend, Libby, who may or may not have coined it. Libby used the word paggro to describe the passive- aggressive nature of Seattlelites. In varying degrees I'm sure paggrosis exists elsewhere, but it seems to be rampant in Seattle. People in this town just have a funny tendency to say, "Let's have lunch!" or "Let's do some art together!" or "Let's go on a date!" and they DO - ABSOLUTELY - NOTHING. Seattlelites are not known for looking up from their feet and saying hello to strangers. And such is in stark contrast to the experiences I've had in larger metropolises like New York City or in European cities.

Now, don't get me wrong, Seattle is a wonderful town. It has many stellar attributes such as it's proximity to the mountains, it's pleasant balance between nature and concrete, it's magnificent coffee, it's bike lanes and so on. Seattle even has amazing, talented and productive people living in it. I can list several folks of this ilk, but consider this gal,  Amy-Ellen Flatchestedmama Trefsger, whom I met ten years ago at an open mic event.  Flatchestedmama is the quintessential antithesis of paggrosis.

We need more folks in Seattle to offer up more of a cure for paggrosis, a viral effort to fight it. This town needs an aggressive treatment schedule to give rise to more shared lunches, to more works of art and (for the love of loving) more dating!

In the end, taking my own advice, I will return to the aforementioned awful open mic. Yes, I will return, armed with more writing and hopefully with a band of talented friends, acquaintances and strangers to share their own works. I am guilty of putting forth this anti-paggro effort only in varying degrees of tenacity. I admit it. I should have been frothing at the mouth with such positive effort continually and with greater courage.

And even though frothing at the mouth looks like a disease, in this case - it's the cure.