Smoking, 17 Years Old

The darkness molested by the
pollution of city lights and
street lamps blazing through the
summer night hung low over
the pond — we called it the
puddle — and there we sat,
near the edge of the murk, in such
stark contrast to the relative
order around us, illuminated in
sharp blacks and whites like in
those old movies.
Cigarettes hung loosely from our
lips, smoke poured and streamed
into a poisonous plume,
in a smooth and sophisticated way –
as we fancied ourselves to be –
silently pondering the existential and poetical,
smoking cigarettes at seventeen.

A Little Audacity

I am sleeping lightly upon a leather loveseat covered in blankets. In my dream, I am laying awake looking at my cellphone as it vibrates and rings in its little melody. Suddenly, I irk awake and look to my phone. Nothing. Seconds later, it rings. In the passage of one afternoon, this happens three times.

It is a few days earlier. As I cross the mighty Androscoggin river, I look to my left and wonder about the fate of the old Cowlan mill building. Contracts have fallen through and that historic landmark, now gutted, silent, and looming simply exists to uphold its own history — an icon of sorts for all the memories of the textile past. I know that it will not make it. Today, an inferno raged inside of the building and within the span of two hours destroyed all that was left. Floors caved in, walls collapsed into the river, the entire place came thundering down. Over 150 years of history was enveloped in fire, each year screaming as it died, sending fireballs and cinders from the building all over downtown Lewiston.

I pick up my pen, put it to the page, and then it falls over, leaving a sploch of black ink on the page. I am drugged with hopes of my condition improving, yet I have vomited almost everyday, and even water makes my stomach churn. I sit back, weakened by persistent fatigue, and imagine off into another place while my muscles lose their tone, while my body softens and my strength is undermined. I sit with a patch over one eye, too dizzy even to stand.

It is audacity that gets me through this. Boldness shielding an inner determination that strengthens my core, enlivens my willpower, envokes a sort of rage against all that is holding me back. My soul infuses with the whole of my body and I can conquer any obstacles that are presented. A little audacity is what keeps me alive through times when even reading is a challenge.

Each breath. Stronger.

Hrafn

http://tylernoyes.wordpress.com/

An Experiment in Consumption

Recently I visited the art gallery at the University of Maine at Farmington, where I go to college. On the second floor of the gallery, part of a larger exhibit called “Here to There,” is a sculpture entitled “Complex”. One of the features of this sculpture are McDonald’s cheeseburger wrappers reborn and folded into flowers, sitting on various levels of the snowflake-shaped, multi-leveled construction.

When I saw the cheeseburger wrappers, immediately my mouth watered and the flavor of a perfect combination of ketchup, pickles, onions, and cheese filled my mouth. I wasn’t hungry at all, but just by seeing those wrappers — even in their new form — I instantaneously wanted a McDonald’s cheeseburger. The drive was almost like that for food, water, shelter, sex. The irony here is I despise McDonald’s and don’t care for any of their food. Still, the messages that the advertising has inundated me with for my entire life persist and have become so powerful that just seeing an image related to one of their products keys a savory feeling in my mouth.

I love cultural studies and criticism, so tonight I did an experiment in consumption. For one dinner, I diverged completely from my normal high-fiber diet of water, vegetables, lean meat or fish, and whole grains for one of the trademark American meals. I wanted to see how the delicious ideals I was left with would stand up to the real thing.

Too cheap to actually buy McDonald’s, I went to the dining hall and loaded up. I had three plates of food, totaling a slice of pizza, a cheeseburger with all the condiments, a large serving of fries, two plates of chicken nuggets with BBQ sauce, a grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of oreo-style custard, a 16oz milkshake and a 12oz glass of coke.

My mouth was dripping with excitement for the cheeseburger. I knew very well the ingredients in the yellow cheese product that characterizes that ubiquitous American burger, and didn’t care. I shoved it in my face, shoveled in fries — ate the entire burger and was completely unsatisfied. However, because my mind recognized me eating a cheeseburger, my cravings subsided.

Next, I hastily ate the chicken nuggets. My teeth tore off the golden, fried breading around the mechanically separated chicken and I saw, for the first time, direct evidence of chicken mutilation. There is no part of a chicken that is shaped like a nugget, and the metal teethmarks in a symmetrical pattern beneath all the fried golden-ness spoke to its past. I sucked on a nugget for a long time, and there was no flavor. Dipping sauce was the only thing that excited my tastebuds.

The buttery, slightly-burned grilled cheese had that same narcotic, yellow, rubbery cheese substance that excited me like a beautiful woman. I struggled to get it down, to find flavor in an abyss of hydrogenated fats. I spooned down the warm custard, the yolky mass jiggling down my throat. I sipped about 6oz of the coke and then had to stop so as not to vomit.

I hope you can that this article has lost its journalistic integrity. My angle ought to be clear. In the five minute walk from the dining hall to my dorm, where I am composing this, I felt bloated and sick. My sides were cramping up as I ascended the stairs to the second floor of this building. My stomach is like a broiling pot of potato and trans-fat mash. This has made it clear to me the difference I feel after eating a bowl of fresh, crisp spinach and after binging on fast food. Even after only a single helping of fries or chicken nuggets, there is something intrinsically negative about those foods that, rather than rejuvenating and nourishing my body, it harms it in more ways than one.

I cherish and enjoy locally grown and organic food, especially that which comes out of my own garden back at home. Whole grains are like my life-blood; the hot cereals I cook in the mornings make most people run in fear of fiber. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a purist. In college, especially, who can be? I’m also not a vegetarian. I would prefer to eat only meat that was grass-fed and grass-finished, but again, that’s not practical at all right now. I also don’t want to pretend that I don’t like french fries; when it’s only on a “sometimes”, those types of foods are great. But because of my experience tonight, I will learn to value my health and my food a little bit more, and buy into advertising a little bit less.

So what about you? Does this image arouse your desire?

For those who would like more information on the excellent artwork on display at UMF right now, including the exhibit that inspired my experiment, go here: UMF Art Gallery Press Release

Haikus for lonely New England

1
Winter in Maine is
a butterfly in stasis
preparing for life.

2
Once, the elms were here,
the great walnuts and chestnuts;
time, it took them all.

3
In the old man’s field
the birches, pines and maples
drove out all the cows.

4
The typewriter sings
in the middle of the woods;
the writer’s gone home.

5
On the summits of
the old Appalachians, a
raven will greet you.

6
A few forgotten
streams can inspire one to
imagine, wonder, go.

7
Atop Great Mountain,
challenged by thunderer,
you will find yourself.

8
Crow travels among
valleys and people; here,
there, home is everywhere.

9
The darkness settles,
the candles are lit, the storm
closes the shutters.

10
Harvest rushes in.
Corn, squash, oats, blueberries, all
people are merry.

11
An empty quarry,
a raven’s nest, rocky path,
New England, my temple.

Threshold

There’s someone ahead a ways,
who crosses frozen cascades
and jumbled frost-heaven roads.

A swift gait leads her forward,
chancing strides, yet quite stable,
led with her quiet intent.

Birds rise on the icy air
beyond the dying maples.
Cars sputter and clunk by her.

She reaches the gray glass gates,
just a dozen steps ahead,
and holds open the cold doors.

What does her smile imply,
her curious countenance
and that silent proud gaze?

I may never understand,
but still pass her with a nod
and wonder about her world.