The Old Green Phone (draft 2)

Old Green Phone

The old green phone, a gift from the dead old man, rings among a pile of unopened letters and random notebooks along with a pile of select books. The phone rings again, disturbing the pile of letters slightly.
A young man, in his early twenties, jerks awake at the second ring. He’s lying on his side, facing the blank white wall. A blue-checkered blanket hangs over one leg and half his body. At the third ring he throws the blanket off and stumbles while trying to stand. After navigating the mess of a room he finds the phone.
“Hello?”
He turns toward the window, as the voice on the other side begins excitedly, the noise of the voice barely escaping into the solemn mess. He closes his eyes, the lean white body, the blue boxers covering him. The young man stands for a moment as if waiting for ice water to wash over him. He slumps to the floor and leans against the side of the old wooden desk, with his shoulder against the dark wood.
“No, I was awake. I’m just tired.”
He leans his head against the desk and closes his eyes as he listens to the voice on the line. His left hand rubs the four-inch scar on the inside of his right elbow.
“Seriously, don’t tell me this.”
He props the receiver in the crook of his neck, as he digs a small silver engraved lighter from a pair of stained pants next to him. He then shuffles through the papers on the desk, his hand over his head in a blind search and finds a pack of American Spirit’s. Bringing it back he opens the pack with his right thumb and uses his teeth to pull out a white cigarette with a brown-flecked filter.
“Why not? We haven’t talked in, what three months and you insist on telling me that shit.” He opens the pack and slowly lifts one of the death dealing cigarettes to his mouth. “No, I’m sorry, don’t worry about it…Yeah, I saw it… wasn’t a huge fan…”
He flips the lighter open and resting the cigarette lightly between his lips, Bogart holding Bergman style, begins to light yet stops and pulls the cigarette from his mouth. The cigarette not lit.
“Yeah? Really? Listen. That dog was never just yours. In fact I paid for its food almost every week. You can’t do it. The thing would have starved to death…”
He shuts the lighter and leans against the desk, putting the cigarette back between his lips. He doesn’t open his lighter.
“Yeah, I know, I have never been able to tell you anything. I mean its just too frickin hard for even kind advice to fall on such elegant and perfect ears as yours.” His face which had been hard and stormy, a twitch at the corner of his mouth showing a passing smile, now slackens to an almost boredom. The blue eyes traced the bed and dropped quickly to the scar, eyebrows drooping. The room’s white walls are empty of any decoration, with small almost imperceptible pinpricks where thumbtacks had once been.
“Ha!” His mouth only forming the word and carrying not possible mirth, the cigarette falls out of his mouth and lands on in his lap, “just don’t do anything till I can get down there to pick the pup up.” He grabs the cigarette and stands’, pulling the dirty pair of jeans on, then slides the lighter back into the pocket that was its home. Not a single piece of clothing lay in the drawer-less dresser, four of the drawers acted as pillars for the bed frame.
“Yeah, in a couple of weeks.”
He grabs the phone’s body with his left hand. A small tattoo, the width of a penny, sits between the thumb knuckle and pointer knuckle of the hand holding the body of the phone with the receiver still in the nook of his shoulder. He walks out of the bedroom, there is a wooden desk in the hallway outside his room piled high with dust covered papers and books. The long vanilla phone cord connected to the wall in his room behind the door catches under one of the feet of the desk and causes the young man to frown even deeper as the phone body stops. With his hand he swings at the phone cord once and gets it free. In the bathroom, the young man sets the phone body down on the rack over the toilet, and puts the cigarette on top of the phone body; he unzips and begins to piss.
“I’m glad you found a man who hates dogs.“
He grabs the phone with the hand that was freed when he set down the phone body.
“The sink’s running”
He shakes a few times, zips up and turns to the porcelain bowl and runs the water, washing only the hand used. “Different sink.”
“How long have the two of you been together?” Opening the medicine cabinet above the sink, he grabs the toothpaste and his toothbrush and closes the cabinet. “Yeah. I’m happy for you.”
He stares in the mirror for a moment then raises his eyebrows and puts the toothpaste on the brush and starts brushing. After three strokes he stops.
“Your dad?”
He spits a small bit of paste out of his mouth.
“How?”
He turns on the faucet and washes the brush out.
“What did he do?”
He grabs the phone and cocks it away from his mouth, bends over and using his other hand for a cup fills his mouth with water.
“That’s insane, your dad is nuts.” A quick movement at his lips reveals the beginning of a smile, it becomes a twitch and the young man is back to his deep frown.
He grabs the cig from the top of the phone body with his right hand, puts it in his mouth, and grabs the lighter out of the stained jeans. Opening the lighter he looks down and sees a pair of used Q-tips sitting on the ground.
“Fucking q-tips. My boss does everything he can to convince me that I don’t need to go buy q-tips to clean that f-ing V.F.D. I mean – q-tips are only 2 bucks for a shit ton, and I come home to find my roommates q-tips on the fucking bathroom floor.”
