|
Winona Knows
so lay down, the threat is real...
11-17
- A long time ago a teacher of mine looked me straight in the eye and said something that I've kept with me ever since:
-
"What happens on the island
stays on the island..."
-
- It was a simple statement, one that begged little response. It was one of those rules you understood without any call for elaboration. One of those things you sort of already knew, even before it was told to you. I've since heard similar statements in relation to boats, rock tours, Midwestern cities, theater competitions, and children's museums (there's a story in that one - but, you know - the rule and all...)
-
- Islands of all shapes and sizes.
-
I can't shake this feeling from my head
There's a devil sleeping in my bed...
-
-
- The thing you never quite get used to is the smell. Or, to be more accurate, maybe I should say the lack of a smell. It's an invisible cornucopia. Even near the front, where the fruitful bounties and colored gardens are piled high, the air is empty, antiseptic, clean.
-
- Slow walks under hanging sculptures, questing for artifacts and supplies.
-
- I am standing there, in the cold, looking into the eyes of a penguin wearing a wool hat.
-
- My instructor's old maxim and the lockboxed memories that come with it race through my mind. My eyes are careful, deliberate. A glance to the left follows a nod to the right. It's a scan that is perhaps unnecessary, but I always do it anyway.
-
- That's just me, I guess.
-
- The movies and the television lie to you. They try to paint things in terms of motivations, causal effects, and longstanding grudges. They always flash you back to the day when the villain was the hero's closest friend. It always seems forced and plastic, but for whatever reason, whenever we sit in front of a screen, we want to know why.
-
- Black hats aren't enough anymore.
-
- There isn't always a good reason that crimes are committed. There isn't always a flashback with the appropriate hairstyles and dress for the era that the important history took place in. Sometimes it just is what it is. Sometimes things happen without clear explanations, or good reasons. Sometimes it's just frailty, weakness, greed...
-
- or cinnamon.
-
I know it's not the right thing
and I know it's not the good thing...
-
-
- I've been stealing
handfuls of candy
from supermarkets
for as long as I can
remember.
It's a practiced hand that can make it look like you're checking the price tag of the adjacent candy bars while simultaneously snatching up four, five, and sometimes six of these irresistible rubies. What's worse, I'm into the spoils almost as soon as I've lifted them from the case. One goes to the mouth while the others head for a pocket.
- None will be with me when I walk out the door.
I've practiced my checkout girl stare, my bag boy smile, and my store manager alibi; but despite all my preparations, they've never come into play. Every heist goes as planned, each boost happens without a hitch. It's simply a case of desire over consequence, adrenaline over ethics.
When I was a kid, there was a supermarket near my old house that we used to go into whenever we wanted to read magazines or just hang out. When you walked the aisles, you'd always catch a glimpse of an empty fountain drink cup, or candy bar wrapper in the cat food aisle. When I was younger, these things didn't make all that much sense to me.
- Years later, though, It would be me walking the cosmetics lane
with a store deli drink in my hand and no money in my pocket.
All of my excuses turn to lies
maybe God will cover up his eyes...
As you travel your years, there will come times when your dalliances bring with them feelings of guilt. It's natural. It happens. It's a thin line you find yourself walking, a careful step-toe between supposed rites of passage and your personal definitions of commandments and sin.
- Whenever I go on this sort of crime spree nowadays, I always try to buy something else.
Tiny forgivenesses. Little balanced scales in your mind, looking at your slips against the eyes of the degenerate world. Comparative absolution, selective salvation. What's one little grape? What's a handful of jellybeans? They display them in open cases without protective plastic wrapping. It's all there on the plate, right in front of you. It's like they're practically telling to stray from the path.
"What happens in the store
stays in the store?"
What's the price I pay?
I don't care what they say...
Who am I when I'm in that store? Who is this person checking for stockboys as he hovers over the caramel kisses? It has to be me -- part of me, at least. Is it somehow ingrained in my personality? Is it a trait I've carried on from ancestors in the past? Am I repeating the sins of a father I've never known?
I can say everybody does it to try to make myself feel better,
But if that were truly the case, that candy bin would be close to empty at the end of every day, wouldn't it?
If that were truly the case, they'd never sell candy like that at all.
I feel bad about it sometimes.
I really do.
It's not the way I was raised.
But there is just something about the tingle of red cinnamon on your lips. Something about the thrill...
-
kinda I want to...
|