by Tuttle, Dan;
“Just wondering in fact what we’re slaves to.”
289.
Stel onward waxed, found mental clarity
in possibility of vocalized –
thus shareable-with-others – verity.
Thick headbound stewing thought’s too localized
to change an anything except own acts.
“The ’hood’ll oft embrace when you profound
with words, Talib once said: your rep impacts
how strangers will receive you.” “Sure, background
is helpful intro,” Joe replied. “It’s not
the background. That’s Geppetto’s trick, Joe: it’s
the foreground, it’s the puppet strings, it’s got
you by-the-balls reactively. No wits
insert themselves to intervene and say,
‘Hey self, your bias makes you feel this way’.”
290.
“Nah, I don’t buy this bias stuff. I’ve read
half dozen articles on micro-whats-
it-called? Aggressions! I feel I can’t tread
within a mile of that minefield.” “The crux
is not that stuff. It’s something bigger. Your
loquacious inner Joe at every turn
is analyzing data to restore
your sanity. With logic you discern
who’s friendly, safe, and stuff like that. What sucks
is how irreparable snap judgments are,
’cause then that story’s static, cannot flux
responsively to growing reservoir
of actual experience with that
one thing you judged. Perspective’s stuck.” Joe spat
291.
the taste out over rail without reply.
“Talib goes on, I say shit they relate
to, and I keep it down to Earth. See, I
don’t think I’m down with what that last clause states.”
Joe turned from strut to face her. “Let me guess,”
he said, “that’s why you’re gazing toward the stars.”
Stel swallowed little laugh, “I must confess
your sleuthing and old Watson’s are on par.”
“I’m here to serve, milady,” Joe took bow.
“But fine, you’re sort of right. He’s missing one
big piece. Because he’s big, has listeners now,
he has the chance to change things. Twisting’s done
by showing people could-be’s, not what-are’s.”
“Whose insight’s that?” “Ugh. Honestly? It’s Dar’s.”
292.
“Yeah, people underestimate her. She’s
put leg work into all those social posts.”
“Sure, lots of high-slit leg shots.” “No, not skeeze.
She’s thinking through how medium best hosts
the aspirations of her audience.
She’ll try stuff, test, refine, but never flaunt
that backstage work in public face.” “Cements
a loyal membership, it seems.” “Her want,
as best as I can tell, is but to be
a pretty normal person when off-cam.”
“The trouble’s that she ports with her TV
presenter’s fake persona.” “Trade-offs, ma’am.
Earn cash to live off from a shtick? Say yes.”
“I’d choose a different path nevertheless.”
293.
“That’s fair. We’ve all a price.” “When did you know
what yours was?” “Frankly, after Series B.
Up to that point ’twas fun and games to grow
our team, our sales, our traffic queries. Me?
I’d thought of it as just a thrill I liked.
With VCs breathing down our necks, the ramp
from ten to fifty million sales soon psyched
me out, I went from being our big champ
to feeling like I ran by being chased.
The motivation flipped, intrinsic to
extrinsic. Then I saw how cash replaced
my want to build for building’s sake. Click through
to end of drama, after losing friends,
relationship, and nearly all weekends
294.
we won the startup game, and I retired.”
“At thirty.” “Temporarily. A break.
I’m answering to say that I was wired
to want to do one single thing, I ached
to do that one thing better than the rest.
It took me quite a ways. When that was drained
the market value set my price.” “Divest
relationships, zoom in on options gained.
I get it, strangely.” Joe was quite surprised,
expecting rebel’s judgment as was oft
the case when conversations advertised
his fortunate post-economic loft.
“A long time back I made a choice like that,”
she added, saying no more ’bout the fact.
CHAPTER 28
295.
The blank page got its fill of pen that week,
or two, or twelve, who knew? Some form that time
can stand denomination in, oblique
to author who, herself, zoomed in to rhyme.
Reality compressed: expansively
as sky and heavens billions old reduced
to slim nocturnal peek, romance of the
space yet to fill kept Stella nightly juiced.
It’s hard to know if motivation came
from endless pages’ longing for marks black
or if instead it was the larger game
she played to prove to self she could hijack
the hearts and minds on web anonymous
and Opposition too, eponymous.
296.
Once sun went down, her curtains too drew closed
symbolically and factually. She offed
the lights, and let soundtrack superimpose
known world in headphones over-ear. The soft
progression from the mostly sensory
to wholly mental shed constraining shells.
For this, most others called dispensary
to chemically confuse their organelles.
Some rocket burn toward greatness jetted her
along in slipstream time, herself composed
composing poems she hoped embedded burr
that hitchhikes in the mind, sprouts, can depose
internal narratives that readers held,
best conquered parasitically, not shelled.
297.
