Tyler's Bronco.
By Zeb Brown
When I get to the lake, the engine dies, the radio
is silenced, and I see it. What was once a car is still, at
least, a ghost o f one. The fire has worked the exterior
into marble: copper, green, navy, and white, swirling
without motion, circles where bubbles have burst. The
tires are gone, and so are the windows. I mince closer to
get a better look inside the belly. The headlights are
gone, leaving the car with empty eye-sockets and a
cheerful mouth o f broken steel. The vinyl from the seats
has melted away, and the chairs have become cages.
Tyler’s red James-dean jacket was in the backseat, but
that’s curled up and gone, along with equipment, sheet
music, whatever else. A couple o f towel-draped
newlyweds com e up behind me, then shy away like
yearlings. They are prepared for cold water, and maybe
even love-making on a large flat rock, water and sweat
beading and evaporating. They are thrilled by the
prospect o f being watched; they are not prepared for real
danger. For all they know, the dirty young man before
them is inspecting his handiwork. Their car may be
next.
I only rode in Tyler’s Bronco once, after a
concert, and at the time I was drunk and depressed. It
was after the party at the river, and everyone was totally
wasted except Duke, who couldn’t drive stick. The car
jerked crazily as Duke struggled with the gearshift.
Thick with grain and whiskey, Tyler’s voice slid over
the instructions like far-off thunder. Tyler was leaning
back, a man big enough to make copilot look like a
child-seat, hands like five-pound trout across thick
equestrian thighs. I was in the backseat with Angel, who
wouldn’t stop laughing at Duke. It was creepy. She’s
one o f those childish strippers who could have been
famous, if she’d been in the right place at the right time.
Jailbait never goes out o f style. She’ll always be easy on
the eyes, she had gained a few pounds. I wondered if
Tyler had gone and knocked her up. If he had, no one
was talking.
I notice the car first, and the ground burnt
around it, and the oak-tree planted by Will Jaspers, trunk
blacker than coal. Burnt rubber stings nostrils, and I feel
Tyler come up from behind before I turn to face him. He
is grinning.
“Hey, guy, you up for barbecue?”
“H ey.” I stick out my hand, grasp his, then pull
him in, close.
“Buddy,” he says, “hey.” He gives me a light
pat, arm only half alive; like the branch o f a willow tree,
it feels accidental. I stay close too long, pull back too
late. Stupid. But when I look up at his face, he is
smiling over my shoulder, in the direction o f the
smoking Bronco.
“Haven’t smelled anything like that since
working at the tire factory,” he sighs without looking.
He is a little bit proud. “Missed that smell. Too bad you
weren’t here to see it go.”
prayer that I be made clean, but don’t really get
anywhere before I am stolen by dreams.
7/20/01
Press Release
Fur Immediate Publication
For more information, contact Gail Balden, 503-36H-7807
Three days later, we are all drinking together at
their kitchen taMe-pina coladas for some reason. It’s a
faggot drink, but the idea was Tyler’s-to make us forget
where we are. By this time I've had enough smoke and
drink that I can pretend not to notice as Duke talks to a
Floridian Jap-she’s a high-schooler, and hangs on every
word he says, hangs on the fluid motion of his narrow,
birdlike hands. Maybe he finds her loud jewelry, the
twist in her hair, her endangered eyebrows-1 don’t know,
exotic-but she is unremarkable, limp. Probably, he likes
her because he can see his reflection in her drool.
I stare at Tyler’s boots-they are the size o f clown
shoes, and laces the color o f construction cones race
through the eyelets. He leans back, a wise, dopey half­
grin tugging gently at the folds in his wide Germanic
mug. Angel has been flipping out-she spends most of the
evening in the bathroom, reappearing only to dare us to
make mention o f her red eyes, or the black smears across
her face. She is silently begging us to say something-but
from the look that passes between Tyler and Duke, I
know better. Girls are so much trouble; they always
make a production. I can't remember the last time any of
us cried. We have better things to do.
We drink, until there is nothing left, and then we
decide to break into one o f the country houses down the
road, to raid their liquor cabinet. It’s pouring, and none
o f the boys wear jackets-their flannel shirts cling to the
rocky muscles in their shoulders, back, and arms. They
walk with half-closed eyes, and the air shines, thick
without meaning, pregnant with rain. 1 realize now that
it was a mistake. Accidents happen. There is a quiet
dignity to going home alone.
