The Walk Blog

It begins with noise and the cessation of noise.

Touch the back of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, as if you're going to make the sound a "k" makes. Now form your lips to make an "o" sound. Then blow.

Softly and then louder and then softly and then louder...

and so on. It should have a sort of guttural harshness to it.

This is the wind blowing

[The voice fades to memory, even as the irritation lingers on.]

The wind ruffles your hair. The leaves crunch underfoot. [She's going to expect us to rake 'em before they've even finished falling from the tree. I'm just waiting for the snide comments to begin.] Take a deep breath; put everything out of your mind.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

See, now isn't that better? [We'll pretend it is, or the weight of this awful life will become too darn much to bear.]

But you've only just stepped out the front door, and Ricky's tugging at the leash. Best get a move on.

So down the steps--one, two--and along the sidewalk and then up the neighbors' drive. [The stack of pizza boxes and other assorted trash has expanded even more just since yesterday. It could be worse, I suppose. At least the cooler weather alleviates the stench. Bastards.]

Now you're heading up the block and Ricky's stopping to pee about every five feet, but it feels too nice out to hurry anyway. They'll be time enough for that later.

But go ahead and cross the street. At least that'll give you a moment or two of uninterrupted locomotion. [Nope, he's stopped again. Ah, there he comes. God knows what he's sniffing at in the middle of the street.]

Oh, fine, let's just skip all this. You were bored anyway, no point in lying.

So you're at the edge of town, heading away from the high school and up the hill behind. The wind's blowing so hard that your hair's standing straight up and all other sound is silenced.

This is the sound of silence--it feels heavy on the ears. [In case you wondered, it sometimes helps to yawn.]

About the silence, though: it isn't really, is it? After all, you can still hear Ricky panting, gasping for breath even as he drags you up the hill. And you can hear your heart pounding in your skull. But how do you describe the sound of blood throbbing through the brain?

Now you’re starting to gasp for breath a bit yourself.

Ahhhh, finally! You've reached the top. And the hills surrounding Pullman stretch out on all sides. [Here I have to edit out the trees that are in the way, blocking my view to the south.] You're confronted with a dozen shades of brown. [Would it sound better to say a million? How about a symphony of chocolate? There to the left, a milk chocolate mound; to the right, a bittersweet confection; down in front, a malted swirl. (No, fat women shouldn't mention food. It just proves what everyone already knows.) Oh, hell, how much editing can I do before everything I say becomes a lie? And would it be worth it? Probably the lie wouldn't be anymore interesting than the truth.] The tractors have already made their rounds. And they are rounds...and ovals...and swirls [I've still got candy on the brain, it seems.] Whatever you want to call 'em, the hills around Pullman abhor a straight line.

But focus in. Look at your feet. Okay, not that close. But if you let your eyes wander from the fields to the little patch of weeds right in front of you and then allow your ears to follow, you might notice the slither of wind through the tall, fading grass. Stalk rasping against stalk, multiplied by…well, a lot.

Actually, to be honest, it’s a little drab.

It's not always so dull and lifeless out here, of course; only a month or two ago, the fields were golden and before that a sea of emerald. [I remember the first time I saw this view. It was early summer and the fields were a millio…er, a dozen shades of green. And the smell…. Oh, so hard to describe, but the exact opposite of Vegas with all its asphalt and sand.]

Today it smells like dirt, but such an oddly clean smelling dirt. And the wind is whipping your hair this way and that. Take a deep breath as your heart slows. Everything seems so empty here. [The fields, the sky, even my heart. How different from the almost transcendent views in Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” or Vegas’ Red Rock canyon. Here about the only thing that takes my breath away is dragging my fat ass up yet another one of Pullman’s many hills.] Look around, take in the view, how peaceful it is…away from that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism.

Oh, but Ricky’s pulling you on. [I don’t imagine he misses Vegas or the cement so hot it burnt his paws that one time and made him limp for a week. We never took him out at midday during the summer again.]

Now you’re back among the houses. Not the kind of houses you’ve ever had the privilege to live in, but in another few years when the dissertation’s complete…who knows? You suppose this is what they mean by “middle class,” isn’t it?

This is the sound of a sigh.

[Why I torment myself this way is beyond me. By the time I can afford one of these houses, my kids’ll all be raised, and I’ll be all alone. Then that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism will look pretty good.]

But don’t dawdle. You’ve been gone almost an hour already and you’ve still got to post that Walk Blog and read the book for the paper due in TV’s class and revise the RomEc paper [For God’s sake, you’re a Ph.D. student: have a little backbone, take a chance!] and grade the papers for Beatrice and comment on the drafts for your own class and…. [Oh, fuck, will it ever end?] And why doesn’t someone give that poor dog some love?!

oOOOoooooOOOOoooOOOOOOOOOOooooooo [This is the sound of a dog howling—no, not Ricky. But it reminds me of the mournful sound he makes when a siren sounds close by. I remember in Vegas there were always sirens night and day. And police helicopters overhead. Check to see if the door’s locked, Vaun. Is the door locked? Are you sure the door…yeah, I know, you’re sure. I just worry.]

Now you’re heading up the hill back toward the high school, the one the leads you to the front. Stop to let that car pass and then cross over to the left side of the street. It looks like the sunflower has finally died. You’re reminded of an old man standing there, chin to chest, head bowed in despair, body broken under the weight of the world. [“Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction, the weight the weight we carry is love”…or something like that. Where’s a copy of Ginsberg when I need him?] And the sorrow of the sight carries you to the water tower. And then it’s down the hill and back around the block, and just one more. But you’ve almost walked by your own house. [How different it looks with the golden tree in front that used to be green.] Ricky's pulling you up the steps—one, two.

And then you’re home.