He puts the lighter back into his pants and walks out of the bathroom moving toward the stairway, the vanilla phone cord trailing and the Q-tips still sitting on the floor in the bathroom under the still running sink. The rage slackens as he moves down the uneven blue stairs. “Yeah I’m not very clean either, and not pissed at my roommate, I’m still thinking about work. The place is driving me nuts. They give me a promotion and when I try to do something, they argue at every turn. Power gluttons.”
He opens the door leading to the green carpeted and couch filled room, the couches forming a ‘U’ in front of the TV, a littered coffee table sits in the ‘U’ close to the front of a flower print couch. Two of the couches are flower print, the other dark brown. Nestling the receiver in his shoulder, he picks up a couple empty beer cans and while carrying them into the kitchen he bumps the door jam and the stack falls.
He sets the phone body on the counter, the vanilla phone cord tracing its way around the corner and up the stairs, picks up the cans; all the while the receiver is couched in the crook of his neck. With a new stack of cans he walks past the fridge and stops by the oven where the dark green recycling bin sits half full of cans and bottles.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
Dropping the cans in the dark green bin. He opens the fridge and pulls out a slab of packaged bacon. The label touting this package to contain the amazing apple cinnamon flavored bacon.
“So you think that all this war shit will end if we just leave?” Pulling a pan from the cupboard and cutting open the packaging, the phone still in God’s nook and the white devil still bouncing in his lips as he talks. “How’d you two meet by the way?” At a knock at the door in the living room with the three couches, the young man turns, leaving the package of open bacon on the stovetop. Grabbing the phone body he walks through the living room to the door with a four by four diamond shaped window.
“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” A man in a solid dark blue suit with a white collared shirt and a crosshatched with blue shades tie says with eyebrows raised and a broad smile on his thin lips. A golden nametag states that his name is Micah.
“Fuck that! Really? You used to laugh in anyone’s face who said they met at a bar.” The young man grabs the phone from the crook of his neck and turns back to the kitchen, leaving the door open and Micah standing with eyebrows scrunched together and his smile wavering. As the young man wrestles the vanilla phone cord over the coffee table, Micah turns and leaves.
Placing the phone body on the kitchen table, he turns to the stove again. Laying the bacon, five thick strips across, on the Teflon, a black plastic disease coating. He stands shirtless, stained jeans before the electric range.
“What do you mean? I never said any of that.” He pulls a black spatula from a drawer and stands over the bacon as it begins to warm up; the bacon slowly begins to glisten, the bacon’s fat slowly turning from white to off-white. “I have said, ‘I hate talking politics with you because you can’t seem to differentiate between logic and jargon.’” A little grease begins to patter in the pan.
“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be…” The kitchen is warm with the summer and the floating smell of apple cinnamon outweighs the cursory scent of old burnt cigarettes sitting in a small clay tray on the table. His hand is holding the spatula still, upraised, the muscles on his arm tense. He lowers the receiver for a moment, his blue eyes looking at it expectantly. His face is filled with a strange intensity, his lower lip covered by his upper and his eyebrows drawn down an inward. Veins on his forearm pop out, slowly his lifts the phone back to his ear. “Actually, I’m not sorry.” The words come out quiet. The uneven floor is still, his feet shift on the linoleum; the deep-set stains look ancient. His blue eyes awake, flaring, eyelids lifting while eyebrows not moving. His eyes wander the floral print on the wall behind the stove, studying intently the monotonous repeated pattern.
“I’m not sorry. Go, cry your heart out, I will not listen to your jargon anymore, your bullshit. Finally I’m done with your god-forsaken petty heart.” His voice is still quiet; he turns slightly, his blue eyes finding the window over the sink, his blue eyes bright, brighter than the gleam from the glint of a dish in the sink. His face breaks into an anger different from rage.
“I mean fuck. How is it that I have ever been sorry these past months? How is it? I mean you were supposed to be my stars. You were supposed to be my Fucking moon! Wasn’t that what you said to me so many times?” The question escapes his lips in a shout. “What else did you promise me? You were supposed to be my everything, you were supposed to be my heart, my rose, the definition of a rose, and instead…fuck” the blue eyes glisten slightly, the whites of his eyes a barely perceptible rosy, the beginning of red. “Instead,” his voice lowers, his hand brings the spatula up as if to ward off something, “you spend a year and half with me, building up my reality to create the worst possible gorge in a human heart.” The spatula falls and the young man stands, naked to the waist, the slim body strong and taut. “You found me to be less than even the worms that your fucking dog had. You decided I was nothing more than a heap of inorganic shit. I used to think you were elegant. The idea of elegance haunts me now. No, I am not fucking sorry and I will not live your expected life of ever wanting you.”
The blue eyes clear and strong, the young man sets the receiver down on the phone body, he slowly, with the love tattoo on his hand, pulls the vanilla phone cord out of the phone body. He turns and begins to flip the apple cinnamon bacon; slowly the face of the young man lightens and a smile floats easily to his lips. The smell of apple cinnamon wafts through the air and is joined by curling tendrils of smoke as he lights the cigarette.

