When the Porn Stalls are Empty, the Elves are Busy

I am walking down a dusty field where, behind strange fences made of string, I see children playing volleyball. I try to watch for a few seconds but it bores me so much I resume the walk.

Soon I am jogging slowly and painfully down a narrow trail which leads to my two-story elementary school building. On the path, two grounds sweepers are clearing the way of leaves. I have to skirt between their noisy machines in order to get through.

My elementary school building is decrepit. The muddy walkway has sewage water leaking from some bathroom on the ground floor. The classrooms have been boarded up. Still, I keep going.

The path leads me to bustling Hong Kong, replete with sidewalk food vendors and stalls for bootleg porn DVDs. Most of the stalls have been closed down, I notice. Probably a nominal crackdown on piracy by the local government — something just for show. The few stalls still working appear to be lotto ticket vendors, with some porn magazines on the side, y’know, just to keep their street cred.

And then I am on a bus with 4 homeless people. I’m bringing them back with me to my room at a mansion. They need a place to stay. I am being hospitable although I cannot for the life of me recall who they are. I apologize that the room I am taking them to is actually big enough for more people.

But by the time I open the door to the room, I am shocked to find a million elves going through my stuff, and tagging everything with tiny clear stickers and gnome-sized Sharpie markers. They all stop what they’re doing at the same time and look at me and my visitors like I’m the one disturbing them from their most vital cataloging task.

Photo credits: Elf Clothesline - by Andrea R on Flickr.

Choosing Old Guitars from the U-Haul Trailer

The back of the U-haul trailer is hot and dusty. And I’m swimming in confusion. There are guitars of every kind strewn about everywhere in this storage unit, and some of them are mine. But which ones?

Paulo is ready to move to some distant state. I’m not sure how I feel about that. My high school best friend moving away? We lived down the street from one another all our lives.

I look down at the guitars in the pile. They’ve been here for years. There is a mandolin with its neck broken which I borrowed from the drama club and never returned. There is a guitar made in a local shop, still in the original black and white vinyl soft case which I bought back in junior high. There are some Fender stratocaster electric guitars I never owned.

This is bittersweet for me. So many guitars to choose from. But so much sadness to follow. The nostalgia, it bites me like a snake in the grass.