Zachary Olson's Blog, page 4

bloodwit — a poem

bloodwit — a poem

there are no words
to revive the dead
once fire once stone
claim their estate

a strangle grip tight
around the lead as
artificial lines are drawn
across wrinkled maps

gauze excuses and
white knuckle swords
belonging to grandparents
and those before them

but what about us
can we be saved
our enduring silence
disproportionate

Photo by Umberto on Unsplash[image error]

Through the Cesium Coil — A Short Story

Through the Cesium Coil — A Short Story

It was the opening night of my exhibit at the Lumber Room in my adopted hometown, Portland. This collection was called laurel: the interplay of light density and venation patterns in leaves of the pacific northwest. Honestly, I was out of my depth, galleries had never been on the radar. I just liked people looking at my photos. And I just liked nice photos of nice leaves. The curator asked me to redo the artist statement four times, because it was “concerningly short.”

They always serve wine and fancy little snacks at openings. But I don’t really vibe with that vibe. I requested a grilled cheese spread and a punch bowl — the kind that’s Sprite and rainbow sorbet. It reminded me of all the piano recitals growing up, which remained a rolling index of happy memories.

I was back at the punch bowl for a second or fourth glass and a woman stepped up next to me holding out an empty cup. I used the giant soup ladle and poured her an overly generous fill.

“Oh, uh, right there,” I said pointing to a stack of green napkins. I was honestly more proud of the napkins than my gallery at this point. I’d stayed up the night before drawing tiny leaf patterns in the corners of each of them with a white gel pen. It’s the small things.

“Thanks.”

She set down the punch and grabbed a napkin to wipe off her hands. She looked somewhere in her mid-50s and definitely from out of town. I couldn’t place where exactly, but she didn’t seem to have that innate casualness about her that screamed Oregonian. In an attempt at small talk, not a strong suit, I asked her how she’d heard about the exhibit. She stopped cleaning her hands and set the crumpled napkin back on the table on top of the unused ones.

“I’m not here for the photos. I’m here for you.”

—

Okay, so I didn’t just take leaf pictures. That’s never going to pay any bills. What I mostly did was real estate photography. It was boring as shit, but getting paid to take photos was what I always wanted. I liked combing through after a shoot and choosing which ones to drop onto the cloud for the client. Usually there were a few that made me laugh where one of the contractors or the agent was caught in a mirror or window reflection. Sometimes a cat would be hidden halfway underneath the couch. I started uploading these off-shots on Instagram and they usually got a decent amount of interest among friends from high school. People like a peek behind the curtain, even if the curtain is boring as shit.

And that’s actually how they found me.

A private account had started following me that I didn’t recognize: @remusem.ent. The gray silhouette of the empty profile photo felt somehow ominous. After a quick Google search turned up empty, I’d gotten distracted and moved on. Preparation for the exhibit was all-consuming the weeks leading up to it and I’d forgotten.

—

The woman stepped closer to me than I was generally comfortable with and grabbed the edge of my plaid jacket. Not in an aggressive way, but I was definitely paying more attention to her now.

“Meet me outside when you can. I’ll wait however long you need.”

She left the unsipped punch and exited the main gallery without looking back. I turned to see if anyone else had seen the interaction, but they were all busy looking at my leafy images or, as the closest group were doing, discussing aura photography.

“Like babe, you would be so indigo.”

I jumped at the chance to avoid small talk with a roving guest in thick acrylic glasses, barely dodging him on my way to follow the unknown woman outside. She stood just down the street a bit, staring across 9th Ave at the Blackfish Gallery. The large windows displayed a sneak peek at a woodblock print exhibit.

“Saw that gallery. It’s a collective or something, they all work together on their projects.” Another attempt at small talk. I wouldn’t be doing that again.

I’d checked out the block prints earlier in the week. My favorite was two crescent moons sticking their tongues out at each other while a wolf watched from below. Or as the title card had read, and I only remembered this because I snuck a photo of it to post later:

JUNIPER QUINN LUX, jr. // Portland, Oregon
“Lunar Brothers Jest Amidst Their Mother’s Elegy: The Dawn of Rome”
stolen alabaster dust on handwoven vermillion wood pulp sheet, 17” x 26”

Inspired by Nicolas Mignard’s
“The Shepherd Faustulus Bringing Romulus and Remus to His Wife”

Turning, I saw the woman was several paces closer to me, holding out an envelope. As with most things, I hesitated. She grabbed my hand and placed the envelope inside, folding my fingers to ensure they gripped.

“We need you for this project. It could be someone else, but we want you. The plan works best with you.” She stared at me with super intense eyes and out of habit I looked away.

