Seeing

"That tree looks rather like..."

No, I must have been imagining things. My mind plays tricks on me sometimes and makes me see things.

For instance, sometimes I see faces on the bark of pine trees, and these faces resemble the people I have loved over the years and throughout time. In moments like these, best to not read too much into them.

~Off the Path by Comrade Kevin~

We decided to take a slight diversion from the path. The illustrated trail map provided for all hikers at no additional cost proved to be largely inaccurate and ineffective. Copyright 1974, it seemed to have been made by an high school student for a civic project.

It's not as though getting lost was ever an issue. The desert is flat as a pancake, spreads out for miles and miles, and does not provide a vast amount of landmarks which obscure one's vision.

Jane scaled the bluff in ancient gardening clogs which I initially expressed doubt could provide her enough foothold to scale to the top. She proved me wrong by her slow, methodical approach, digging her heels into the each raised ridge and slowly pulling herself to the top of the sun-soaked boulder.

~Ink by Comrade Kevin~

I admit to never understanding the predilection for ink that utterly consumes certain folks. As it is, he proudly points to the massive work that adorns the length of his chest, gesticulating towards it by curving the index finger of his right hand inward. It's an impressive study in spiraling letters and flowing cursive that cost him a mere five hundred dollars.

I don't think of such things as remotely artistic and can't help thinking about better ways to spend my money. It seems wasteful, particularly when so many people are going hungry in the world. The design reminds me of airbrushed first names designed to be displayed on the front plates of cars, the kind sold by beach front vendors during Spring Break and sported by women with no conception of how to tastefully apply makeup or properly maintain their hair.

~Approval by Comrade Kevin~ ~Movie Star by Dragon~

My daughter has lived her life on a cultural divide. The very pious Muslim family to which I was born objects to Western forms of dress, as viewed here in this snapshot. Upon our yearly visit back to Saudi Arabia, Arianna must cover herself foot to toe in black muslin and most certainly never walk around in public without a burka covering her head.

My detractors and supporters alike denote me as a strong woman. Being subservient and ground underfoot, talking only to my husband when engaged in public conversation, never speaking directly to those around me, and always deferring to his will at all occasions was an indignity I was never willing to indulge. My long-lamenting father characterized me as wickedly willful at a young age.