Article for the UWEC Spectator

Prostitution vs. Prisoner

“The world’s oldest occupation” is being called into question. Where do you stand? What does it mean to be a prostitute, historically and now? What exactly is prostitution? And who in the world would think that a prostitute is a prisoner?

A prisoner. The “prison” of prostitution is highly debated. It is subjugated to the whims of moral relativism. A fancy term, eh? Prostitution and prostitutes have been religiously condemned by the religious, the ‘morally astute’, and has been embraced by many as a necessity of situation. After all, who’s to say something someone finds right is wrong? Only the self-righteous? Only the fanatics? That is the question.

This age old ‘occupation’ has come to the forefront of my mind, only because I have been forced to rethink how the world has told me to think about prostitution. The paradigm shift has been the result of two years doing basic research on the topic of Human Trafficking, aka Modern Day Slavery. If you don’t know about Modern Day Slavery, look it up; it will blow your mind. Beyond the facts of Human Trafficking lay the strange and ominous ideologies that allow this perverse practice to be a consistent force in the world, at here at home in the U.S. I have come to believe that one of these ideologies can, and most likely has, deeply corrupted our ability to view people in terms beyond the commodity. This may sound Marxist, but I think that politics or critical theory aside we must wonder at the power of sex on an individual. I had grown up thinking and feeling that sex is something that is natural and should not be suppressed, while thinking and feeling that somehow this is wrong. Over the last couple of years have I realized where the problem lies. It was not in that sex should or should not be suppress; the issue was the way in which the natural urges were addressed. I do believe that sex is a vital institution for all people who have ever lived, beyond procreation; there are other reasons why it is so engrained in all cultures of the world.

This month is Women’s History Month. A good month, after all women are amazing, specifically Astri Mikkelson is amazing (my fiancée). This month has been dedicated to women to show that we care deeply for women and the struggles that they have had to face. Admittedly men face struggles too, but history shows well that most months of the year are Men’s History Month. Since this month is supposed to be all about women and the lives they have lead, a group called HTA is doing a forum discussion on the idea of Prostitution vs. Prisoner: a look at the connection between prostitution and human trafficking. There are about 27 million people in a form of modern day slavery today. Of those 27 million, 80% are women and girls. That means there are 21,600,000 females in slavery today; of that number 70% are forced into sex trafficking, which equates to 15,120,000 women who are in sex slavery today. Prostitute or Prisoner? It may have never been a more important question, as it is today, this month, and this year. A month to celebrate women. And this is happening. Whew.