“What project? Another exhibit? I’m not sure how many people want to see more leaf photos.”

“Just look at it when you get home.” She slid out a pair of expensive looking sunglasses from inside her blazer and put them on. A street light blinked right next to us. “Let me know what you think. Sooner the better.”

She stepped off the curb and got into a town car idling nearby, which zipped around the corner as soon as she shut the door. I glanced down to find my name handwritten on the envelope and printed in the left hand corner: Remusement Enterprises — Grottaglie, Italy.

—

It was a short ride to my apartment, but I left my bike chained up outside the gallery after the show opening shenanigans died down. I preferred walking when I needed to clear my head. I felt overstimulated from socializing so much. It was one of those fall nights that still had the flavor of summer, a thickness in the air. I wanted a chai.

Once I arrived home, I poured a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and flopped on the couch. Milk dripped from the corner of my mouth after an unnecessarily large spoonful. I wiped it away and grabbed the envelope that stuck out of the jacket I’d tossed across the couch arm. Ripping it open, I pulled out the papers inside.

Welcome to Remusement Enterprises!
We’re glad you have agreed to join us.
You are a valued member of the team.
Here is your ticket.
See you soon!
;)

I looked back in the envelope and there indeed was a ticket included, dated for two weeks away. This seemed a little more involved than an art exhibit, but I knew all too well that my calendar was wide open after tonight.

—

The layover in Amsterdam was so quick that I needed to run to catch the connecting flight. In Rome, I grabbed a sandwich and an espresso on the way to the next gate, which proved unnecessary because my final flight turned out to be a private plane with a dish of heirloom chard tortellini waiting for me when I boarded. After an awkward hour-long flight with just me and the steward, I finally landed in Grottaglie.

I tripped on the way down the steps onto the tarmac. The same woman from my exhibit opening, still wearing sunglasses, came up and informed me that my bags had been picked up and were in route to my lodging already. She wanted to show me around the spaceport. Spaceport.

—

The day of the launch came quickly, and although we were thoroughly trained, I couldn’t help but still feel out of my league. My peers weren’t really peers at all, but rather high profile university professors, astrophysicists, and engineers of every kind. Also Volcov, a retired Ukrainian Special Ops dude who took some interest in my leaf photos. “Dis is somesing my littel onuka vould make.” (I looked it up later and found that onuka meant granddaughter, so I assumed that was probably a good thing.)

Eight of us were going up, each with a unique mission, but I only knew mine. It sounded simple enough: photograph everything. I was equipped with both digital and film cameras and a slew of lenses. And video camera was built into the chest of my flight suit. Mostly my excitement centered on adding a few shots of the earth from space to my portfolio. Perhaps I could overlay some of them with leaf photos, the patterns tracing imaginary plane routes in the sky or some bullshit. Seemed like the kind of thing for a future exhibit that a lot of rich people might like.

—

The missions were a success, as far as I could tell. Everyone was busy with instruments and measuring and screens. The spacecraft lost power at one point, but I was reassured that this was supposed to happen and was, in fact, a good thing. I did not feel reassured, but I did get a lot of photos I was thrilled with and that made up for it.

The return trip was rough and I was not prepared.

The force of our craft battling against an atmosphere that dared not let us re-enter. Ripples of light spooling themselves around us, drawing us in, tugging at all of our corners. A silence followed, as if all sound folded inward and disappeared.

The others were yelling through the headsets, but their words never reached me. Red fluorescents started switching on and off in the cabin. I tried to find a split second to capture something, anything, on camera. The buttons, and my fingers, refused to cooperate.

The pressure from outside the craft crept through the reinforced siding and into my vision, worming its way at the edges of my eyeballs. I felt the veins pressing forward. And then the silence took me.

—

I couldn’t see. My eyes were practically swollen shut. But I put my hands out and could feel the interior wall of the pod, still hot from piercing through atmosphere. The door latches clicked automatically and the smell of the sea flooded into the cockpit. I fumbled with the clasps on the seat and fell sideways out of the harness as it released.

Drops of salt water misted my cheeks, mixing with the tears, blood, and bruises. It was painful, but I didn’t give a shit because I was fucking alive. I used my sleeve to wipe away what I could. I heard rustling and felt someone reach out and grab my shoulder while I clumsily maneuvered towards the exit hatch. Volcov’s breath was thick with iron as he pulled me close.

“Zey did not tell you ev-ree-sing. If ve succeeded,” he choked, “zere is no going back.”

