Mt Ontake, Japan, May 2010

The Nullarbor Plain

The speedo’s needle sat on 140

I never mentally adjusted, though;

I felt every one of those

kilometres per hour

My right hand out the window

cutting sine waves in the air

You had your headphones on

listening to tape one

in a ten volume series

deep in the thrall

of some jacked up new age preacher

who mixed his metaphors

three, four times over

and made up his own words

where language failed him

he told you:

your body’s a conduit

for

the universe’s flux

of energy

and desire

That night, in a roadhouse motel

I reaped the rewards of your preacher’s words

Afterwards

I pictured his

smug, goateed face

his eyes and mouth

unified

in a shit-eating grin

I went outside

into the night, the desert stars were

densely packed and brilliant

I laid out the tapes

on the 96 mile straight

and a road train

obliterated them

A Short Story:
Devotion

http://www.mediafire.com/?ad6lefgldwcod4b

Racket

Racket

We’d gotten wind of two older boys

running up a tab at the milk bar

a tab

with no horizon

so, we thought we’d try it on

The milk bar:

you could see

behind the counter,

into their living room—

a dining setting,

an ailing budgie in its cage,

and the year-round glow

of a gas heater

It was a simple proposition:

I cited the boys’ tab

and asked

if we could have the same

or if not

a tab with a reasonable

daily limit

The owner

became sheepish,

spoke of knowing the boys’ father;

it was a long standing relationship,

something to be honoured

as a matter of course

and

neighbourhood politics

I picked up

a chicken and salad roll

and said:

I’ll pay for this later

I didn’t feel callous

I just felt that

I was redressing an imbalance

That pre-existed

my entry into the world

I kept a rough ledger in my head

and chipped away at it

fifty cents here, a dollar there

but the gross figure

got away from me,

and

the more I took

the less I paid

I saw him, the owner,

years later

filling up his silver 1988 LTD,

its wheel base

luxuriously wide and

its hood adorned

with a futuristic coat of arms

He knew I was there

I could tell

But he kept his sight

on the bowser’s flicking numbers,

went inside, paid

and, on his way back,

as he crossed the forecourt

he looked at me, dead on

He got in his car

and drove off

his wife flicking ash

from the tiny opening

between window and frame

Conversation

The title of the article reads “Tetris Helps to Reduce PTSD.” It describes an experimental study where participants play intensive bouts of Tetris after witnessing reams of horrific footage—an epileptic montage of fatal car accidents, real-life military skirmishes, and drawn-out, hollering childbirths—in the hope of interrupting the crystallization of the tortured and unrelenting memories that form the base of PTSD and like symptoms. Shinichiro grips the rolled-up article tightly, its edge leaving a circular indentation in his forehead as he pulls it away. His concentration is intense. The vein pulsing in his temple recalls someone hyperventilating.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this article. I talked to my wife about it.

What did she make of it?

I was trying to devise an idea as to how to implement the Tetris experiment in real life. I was bouncing ideas off her.

What did you come up with? It seems impossible to apply in reality.

That’s what my wife said. But I think I’ve got it.

And?

Ok. So, someone starts a company. The company’s first job is to swiftly arrive at the scene of a trauma. For example, I’m standing out there at the corner of Toriimatsu—

(Shinichiro points to the busy highway eight floors below.)

And I witness, most regrettably, a truck jack-knifing and ploughing into a group of pedestrians. I immediately call the company and report the trauma.

They’d have to get to you pretty quickly.

Ok. So, they work in conjunction with the police. They have a representative posted at every police box. They reach the trauma’s scene in a scaled-down helicopter.

Scene-of-the-trauma.

Yes. The scene of the trauma.

Then what?

They arrive and immediately quarantine me in a portable, completely-sealed box. And then I play Tetris. For six hours.

What about the other unlucky witnesses?

If they have a contract with the company, they’ll go through the same process.

So it’s like trauma insurance?

Yes. Trauma insurance.

Huh.

But. My wife alerted me to a crucial flaw in my plan.

And what’s that?

Well, if I’ve just witnessed something as horrible as a fatal car accident, the last thing I’m going to want to do is play Tetris.

Good point.

So the company must make me play it.

How do they manage that?

The representative threatens me with a gun.

They make you play Tetris at gun-point?

Yes.

Sounds traumatic.

Yes. Unpleasant but necessary.

Christmas '93

Christmas '93 by Michael Skinner