The Manzanita Creative Arts Council, committed to
supporting the work o f local artists, has organized a studio
tour to allow the public to see artists at work in their creative
environments. The Nehalem Bay Area Artists' Studio Tour
will take place Wednesday, August 15 from 10 a m . to 4 p.m.
Sixteen artists in ten locations are participating in the lour.
Manzanita artists include Diane Gibson, metal sculptor; Kathy
Kanas, basketry; Liza Jones, printmaker, and Don Osborne,
painter.
Nehalem artists include MJ Anderson, sculptor in marble;
Kathry n Harmon, fiber artist and painter; Sam Harmon,
painter and printmaker; Rusty Painters (Barbara Temple
Ayres, Jane Gillis, Lola Sorensen, Susan Walsh, Michele
W ilkey); Kathleen Ryan, found object and fabric sculptor and
Paul Torian, painter, sculptor, and collagist.
W heeler artists include Heaven Hartford, painter, Judy Sorrel,
painter,
and Rebecca O'Day, painter and collagist.
Tickets arc $5 and are available at the following locations:
M anzanita: Mother Natures, Manzanita N ew s and Espresso,
Marzanos Pizza, The Big Wave and Syzygy.
Nehalem : Wanda's Café and Art and Learn.
W heeler:
The ticket packet includes a map o f the studios and a list o f the
artists and their media. Refreshments will be served at various
locations indicated on the map. The public is invited to
support this first-ever event showcasing the richness o f local
artists' work.
W e must learn to live together as brothers or
perish together as fools. M artin Luther King Jr.
This isn't really about you
By Gabrielle Bouliane
Your hands are a gift unlooked for, two trembling birds searching
for a sky in my skin, finding it like North in their flight toward
whatever home we are always driven to seek. And my heart aches to be
an open cage, to be pried wide apart for you to see, it's hollow
enough inside for a flock o f your fingers to reside forever against
the delicate burning flower o f my unrelentless heart.
One night, I looked into the lake o f your eyes, surprised by the
size o f my own startled sighs, I realized, it's not pain or remorse
1 carry, it's a force beyond what 1 can restrain. I try to contain
it with 9-to-5 and organize, I do my dishes instead o f fantasize, I
cook and clean and file and sweep just to keep this beast inside me
asleep because this passion that resides has already devoured
innocence once. I tried to contain it, silence its howls, but your
hands have found the key to its cage, 1 can feel it awaken, killing
this woman who has killed her rage by trying to forget that my pulse
once lived at the base o f my throat; that a glance across the room
once soaked the inside o f my thighs, forgot exactly which muscles in
the small o f my back rise to make my hips meet the night; the beast
is hungry, and impatient, this is the animal inside they see when
they say, "you are sexy," not beautiful, but sexy, they see the
barest hint o f the smoking jungle o f the heart o f my darkness, and
no intrepid explorer has planted their mouth at the tree o f my
spine, has not scaled the mountains o f my breasts to leave behind
some sign, this country is deadly to the unready, but this not what
1 came here to say.
All day, every time I blink, I’m standing in front
o f the smoking car. Ashes make their slow descent to
the blackened woodchips all around. Stirred by breezes,
the cremation whirlwinds in the clay-oven air.
Sometimes, the bronco is in flames, as Tyler described
it, a pillar o f explosion reaching twenty, thirty feet high,
black fingernails o f smoke trying to sink into heaven.
At midnight, I see Duke, Tyler, and Angel at the
flare-party, in the cemetary. I wonder where they have
gotten their flares. Not from the Bronco, that's for sure.
Unless they had been put aside. There are a hundred
people or so, high-school kids mainly, all walking
through the grave-stones, flares held in their outstretched
hands. Their magenta light pulses without heat.
Everyone meets at the top o f Indian Hill, walking
slowly, looking each other in the eye, until the smoke
from a hundred flares gets to be too much, and we
spread out a little to line them up along the gravel drive:
a UFO landing strip. There’s some drumming, some
singing, but mostly, people keep quiet. Without looking
at him, I know exactly where, and how, Duke stands:
leaning to the side, old jeans and wide leather belt
keeping a centimeter o f clean air around his narrow hips.