I met his gaze as best I could and crawled to the open hatch, looking back before slipping out. Backlit by the emergency lighting, I could just make out a young girl in the photo held out in Volcov’s lifeless hand. A sheep in wolf’s disguise.

Once I hoisted myself out of the craft, the fresh air and frigid water sort of helped reduce the swelling in my eyes. I could make out the shape of land to the left. I pushed off towards it, even though my arms were killing me from the impact of the crash. Even after swimming for what felt like a long time, the land didn’t appear any closer.

Arms exhausted, I tread water with just legs. The screams of seagulls overhead reminded me of so many day trips to Cannon Beach. The taffy in little striped pink bags. French fries with too much ketchup. Photos of Haystack Rock at sunset.

—

The waves crashed over me. The beach ground into my face as I was pushed further onto shore. A crab, in a familiar green, tiptoed across my arm.

The screech of velcro straps seemed unnatural as I struggled out of the heavy, soaked flight suit. Free from its confines, I turned over onto my back and took in several large gasps of air. The Battlestar Galactica t-shirt I’d put on this morning felt less fun now, but I was thankful to at least not be totally naked for when the rescue crew arrived.

A voice kicked up behind me, but I did not understand what it said. Sand scattered across my face as a pair of sandaled feet came to a quick stop nearby. The man threw down what he was carrying and fell to his knees. I tried to pull myself up, but my arms were weak. My fingers caught against something. I could see blood as I drew my hand back.

The man tore off a piece of fabric from the tunic he wore and wrapped it around the gash across my fingers. Another man of similar build, perhaps a brother, joined at his side. Together they dragged me out from the water and laid me carefully against a tree further up the beach. I could see the waves already filling in the impression where my body had sunk into the dense sand. And next to it all, a sword trailing red as the tides turned backwards.

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash[image error]

the gate of etretat. — a poem

the gate of etretat. — a poem

he took chalk &
drew a doorway
with it on the wall
to where the witch
told him never to go
unless the clock stopped
ticking &
don’t worry
he didn’t forget

— the wooden crate filled with raven bones
 — a mirror covered thin with wax
 — a bundle tied of devil’s flax

// sand in fistfuls thrown to mist
erase a name here from the list
in the passage always near
then the dead will reappear  //

he took chalk &
drew a doorway
through a wall
to a hallway where
if all went well
his love awaited

[rework of a 2015 poem]

Photo by Tobias Tullius on Unsplash[image error]

folding metal chair. — a poem

folding metal chair. — a poem

i try not to think about
the days and years when
i was told what and how
not to be but only good
never selfish obedient
without a question
buckle up buckle in
change your tune
or face the music

i try now to think about
the days and years since
and the open promise of
a perpetually chosen tomorrow

Photo by Daniel McCullough on Unsplash[image error]

ought um. — a poem

ought um. — a poem

the heater’s blazin &
the tea is brewing
the socks’re on &
the rain is drooling
the leaves change &
so do we.

[oldie from 2011]

Photo by Mitchell McCleary on Unsplash[image error]

trionfi. — a poem

her hand held gentle
the stack of cards which
seemed like magnets
squirming & pushing
fighting to be chosen first
fingers expert & effortless
flicked three futures wide
the edges of each fraying
& flaking from age & use
she turned one slowly &
time hung still as destiny
arranged itself to be read

Photo by Christian Lue on Unsplash[image error]

quantum clepe. — a poem

quantum clepe. — a poem

time is a snapslap bracelet
cracked across the wrist of reality
& the further we go forward
the further we fall back until
our future looks a littlelot
exactly like the past

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash[image error]

להבות / النيران. — a poem

להבות / النيران. — a poem

(the flames / the fires)

they burned the city
to get god’s attention
to stake their claim in
the eternity of blood
& everyone watched
on screens far away
sipping their american
os in decorated cups

[I have re-translated the title of this poem
too many times since I first wrote it in 2015.]

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash[image error]

constelltation. — a poem

constelltation. — a poem

i looked to the stars
for inspiration &
saw them looking
back at me with
smilesmirkfrowns
& one of them
the one on the left
handed me a letter
asking: /what? what
does it feel like to
be human?/ & i said
somewhat assuredly:
/miserably beautiful
& altogether difficult/

the star on the left
sat silently blinking
perhaps thinking or
just waiting for my
response to travel
millions of lightyears
before hearing it.

Photo by Biel Morro on Unsplash[image error]

xxs. — a poem

xxs. — a poem

we speak
small words
to ourselves
like no
like why
when we could
if left to our own devices
say bigger things
like in
dispensable
like out
stretched
like under
way
like over
due

Photo by Tao Yuan on Unsplash[image error]