Just Go Around It

Just Go Around It by Big Frank Dickinson 

When Big Frank was a kid (yes, he was like everyone - a kid) he made spending money shoveling walks, raking and mowing lawns. A number of years ago, while on a visit back to his old hometown of Dickinson, ND,  Big Frank showed his daughter, Gina, and niece, Julia, one he'd cleared predawn in the NoDak cold. They both thought it was cruel that the owner of that sidewalk, a Doctor, hadn’t invited Big Frank, who was actually at that time only six years old - a Little Frank, in at 20 below zero. See above for  a photo of the girls pretending that they were shoveling snow. The smiles show you it’s all in fun, but way back then when Big Frank was six; it sucked. We walked around town and Big Frank pointed out other homes that he had done chores for when a kid; Big Frank divided them in two: always invited in or not. It was either always or never. Mrs. Clark, always served lemonade with cookies and we sat and ate them together. Her son became a priest and hit on Big Frank's mom. These people, with their big lawyer-moneyed walk, on a corner lot with a double wide driveway, and lots of skinny interior paths only opened the door when asked to pay. Another guy invited Big Frank in more than anyone. I used to mow Dr. Connor's lawn and put on storm windows for him in the fall. He would sit at the kitchen table and look out back at Big Frank working his push mower. His back yard was full of all kinds of stuff and when Big Frank would come on to something like a bike, he would lean out the window and yell: “That’s OK, just mow around it.” His son got in trouble after high school and enlisted to stay out of jail; got sent to Viet Nam and was shot. Big Frank remembers sending him his first letter of condolence that he ever wrote. It was at he Uncle Jack’s in Pennsylvania where Big Frank had been sent to give his mother some peace during the summer of 1968 (that's a story for another time). Uncle Jack offered to help write it, but Big Frank was offended at the offer; and sat down at a desk to write it himself. It was tough going, but he wrote what he knew. Our families had been friends and Big Frank had liked his son, Doug. He threw the wickedest curve ball ever. He could make that ball jump, dance, and zoom inside and out. Nobody could put more stuff on a baseball than he could. So that’s what Big Frank wrote his dad; straight to the point: how he was sorry about his son having gotten shot and how he’d miss him and ended by praising his curve ball saying that it was the best Big Frank had ever seen; and then mailed the note, sure that what had been written was true of what he knew, his loss, and included some praise. But still it seemed such a weak thing to give someone whose son was dead. Big Frank was surprised in the years ahead when that letter was pulled out again and again and as it was read to Big Frank, Dr. Connor would smile, thinking of his son. It was then that Big Frank: knew he hadn’t gone around that one.

Crossroads

The End of the Line---- Big Frank Dickinson

"There are always moments in which a person can stop; crossroads where you can change course . . . there are those moments . . . until there aren't any more." Jess Walter

"I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees." Cream

His method of keeping track of all his options took up a major portion of his life. He remembered back to when he realized that if he didn't start charting all the courses available (especially possible changes) that it would be too late - he started that day. Typically he liked to wait to the last possible moment before he made any changes "There's Always More With An Open Door" was his motto, and it was displayed in cartoon fashion; in the first frame Goofy stood in front of an open door empty handed, in the second he's seen outside with his arms full of stuff: fishing pole, hoola hoop, yoyo etc.). He incorporated his chart into his home so that everything in it was a reminder of a crossroads. His favorite coffee cup showed him that projected last day that he could stop working at his current job and still be able to find another: it was written on the bottom of the cup (June 1, 2012 - quit or fit). On his pillow: (August 5, 2014 - stop dreaming/start scheming). On the bottom of his bathtub: (February 15, 2010 - she's the only one for you or you are through). On the bottom of his shoes: (January 8, 2011 - junk the hunk or get ready to plunk). Right now he was looking in the mirror and obviously shaken for on it was written: (today - only one road, lighten your load).

I am not my personality - yeah, right.

I Am Not My Personality
---- Big Frank Dickinson

He kept saying that he was not his personality. He was not sure exactly what he was; sometimes he thought that he was nothing and that certainly was not his personality. You know, the Buddist thing about the self being the absence of everything. But his friends made fun of that, and anyway, who can have an image of nothing? Well, you can imagine an empty room, but it's still a room. Then there is empty space - like those big gaps in the universe, but that was still surrounded by stuff. Then he thought nothing was all about what isn't - so he went with that. About the best image he could come up with was everything that he was not: without desire, consistent, eternal, infinite, everwhere, all knowing, completely self-sufficient in everyway, and absolutely knowling of itself. But this drove him nuts, because that meant that he was what he wasn't and how could that be? What kind of world is that he found himself in where in actuality he was everything that in his mind he thought he wasn't. This was too neat - so he concluded that he was probably some of the things that he thought he wasn't: he chose - eternal, and infinite (they seem to go together), but rejected the others. This made sense and gave him hope; if he was eternal then in time he would probably figure the rest out. His real self thought this was a riot!