March 15^th, HTA will be in the Alumni room at 5:00pm and four wonderful ladies will be giving small presentations followed by an open forum. If you have any questions or comments or insights, for or against prostitution, you are welcome to join us. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my sometimes-overpowering passion for this issue in check and do everything I can to be civil and courteous.

I hope you enjoyed.

A response to Matt on Slavery in the Bible

This is a work in progress, just spent some time and would love some feedback.

Matt,

Thank you for your email, I would love to sit down and talk about how we can teach our campus about the horrific nature of slavery. I would also love to know more about Shared Hope. I would like to help with the article on explaining the presence of slavery in the Bible.

I have spent the last couple of hours mulling over your question. In studying marxist criticism I have come across a very interesting aspect of capitalism that I had not thought much about before. Just so you know I'm not a complete advocate for Marxist theories, just feel that there is some truth in what Marx talked about. There were a couple of points that became very intriguing. The first one is the ideas of use value, exchange value, and sign-exchange value. Use value is something that has value in its use and in its use alone. Like for instance a loaf of bread, its only value is in it being used for nutrition, most basic food items are in this category. Exchange value is something that is bought solely for the purpose of selling to make a profit, i.e. the idea of 'flipping houses' buying a house, fixing it up, then selling it for more than you bought it for. The only value of the house in this situation is the prospect of selling it. Sign-exchange value is the idea of buying a $100 pair of sunglasses. The value is not in the use or the resale of the product but in the symbol it represents, which in a capitalist community, is the representation of wealth. Connecting these ideas to the idea of commodification has some interesting connections to modern slavery and even the trans-atlantic slave trade. Commodification is the process in which an object or even person is transformed into a commodity through the apparent placement of exchange value, or sign-exchange value. The process of commodification has been deeply influential and has become a norm of capitalism. Where as in the barter system use value is paramount, people traded for the value of the product. Exchange value and sign-exchange value are held to specific arenas in a barter system, i.e. traders/merchants, and the government leadership, respectively exchange value and sign-exchange value.

From here you can easily make the logical leap to the difference between biblical slavery and more adverse forms of slavery. Trans-Atlantic slave trade, modern day slavery, and even Egyptian slavery of the Hebrew people. You can see that in the Trans-Atlantic slave trade and in modern day slavery, the major value of a slave was and is in exchange value. There is a deep rooted connection to the commodification of a person as slave. Specifically the sex industry, the person has become a commodity to be bought or sold for hope of profit, or personal gratification, a touch on sign-exchange value. Beside this is the possible connection between the alienated worker and the type of work a modern slave is forced to perform. An alienated worker is someone who works to create a product that has no individual connection to the worker, therefore the worker has lost individuality and has become a commodity, the only value assigned is in exchange value, or possibly sign-exchange value. I do believe that any type of slave trade could be considered adverse, at least when applied to this formula. However, when looking at Exodus 21:7 specifically you have to look at cultural norms as well. In "The Two Princes of Calabar" by Randy Sparks, there is a cultural norm where if a male slave was let go, allowed his freedom, it was because he was untrustworthy or lazy as a worker. When this happens the male slave is then unable to find work and is reduced to becoming a beggar, because it is considered a disgrace to be 'let go'. This may seem strange, yet in this culture a slave is considered almost as if they were family. If this was also a practice in the middle east, which I am unsure of, it would make sense that God would command that a female slave is not to be let go, it would be for her protection instead of her oppression.

Well this is what I have currently as far as biblical slavery. I'll let you know what else I come up with. It would be good to collaborate on an article sometime, or write articles to compliment.

Caleb

p.s. I am not saying that capitalism is at fault for the commodification of people, what I'm saying is that like many ideologies that may have had a strong chance to produce a lot of good, it has been corrupted in the past and sometimes currently, into creating pain and evil.

Thank you for reading!

Desperation

There are things in this world not seen and things in this not wanting to be seen. What happens when we allow God to turn our world upside down? What will we see? Will the actual people we are fall out of the masks and the bodies we hold onto to float in a strange progression to our actual feet? Will we be able to see people struggling to let go of their confused masks and bodies? Will we be able to help them be free of the emptiness of an incomplete existence?

