The Side of the Barn, at Midnight

"None of them knew the color of the sky."

-S. Crane, 'The Open Boat' (1894)

It's funny, living with light. You don't notice it when you're in them, but cities take a toll on the sky. Hillsdale might be a "hick town" but at least you can see the lights, however faintly, on the horizon. Jackson, Michigan. Hoo, boy. Sure, it's no Detroit or even Ann Arbor but it's comforting, those lights on the horizon. The only problem is, they taint the color of the sky.

Up North, you can actually see the color of the sky, and all the constellations. But suburban kids usually can't tell Orion's Belt from the Gemini Twins or the Sundlandic Twins or the Odd Couple, so it doesn't quite matter.

But hey, still. Stars. Natural light. No streetlights even. Can't see much of anything (but nothing to see anyway). You can hear dogs barking aimlessly and wonder why they bark. The only movement is the sound of your footsteps walking out the front door. The dogs are out back.

Country dogs have better noses, do they?, you mindlessly think to yourself, for some reason wanting to prove to them that they don't.

Getting around back proves more of a chore than you'd think. The grass is separated from the dirt driveway by about 3 inches so you lose your footing but don't quite fall, the dirt (more like sand, really) just engulfs the insides of your ripped sneakers and dirties your socks a little. You've been wearing them for two days already so they stick to your feet as you impossibly attempt to sneak into the backyard.

The dogs are caged in a short chain-link pen, and they seem to notice nothing as you crouch and watch from behind the car. They pant and sniff each other, you can barely make out their figures silhouetted in front of the barn. It casts a long shadow. In the daylight it's a dark crimson, but now it blends to the trees as everything does in total darkness.

You lean on the car, back to the pen, and look up again, vainly trying to find the Big Dipper. It's approaching midnight, you guess. No sense in rushing. There's nothing to do tomorrow. Nothing to do from now on - it's all like the side of that barn at night, blank and black.

Anything, you think, anything could happen. I can do ANYTHING I want tomorrow.

This has been true for weeks, but this "wilderness" makes it more apparent.

You hop up, light the cigarette that you originally came out for, and again try and beat those dogs at their own game. A dumb idea since the beginning, you realize, but invigorating nonetheless. You're doing something, yet doing nothing at the same time. Kind of like seeing something with nothing to see. (Or was it nothing and nothing? - you forget in the heat of the adrenaline rush.)

The dogs have quieted now, and you see your chance. You nimbly run on the tips of your toes to the barn, just around the corner from the pen. They're both sitting, licking at themselves. You take a long last drag and throw the butt into the void, then veer into a crouching run.

No signs of movement from the dogs, they still lie on their back paws, you decide to complete the run with a leap over the fence. An almost perfect execution, except the rip in your jeans snags at the last minute and you fall flat on your face.

By this point the dogs are already over you. They knew what was coming. A few licks and your face dampens.

A humiliating idea, you think. Who would do something this juvenile?

The dogs lick some more, your leg hurts, and there's no place for your pride in the pen.

Why were you allowed even to think about doing that? Why did you think you could win? This is their domain, you think, and I am trespassing. Why was I even allowed to see sand and trees and dogs?

There was no real chance of your success.

After a time - probably seconds, but a dog's tongue is known to distort reality - you dust yourself off and walk back to the house. The kitchen light's still on, and she's reading in the living room.

'Long cigarette?'

'Yeah.'

'You're filthy.'

'Yeah, those dogs are really dumb. They must've thought I was someone else.'

She goes back to her book. You stare into the single reading light, then back outside. You hear the sound of her parents rustling upstairs, music from her brother's room, and then the horns of a semi as it passes the small farmhouse.

Soon, the lights go out and the only thing you can see is Orion's Belt. There's nothing else to see.

There can be only one

I enjoy the fact that these commercials for the NBA Playoffs are so good and so popular (according to this article, they're directed by the same guys who directed Little Miss Sunshine) that now Time
has taken to ripping them off.

T-Mac/ Rip:
























B-Rock/ H-Rod:


























My only problem is, I have yet to see one with a Pistons player on the television. I mean, today I saw one that featured Peja freakin' Stojakavic! The man's first language isn't even English! I wanna see one that shows a split screen of 'Sheed with, say...Ben Wallace. That'd be pretty fucking sweet. It will never happen, seeing as how 'Sheed hates everyone (and the media doesn't like talking about the Pistons...the other day Sportscenter had 15 mins of Lakers/ Jazz coverage and maybe 5 of Pistons/ Magic).

I plan on posting on here more often. More literary things, perhaps. I just keep getting lazy. Sorry.