Prose Poem - "Synchronicity"

Synchronicity
---- Big Frank Dickinson

6:02 am, he wakes, when in a small city 200 miles to the south a young woman is also awaking and reaching for the alarm, as across the globe in Osaka a sushi chef reaches for his knife and is cutting a thin slice of yellow fin tuna, as that tuna's mother slices a parrot fish in half swallowing one half while the other drifts slowly to the bottom, as on the surface directly above in a sailboat's galley the ground's of the captain's coffee sink to the bottom of his cup, which has a yellow tuna and the words "TUNA MAN" written in exactly the same script as the accountant's business card, who at this very moment in Samarkand is setting his alarm and going to sleep with thoughts of the number 602 in his head, exactly the amount of money that a woman in the Couer d Lane casino is seeing pour out of a slot machine, which was made by a company called Tuna Alarm at the bottom of a hill in the industrial half of Kandarsam, Ohio, address 602 Osaka Street, on which there is also a post office, which has a PO Box number 602, in which is a letter addressed from Global Reach and addressed to Lane Chef with an appeal to save wild parrots, one of which at this very moment in Brazil is sitting on a branch across from another parrot who at this moment is waking up for exactly the 602nd time in its life, and immediatly falling down as the axes of the coffee plantation's expansion slice through the surface of the tree, the wood of which will make the next bed that he orders online for his guest room in a couple of years, days - 602.

Then 206 days later while in Ohio he meets a woman, an accountant, whose father comes from Samarkand, and sells Yellow Tuna to Japanese sushi chefs. He is alarmed that she is unhappy with her recent Brazilian bed she won in a casino, and she at his reluctance to contribute to the wild parrot fund. They then look at each other and say, in unison: "What are the odds"? They know they were meant for each other - it was meant to be.

Prose Poem

Big Frank has been reading more prose poems. Here's a good one from Peter Johnson. Read it the first time, and then ask yourself: "How does that make me feel?" Then read it again and ask yourself: "Why?"

A Ritual as Old as Time Itself
by Peter Johnson

There's a man flying his wife. He's been at it for the last year of their marriage. With one end of the string around her heart, the other around his fist, he scurries up and down the shoreline.
A year ago, his wife yelped at the first tug, but now she seems content, as if she'll never come down.
And the man? He's so happy he wants to fly her all the time. But just as he considers this, the sand beneath his feet gives way. He's unable to run, and his wife begins a slow descent.
"No," he yells, "it's not fair. It's only been one year, you flew me for two."
"Now, now," she says, making a perfect landing. "You'll get used to being in the air again, and, unlike you, I promise to be very gentle on that first tug."

The Hidden Source of Support

The Hidden Source of Support
---- Big Frank Dickinson

They told him that the universe was pulling for him. That confused him no end. The universe? Well it certainly had a perverse way of doing so. His life was OK, but if the whole universe was for him - then he ought to be on top - of everything; a stand out with joy dripping out his ears. Perhaps it wasn't the whole but rather only a part. He tried to place the source of support in some singular way. Was it Neptune or Chile or Antarctic ice? All much too far away. His washing machine and toaster were helpful, as were his shoes, but mostly he didn't have a clue. Perhaps that new neighbor - or his mom (no, not her). Was he really that special, or was it all (the whole vast muddle) evenly spread? Nobody, not even the universe cheers for everyone. He wanted to be the universe's favorite - otherwise, what was the point. Still - they said that it liked him; it would all be all right. So he opened his arms, spread them out wide and embraced the whole damn thing . . . at least as much as his arms could bear.

The Face of It

The Convention
---- Big Frank Dickinson

I am at a convention of me's. They have all come to see themselves in others. The membership card is their face. Nobody is allowed to say: "You look like me." Pronouns are a problem: "You look like you" leaves me out; "they look like them" has neither you nor me; and so it goes. Aside from the face, the rest is erased. There are splinter groups scorning, reformers, who claim that the face is not you. This prompts other features to be deleted: nose, eyes, age, race and gender. It is hard to find myself among the attendees. The keynote speaker (he looks like me) tonight will speak on "Identity: The Face of It". There are protesters assembling already. I recognize myself among them.

Prose Poetry

Big Frank has been looking at prose poetry. It may not look like poetry, but it has a lot of the same ingredients; it's just presented in a different way - not so much white space. Below are a couple of examples from two poets who use this form well: Russell Edson and David Shumate.

Trains
by David Shumate

I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather's suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I'm a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There's something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know where he's headed.
You can't predict his next move. In a week you may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things
you've never done. Don't think about it too much. Everything
starts to sound like a train.

Historical Breakfast
by Russell Edson

A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face, tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks. He scratches his head: another historical event. He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be so historical. Others probably just don't have it, he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well, another important historical event is about to take place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . . Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film, how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy, he thinks. . .

The Office of Lost Opportunity

The Office of Lost Opportunity
---- Big Frank Dickinson

In the office of lost opportunity there are no current calendars and the clocks all run backwards. Those who come are always late for their appointments, and usually they are turned away with lots of upbrading about if they had only and why didn't they . . . It is not clear why anyone bothers to come here in the first place for to do so is to admit that one blew it; but many seem to want to make that admission. Those who do show up on time expect to be able to review their loss. They are given mirrors and told to look over their shoulders - what they see is seldom consoling and after a few questions about second chances, and how maybe it was all for the best (something this office does not encourage) they head across the street to the Bureau of Lucky Losses for a healthy dose of snythetic happiness, which seems to please them to no end.