I don't know. I don't know what it will look like when the world literally turns upside down. Maybe because I have the faith that is so small I can't see it. More likely I'm afraid of what I'll look like without my masks and my armor of a body. I'm afraid of who everyone will see, I guess I maybe afraid of what my reflection will look like in a still cup of water. Why am I afraid?

I've been f-ing convinced that I am ugly, I am weak. I have been told for years that all that I care about is nothing important. I hate that voice that pounds against my imagination like the ocean against a cliff.

It was a night ago when I heard that voice escape from an actual mouth, a real person voiced all the things I have been afraid of. "You are a chump for believing that your life could have any affect on the world. You are an imbecile to believe that you can rescue children from slavery. YOU ARE NOTHING."

F that! F that!

I've seen demons, my own and others. I've seen angels. I've seen a real God do real things. I have seen a real God reach into my life and wrestle to the point of death for me. I've been the prodigal son, I've seen pain, personal and others. I am not nothing because MY GOD IS EVERYTHING.

What happens when God turns our world upside down? We get to live the hardest and real existence to be experienced.

I met a man who saw nothing but the worst in the world, he was so concerned with expressing how horrible it all was that nothing else existed. I was so mad at him! I was pissed. Part of my was pissed because the of the hate and the racism. Although I was also pissed because he didn't allow me to speak. He retorted to any type of objection with 'blah, blah, blah.' I was pissed because he didn't respect me enough to listen to what I had to say.

Who am I? Who am I to assume that I have anything worth saying? I know I am an adopted son of God.

But does that give me the right to assume that everyone has to listen when I speak? No. It means He has given LOVE and grace. But it doesn't mean I am in any way more than the man who I was so angry with. No. Me being an adopted son of God means I'm forgiven. FORGIVEN.

Words, words, and more words. How can I ever assume to explain this in words. I can't.

But watch. The pain of a life. Ugly, ripping, horrific pain. The pain of life. Some inflicted on me, more because of me. A giant fog, dense fog, you can't see a hand in front of you. You begin to question if your eyes actually work. You begin to question if you ever exist in this world. The fog is so thick that everything you are seems to be lost in it. Then, you look up, to the right behind your shoulder. A faint change in color. Is it really there? Only the whispered hope of still being able to breathe convinces you that possibly something could really be there. You turn slowly, the change in coloring is a faint yellow. As you ponder this new existence beyond yourself you realize that it could be what everyone has always called light. A deep sense of desire comes over you. A desire different from what you would later realize was only lust. A desire to be, not to have. A desire to actually see something. To actually SEE something!

You begin to feel your feet leave the ground, you slowly feel the fog around you become less heavy. A moment later you begin to realize that the fog is lightening. You are leaving the fog! The moment your eyes break through the fog you are overwhelmed by a warmth never known in the fog. You can see! The world stretches before you! The world is beautiful! Amazing! All things are possible, not only possible but capable as well!

You look toward that light that had sought you out and realize that it hangs low in the sky, it actually seems to emanating from the top of a large mountain. As if all the fire's in Zues' castle were burning, only much brighter, making Zues' castle look like a glint off a fly.

Words, words, and more words! How can it ever be written, the GLORY OF OUR GOD!!

So I've stood and been in awe. I only saw a distant hill where God may reside, distant, farther than any type of algorithm could equate. Yet it was more personal and perfect than any detailed study of a hand.

How can I, a man lost in a fog for more than 4/5th of his life assume that I personally have the strength of character and will to break this mans hatred and cynicism? How can a fog born man like myself assume that others must listen to my great wisdom? I really shouldn't but I do.

What would it look like if my world was turned upside down? What would it look like if I allowed the world to be turned upside down? Where I spent my time allowing the bright wisdom of God to flow through me? Words, words, and more words? What would it look like if I washed the feet of the bigot? Made supper for the sex offender? Denied anything that would desert another to misery? What would a world look like where the assumption was that people were loved? What would it look like if I actually cared enough about those around me to forgo what I think is best for them and truly discover what is best for them.

Now to deal with the fear.

Aw fuck it, forget about the fear. Courage my brothers! Into the breach once again!

(I wouldn't recommend loving people if you want an easy life.) (I highly recommend loving people if you want a real life.)