So it was that I married an American citizen who brought me back. He was, at least to the comfort of my family, Arab and Muslim, and though his devotion to Allah had lapsed, he was good to put up suitable pretenses when he met my family. My father, no doubt relieved, approved of him.

~~~Two very different takes on the same image~~~

Krista knew better than to go inside Mr. Allison's house without telling her mom, but Mr. Allison was such a nice old man. He walked his two poodles around the block every morning and gave Krista Lifesavers from his windbreaker pocket.

She knew better, but he was so nice, and he let her play with the dogs, and he brought her presents: dolls to keep in his living room for when she came to visit, and makeup, which her mother wouldn't let her wear.

Mr. Allison had a big trunk full of fancy clothes and pretty ribbons for dress up, and he had a camera. They played such fun games: fashion model, movie star...

~Sugar-Coating by Comrade Kevin~

I possess a particularly nervous kind of personality. This was quite evident that afternoon when I felt the roaring, gutteral vibrations of a nearby explosion in the floorboards underneath me. It was a jarring and ragged feeling hard to easily articulate.

Like an unexpected obscenity, the shock waves rattled the wooden deck first, transformed the water of the swimming the pool to a choppy, frantic, swirling mass of waves, and then a fraction of a second later pulsed through the carpeted floor of the computer room, where I was writing.

I felt it through my legs first. Raw, vibrating, jagged. It made the inside of my head buzz. Two seconds afterwards, it was over. I could still remember it clearly, however, and remember the sense of disquieting dread and discomfort which remained.

There was nothing particularly gorgeous whatsoever in the blast except for the mere force behind it. We're used to cushiony things in this society. We're used to sugar-coating. We're used to being eased into things.

We're used to easy-clean linoleum and rack and pinion steering.

The blast was none of these things. I was examining the photograph I'd snapped of my girlfriend swimming in the pool. I'd taken it about a minute or so before the explosion. The calm before the storm was supremely deceptive.

~The suspense in waiting for the blast, divine.~

~The Castle by Comrade Kevin~

The refugees arrived on our shores in a slow trickle which quickly became a raging flood. When enough had established a solid presence on the island, they decided to painstakingly reconstruct all the amenities of the Old Country. Stonemasons, forced to transform their occupation into building houses for the wealthy elite, now used their talents in the manner in which they had been originally taught.

What they produced was a none-too-shabby facsimile of the castle that had for centuries defended their home nation from invasion. Everyone, regardless of age or stature, participated in scooping dirt from the soil--digging deep enough into the ground to fashion a suitable moat.

~Wrestling Erections by Comrade Kevin~

I don't think I'm the only person who thinks that wrestling is an extremely homoerotic sport: two men in tight, form fitting pants-- pants that prominently leave nothing to the imagination regarding private parts; two men grunting, sweating, and attempting to wrest the other into a compromising position on the floor.

Nor do I think I'm the only one who finds the sight of wrestling comical. I picture two homosexual space aliens clad in polyester attempting to throw each other to the ground. Their bizarrely shaped helmets function as antennae.

I wonder why wrestling hasn't become a spectator sport for gay men in the way that the WNBA is for gay women. I have friends who can't watch the action without getting an erection.

***It's the lack of fashion sense, Kevin, we're sure of it.***

~Graced by Good Fashion by Comrade Kevin~

I can't say that my childhood was graced by the presence of good fashion. Case in point, when I was fourth grade, we visited the science museum. I took the opportunity to waste my entire allowance on the purchase of two articles of clothing, a t-shirt and sweatshirt.

Both bore the same identical design, which prominently featured the surface of the world. It looked like the surface of a globe that had been shaved off and then awkwardly glued to the cloth.

I wore both articles of clothing, one underneath the other, quite deliberately. Even if I spilled something on the top layer, I could take it off and in effect could still show how enamored I was with the image itself.

Naturally, I took every opportunity to show everyone. Adults feigned interest and other children were less than impressed. It didn't matter. It made me happy.

***This really brings us back.***

~History Lesson by Comrade Kevin~

While cleaning out my attic, I found some long-forgotten snapshots taken on one of my trips abroad.

The neo-hippie craze of the late 80's had finally crashed ashore in Beijing. Tye-die was the fashion craze of the moment, and every child proudly wore his or her own tribute to it. I knew that, had they observed it, the aging hippies of San Francisco, circa 1967, would have cringed.

Never in their wildest fantasies could they have anticipated that what was once a form of rebellion had become mainstream. Nor could they have ever dreamed that it would adorn the bodies of a younger generation of kids who spoke no English and had no conception of the Love generation.

Back in the days of flower power, Chinese citizens were forced to wear drab Mao suits, which were designed neither for comfort nor style. These bulky contraptions looked good on no one and gave its wearer the appearance of Frankenstein on the prowl.

The government had recently relaxed its standard of dress, which meant that Chinese citizen were free to adopt Western styles of dress. Massive shoulder pads and the lumpy squarish suits rapidly gave way to t-shirts and jeans.

Flasher Bio: Comrade Kevin