Under his ratty wife-beater, honey-brown skin stretches
tight over the blades o f his shoulders-wings trying to
grow. He is looking at the ground, and I am sitting
cross-legged, hunch-backed, watching. The last flare
stutters, lighting up a statue o f an angel. The angels'
robes and hair pretend to move in the wind. His round
arm is raised above his head. He is pointing up. It
doesn’t even matter whose grave it is, it has become
something to us all, staring slack-jawed congregation.
The light flickers and becomes green, then dies away.
The crowd sits still, silent, mostly, conversations kept to
low murmurs, reverence settled there like low clouds.
Duke doesn’t meet my eye. He doesn’t seem to
notice me until I begin to take my leave. Jack has
offered a ride, and I live too far away to turn it down.
Jack is polite. Duke com es out o f the darkness and
smoke to kiss my cheek lethargically, smiling slightly,
and I barely hear him ask if I’m com ing with them. He’s
really asking me where I want to wake up. I want to-I
can’t-there will be people there, someone might notice.
If I tell Jack to go home alone, he’ll wonder why; why
it’s so important to go for beers at Tyler’s seedy old
house in the middle o f nowhere. It can’t happen again.
“I’m going.” My voice cracks on the words, and
I feel like I’m fifteen. I run down the hili, trying to keep
pace with Jack, who is nearly at the car. On the drive,
we share a joint and Jack tries to talk about where he’s
from, but I am miserable. I get too stoned, and fall
asleep. When the truck stops, I'm not sure where I am-
Jack punches my arm until I hop out and make my slow
way through waking-life, weaving down the blurred dirt
path to the house. In my room, the struggle with clothes:
replacing day-crusted denim with lonesome nakedness.
Under the heaviness o f blankets, I begin to work up a
Gypsy Fire and Creative Fabrics.
A W XX AÍÚM *
I came to say, thank you for showing me the way. With your hands,
and the gardens o f your eyes. And for however short a moment, rest
your wings, in these arms, which will never seek to hold you down.
< m i l l . .11 11« n« h C O N C E R T S l > T H U P A R K 7 0 0 1
F re e n iiH T r h In llie ( 'll) purl« ( ‘¿m l A Spruce Sr.y
R l 'N I I O S , a - 1PM
The Cannon Beach Gallery presents an exhibit
o f finely crafted furniture by Gideon Hughes and
Thomas Hughes, August 3 rd through August 27th.
A t i g u n t F ill»
C o n C o m r» t o «=»«-»«» - I . n t l n
These two artists and craftsmen create the
highest caliber heirloom quality furniture that
crosses the boundary into art.
Thomas is a
North Coast craftsman and carpenter who lives
in Arch Cape. Gideon is a carpenter, boat
builder, ceramic artist and father and these roles
all influence his furniture. Thomas will be
showing small and medium sized tables
including a series o f bedside tables. Gideon will
be exhibiting a wide variety o f pieces including
stools, tables and large wall mounted cabinets. A
reception for the artist’s will be held at the
Cannon Beach Gallery (1064 S. Hemlock) on
Saturday August 4th from 6pm until 8pm.
A v « n ItTM
T h «
Teaurs K msmvm - I atim
zVirgwr.F 19O1
1 I f u l r l i i i '. H / m i n i
1 ni k- ■ iH i nn
August 26th
Sylvia Cuenca Quartet • Jarr/Funk featuringRnh Sehrrpn
September 2nd
r iH y T H M C V t.T V P F
H e w e lM
(. heating is poor business procedure which can
lead to loss o f all profits. W ild Bill Hickok
C oast R ange
A ssociation
P.O. B O X 148
w w w .n w b y n w g a lle r y .c o m
NEW PO RT, O R 97365
“My favorite spot to wander is Northwest By Northwest Gallery
with it’s extensive collection of exquisite works by regional artists.”
- Northwest Travel, July/August 1999
Pacific Northwest Contemporary Fine Art & Fine Craft
Celebrating I4 ,b Year in Cannon Beach
Our» Gart
RO. B ox 1021 • 2 3 9 N orth H em lock • 503-4364)741
UPPÊR LEfTCDßC AUGUST 200J
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