![[Pollen] #1 - We're alive, I guess.](/_next/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F5c4c4f2e-8cf4-4cdb-aa8e-d4d356482987_1920x1080.png&w=2048&q=75)
[Pollen] #1 - We're alive, I guess.
Excerpts, notes, and seedlings from the garden
Jesus Wept
A preacher walks around the airport gate. He has a stack of paper rolled up like an old newspaper in his left hand, while his right hand waves around and scratches his head. He's periodically interrupted by the blasting speakers of the airport gates; you can faintly hear his meek voice beneath the more potent, "God"-like technological voice from the microphone. He reads intently, yet it feels like he doubts it more than the people snickering or outright ignoring him. Does he believe?
He paces like a child memorizing their part for a school play. A man records him on his phone and gifts him the occasional affirmations. "Preach the word," he tells him. The modern disciple weaves around people getting up for the bathroom or to throw out their trash; he seems to have gained some confidence now that his one fan is busy on a call. I wonder if he knows something I don't.
I envy his faith, real or not. I wonder if God is smiling down at him, reading ancient words next to an overpriced bar and a Spirit Airlines gate. I hope we are all saved. I imagine him walking under the hot sun of Jerusalem, or out fishing on a small boat in the Sea of Galilee. He wears a baseball cap, a red T-shirt, and baby blue jeans. I picture him timidly breaking bread and drinking wine. I think of all the people born at the wrong time. A child weeps.
#A0522D
Yo te veo,
tú me ves.
Igual, diferente, al revés.
No importa.
Note (1/12/2025)
The start (the last start for now) of something new. My stomach hurts slightly. My hands are damp, and I can’t stop moving. I guess that means I am alive. I wonder what I will be nervous about tomorrow, or next week, or even in 20 years.
Brainstorm
“Tornadoes can’t happen in cities,” I stated firmly.
I thought about Zeus and Mt. Olympus, and all the many great men that chased the lightning and fire of the gods.
She looked through me, and the sparks raging in her eyes reminded me of the punishment that man deserves for his ambition.
“...It’s impossible.”
The gusts of wind broke my words, and I knew she couldn’t hear me when she tilted her head.
That word meant nothing to me. I wished I could spit it out and leave it to rot.
She looked up, eyes squinting from the wind and rain, and laughed at the heavens.
“It’s impossible,” I repeated, shielding my head with my arm.
I cursed the gods for creating fire.
I cursed Prometheus for stealing language.
I sheltered in an undeserved safety.
Still thinking…
She turned her phone around. It’s a talent, man. I pretended to be confused. She rolled her eyes and typed again without looking at the screen. Overthinking everything. I wish she truly meant that.
Lenny Demo #1
“Headbreakers” (excerpt)
We walked into the antique bookstore holding hands limply; I inhaled the polished yet timeworn aroma of bound paper oozing with ink through my nose, then exhaled an efflux of knowledge and stories unattained. Particles of ground coffee, the old man at the register’s cologne, and wood polish also snuck into my lungs. These aromas subtly reminded me of my grandparents: my maternal grandmother’s coffee that she would encourage me to drink since as young as I can remember (maybe that’s why I didn’t grow enough, I hope it was decaffeinated); my paternal grandfather who applied enough pungent, old-man cologne to solve world congestion indefinitely—he somehow always managed to pull you in way too close to him—, he had a smile so wide that it curved his thick mustache into a perfect croissant shape and squinted his eyes so thin you would have thought they had retreated to the back of his head (I missed his laugh); and the polish or finish that both of their furniture collections had been coated with long before the life I experience now (perhaps better times, how would I know)
My brother and his DSi (circa. 2010)
