Four Facts

Old Roads, New Stories: A Literary Series
 

Over the years, I’ve heard some interesting facts: that the Baja Peninsula will one day be an island, that raccoons wash their hands more than we do, that if pigeons don’t roost along an overpass, then its structural integrity can’t be insured without an indemnity clause. I’ve heard the Visigoths are why we have Christmas trees. I’ve heard that kangaroos are ambidextrous. And none of these facts demand double-checking, so I don’t; I just agree that they’re interesting.

In that same spirit, now, I thought that you might like these four:

Fact 1: The Earth Isn’t Flat

Once, on an overnight flight headed east, I actually saw the Earth’s curve, saw the sunrise trace it with an arc of light. But I was tired, not ready to wake up yet, so I turned from the window and just went back to sleep.

And one time on the train from Spokane to Tacoma, I woke up to all of these passengers talking. It was clear they were all from places far away, that this was their first trip to Washington, and we were winding through the Cascade Mountains, and it was dawn—so, enough light to see by—and the people kept saying, “Can you believe it? Look at all the trees. This can’t be real. There’s too many.”

And another time I was driving home from L.A. It was the end of my freshman year, and I wasn’t going back: a packed car, a late start leaving, too young and too cheap to split the drive in two and sleep in a motel, so I was pretty wiped out by the time I got to the Siskiyous.

Coffee, I’d heard, can wake you up, so I stopped in Grants Pass and got a booth at a Denny’s. My plan was to drink a whole pot, top to bottom, and drink it black so I’d learn to like the taste by the end and not spend my whole life stirring milk and sugar. And I did make it home, and I still drink it black, so there’s that.

But what do these three memories have in common? I don’t know, except that there’s some traveling in them. That’s probably why I’ve been thinking about it—writing is kind of a journey with horizons too, and an arc, and a meeting in the middle. Logically, there has to be, because writing is only one origin point; reading is the other; and what we call The Story happens in between.

Fact 2: Why We Have Fire

The sky was the sky, and beautiful, but lonely. In its endless heart, what it wanted was a hawk. Each day it listened for the hawk’s fierce screaming, and nights it carried the moon like a lantern, keeping watch, but nothing happened. It sent rain, sent wind, and still nothing. No hawk rose suddenly below.

If you miss a man until missing him feels wide as the horizon, or love a woman from a distance, you’ll understand.

But know this too: Finally the sky tore its longing into lightning, bursting open an oak, and that flash became the hawk’s eyes, and its wings and its pride and its hunger… just a flash, then the First Hawk rising, bringing fire. Fire to guide us. To be our comfort, our fury, our desire.

Fact 3: Air Is for Breathing, and for Mythic Birds

Apparently—I heard this once—apparently, Benjamin Franklin didn’t want the bald eagle for our national bird. He wanted the turkey instead. In school, we’re taught that he was smart—that all the Founding Fathers were—but this was dumb. I mean, the turkey? What the hell?

And symbols do matter. Look at sports: the Kentucky Wildcats, Arizona Wildcats, Villanova Wildcats, Kansas State Wildcats; the Nevada Wolf Pack, North Carolina State Wolfpack, Michigan Wolverines; and so on. Although, sure, there are also some outliers—the un-fierce, the odd, the improbable—like the Oregon Ducks; they call themselves “The Quack Attack.” But mostly the Ducks sucked at sports until they got rich from all that Nike money. Disney made a movie called The Mighty Ducks since even little kids like irony, since an underdog story with a couple of laughs is okay, but it isn’t a national bird. And neither is an idiotic turkey.

No, for that you go with a raptor, an eagle. Eagles are better because they seem worthy of myths.

Fact 4: The Person You Love Is 72.8% Water

I don’t know if I’m going to hell,
but I like toast for breakfast,

and I can eat breakfast
any time of day.

A woman’s slender arms
make me wish I was a painter.

Cats belong in every bookstore. They’ll make the words
seep deeper in your bones.

If God and I were on a rocky beach,
we’d search out perfect skipping stones.

I’d tell Him my favorite miracle:
water into wine.

My favorite mood is Angry. That’s a lie.
My favorite sin is lying. That’s not true,

but it dresses up the story
like a good storm dresses up the sky,

like fire and fiddles take wood and make it speak.
I know, I know—water isn’t wine.

But at night, when someone’s thirsty,
you can bring it, cold as heaven. They can drink.