A Moment Pale And Frozen In Time

In that jungle, which is anything but sublunary I follow a family from Italy along that river that leads to either Rome or hell. I am greeted first by Father's penis, a moment pale and frozen in time.

Mother and Father come from different sides of the river which rushes through Rome and shares its name - she from the bank of hardliners, he from the compassionate. This distinction all made sense once we reached the waterfall, a thing nothing if not vast and vertical, as Mother suggested they throw Son - about my age or older - down it as if he were some action figure one lets slip joyful down summertime backyard water slides.

Father refused, though without the anger one might expect. It was never made clear to me just what happened to Son about my age or older.

We made our way through that jungle on that narrow path. All was rainy save the sky, which seemed to have given nothing for quite some time, but remained grey as grey can be. And then at last, just as the path had become most narrow, perhaps too narrow, we reached a cottage, something like a cottage, with small screened-in porch whose coziness I knew all along from the blankets and rocking chairs and overall air of dryness.

But before I could decide that it was there that I should stay, the Italians insisted I take the impressive path which led below, the path vertical just like that waterfall I'd seen before. It was arduous to say the least and murky despite a mostly non-liquid consistency, but the descent flew by (as I remember nothing of it).

Next thing I know I am at the bottom, part of some army preparing itself, ourselves, for some rope course drill, which I handle with ease as it was more like a soft and swinging non-metallic set of monkey bars from youth. The reward for this entire journey is my arrival in the locker room, a sepia place less masculine than I expected.

I have a dark memory of floating at night some satanic river through Rome. The red, judging statue is ablaze and glowing from the inside. The sentiment is mostly blood.

I am of Arnold

Arnold Schwarzenegger invited us all to his cabin - more like a double-wide trailer - in the woods.

It was rather hill-pretty and green, like that stretch of interstate between Ft. Smith and Fayetteville in April, May, or even June. We tried slaughtering him when he turned into "The Predator," even though he looked nothing like that alien thing we're all used to from the governor-filled films. He came back to life.

We tried again, this time succeeding at least in gashing a perfect circle-hole through his toned abs. Soon the circle was filled through some divine, perhaps satanic, process of mending.

At the University of Arkansas, after wandering the lots where cars cannot park without sticky sticker faculty passes, I found all the students in the university were studying, by obligation, the ins and outs of this Austrian "Predator."

"I don't get it" a journalism major complained. "I'm a journalism major. Why do I have to know about The Predator?"

Back at the trailer a Reed Indeed practice is going on without me, perfect practice for a porch, at the end of which Arnold is particularly strong.

He teaches me the secret of mending and I realize, at last, that I am strong and I am Arnold.