A native of Alabama, Comrade Kevin is a proud member of the southern writing loyal opposition. He refuses to write stories about nature, coon dogs, plantations, wide sloping foreheads, pickin' and grinnin', Mee Maw's Cheese Straws, wicker brooms, mint julips, good country people, and open-air thrift markets. He believes that Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner are severely overrated. His hobbies include guitar, thinking deeply, and making sarcastic wise cracks.

He can be found at http://cabaretic.blogspot.com/

~Untitled 24 by Comrade Kevin~

I have to hand it to her. She has some of the most unimaginative stationary known to God. Then again, she was never known for her good taste. I've received thank you notes with a passable reproduction of Dogs Playing Poker across the front.

Her visits abroad always produced a cross-section of the tacky and the banal.

While some would have purchased art prints or massive coffee table books, she purchased post-it notes in the shape of impressionist paintings. One memorable Christmas, I received a talking tape dispenser.

***Interesting how the autumnal scene can be interpreted. Gender divide?***

~Sunlight by Comrade Kevin~

They lurch across the street, still slightly intoxicated, wearing darkly tinted sunglasses.

The city never sleeps, this much is true, but its manic pace does slow to a considerable degree after the last subway from uptown departs around three in the morning. I'm almost sad to see the sun rise because I enjoy the brief repose from honking horns and sidewalk conversation.

It's early morning in Manhattan and I've been sitting on this park bench now for almost an hour, chain-smoking, observing a worker in the processing of putting up an awning. My attention drifts from the worker to the remnants of the clubbing scene crossing the street in front of me, groaning at the approach of sunlight.

These are the hard core partying fanatics, who stand a good chance of being chemically dependent and slightly psychotic. Most of their peers departed for beds, houses, or apartments hours ago.

***We like: "[G]roaning at the approach of sunlight." By the way, we are going to start providing titles if you don't!***

~Untitled 19 by Comrade Kevin~

I shyly entered the cool surroundings of the coffee bar and in long practiced habit took a seat to the right of the speaker. I'm a creature of habit and inevitably sit at the same table for every event.

I make a point to arrive early in order to take in my surroundings without the distractions of other people. I prefer to ease into crowds--feeling the energy of each person as he or she arrives, files in silently, and adds his or her own unique flavor to the proceedings.

My companion was in the process of securing some new esoteric blend of tea while I settled in with my camera. I'm a bit of a purist. Despite the ease of digital technology, I prefer the messiness of film. There's something very organic about the process that reminds me to take my time and not rush. I find it ironic that the very warmth of celluloid film is in its fuzzy imperfection. Digital may be faster, easier, and more precise but I much prefer the old standard.

I catch the first performer rehearsing sotto voice for the crowd. I'm using a very fast film tonight--the slightest tremor in my hands and the result will be blurry and out of focus.

As usual, I feel a case of sarcasm brewing deep inside me. I can only attribute this to some deep insecurity within myself. You see, I wish I were the one up there reading in front of the crowd. Every introvert wishes for the courage to face the adoring masses. Instead, I have to capture other peoples' bold behavior, trying to live vicariously through their expressions.

It's an ideal art form for someone as shy as I am. I make my photographs like my dreams quiet, uncluttered, simplistic, to the point, and calm. Above all, calm.

***Bravo Comrade. Lovely. You've been here before.***

~Corky's by Comrade Kevin~

The blueish haze of cigarette smoke greets me as I enter this haven for the salt-of-the-earth. If you happen to have the habit, there's really no need to contribute. A person could inhale at least a pack in thirty minutes.

Here, the mullet, rooster-poof bangs, and monster trucks reign supreme. Yellowing framed pictures of sports heroes, football coaches, and local celebrities cover every inch of whitewashed pine.

This is the domain of teenage waitresses and the boys who pine away after them. This is the domain of bad teeth, greasy food, and forearm tattoos. This is the domain of elderly women who drone on and on about members of their church community who have developed tumors.

***This photograph was taken in Memphis, TN. The diners there were not anywhere near as entertaining or colorful as you paint them, Comrade. A touch of sadness about developing tumors...this is a common overheard conversation.***

~Untitled 14 by Comrade Kevin~

Dad didn't like France. He told us this so many times that my wife leaned over the front seat to tell him to cool it.

"What's so remarkable about a silly statue I could see on television without having to get off my duff?"

He didn't take to the cooking, either.


***Charming! Could this man be analogous to the general American populace?***

~Untitled 13.5 by Comrade Kevin~

Amy's cubicle is graced by all of the usual suspects: crudely finger painted works of art created by her three-year-old. We all have to endure being introduced to them for the eight millionth time.

Perhaps if and when I have children, I will do the same thing. As for right now, I fail to see why they're so special. I produced some variation of the same when I was that age. I took no particular regard in doing a good job--I just wanted to finish another activity before being set free to climb up the tire swing on the playground.

After Mom died, I found all of my childhood drawings in the bottom of the china drawer, under the the good silverware. She had kept every single one. The bottom of the drawer was littered with the remains of glitter that had fallen off of one of the paper plates supposed to represent some religious icon.

***What a wonder, the way the brain can connect my cubicle with a touching childhood memory.***