Friends met up at the Ferry Building pier
to soak up morning sunshine, stock up on
some veggies, gloss political veneer,
and polish coffee off. A dock pylon
caught Tula’s purse at pace and nearly yanked
her off her feet to plunge into the drink.
Stel wrote as if no things were sacrosanct
and posted poke: what if Tee were to sink?
They’d met up on Potrero Hill in park
that overlooks the shipping corridor
and watched the freighters dock, goods disembark,
to prompt again their group dysphoric chore
of asking if consumerism’s worth
the price that it extracts from Mother Earth.
298.
On that, Stel’d written sonnet series, rant
in three full parts about hypocrisy.
She too was guilty, said that US can’t
legitimately speak: its talk missed the
Accord in Paris, then got worse and worse.
Until she met a biking vegan who
forswore airplanes and lived off-grid sans purse
of coin, she wrote, she’d skewer those who drew
themselves to Green alignment. Actions set
the breadth and depth of carbon footprint. Words
are fun to bandy ’round in factions, ye
t
cannot help distance someone from the herds
as greener till accompanied with loss
of standard living. That’s Rime’s albatross.
299.
They’d spent a weekend day admiring dogs
in off-leash park at Bernal Heights, then biked
straight west, then south, to thickened banks of fogs
Fort Funston welcomed. Beachside cliffs they hiked
with Shiba Inu Labradoodles, curs,
kind mastiffs, toys of every sort, and Greg.
Amid the mostly drab caboodles were
two dogs of special merit. Stella pegged
them as the pinnacles of species known.
The first was Ruby, part-Chow rescue mix
maroon. Next, subtle as a sousaphone
with sweetheart’s clunky maelstrom slobber licks,
retriever golden in most every way
was Greg. Named how? No owner near could say.
300.
Stel’s recollection of that zoo had blurred
by late time that she’d sat to write, and so
took all Greg’s loving spirit she’d inferred
and packed it into frame with room to grow.
She named the pet her BLING, and let it free
in catacombs of recollecting mind.
Friends took a class at place called Love Story
where yogis came to make selves more aligned.
Her writing there touched mysticality,
discovering the ways stretched bodies waltzed:
a ‘practice’ meant dualistic fallacy
of ‘does’ or ‘does not’ yoga’s wholly false.
She commented and followed, won and lost,
and ever-slowly toward importance crossed.
301.
Each Opposition outing got its plaque
in fourteen lines iambic, rhyming too.
Her on-screen compositions she’d repack
into handwritten filigree to skew
the viewers’ sense that each was artisan
and from the time when typewriters had reigned.
For future’s internet liked partisan
renditions of times sepia prints had framed.
The periodic centering of font
in camera’s eye gave Stella’s days a pace
she only noticed ’tween her spells savant.
’Twas better marked by rest of human race
who slowly and with skepticism took
her story line and sinker. They were hooked.
302.
The days between must have existed, but
from gray they came, to gray they’d fade away.
As life unfolded, only what was cut
and pinned to paper lived another day.
Her followers liked piercing outside eye’s
fresh take on life’s mundanities – though not
with XKCD geekiness, but fly
enough to please – and thought them feyly wrought.
The comments back at times in meter came,
with subject-object-verb inversions aped
from her own lines as tribute. She shared fame
with those whose edits positively shaped.
Stel soon detected body politic
by tracing where those bodies thralled and quipped.
303.
First Fridays out in Oakland brought the house
from ’round the Bay, ’cept Joe and Tee, turned streets
to party block one wished for. Folks caroused
to live band beats and sweets and grill-smoked meats,
with temporary clouds from spliff-lit puffs.
From empanadas, funk, beer, crowd control,
and public-minded cops without handcuffs
arose emergent scene that could ensoul,
of how together to unite in gift
of waking up and breathing, having time
to human be, to humans try to lift,
to sunshine chill with stereo Sublime.
That melting pot befit the Oppo crew
who, as a posse, slowly strolled, perused.
304.
They chattered. “Took damn long to park, the roads
all seemed blocked off. Construction’s everywhere.”
“That’s great news.” “No it’s not.” “It is, it bodes
well for the housing prices. Millionaires
alone should not be who we let move in.”
“Of course. Therefore I’m pissed that luxury
high-rises are high-rising.” “But proof’s pinned
supply, demand to price. The bugs you see
aren’t bugs themselves, they’re features: build more stock
regardless of restrictions, prices fall.”
“Displacement, though, results. We’ve gotta block
developers, slow exodus to crawl.”
“That’s NIMBY-ism. Just resisting change?
That’s bad as Boomers leaving us shortchanged
305.
on everything from pensions to healthcare.
Ignoring symptoms won’t make causes cease.”
“Of course they suck. We’re yoked to their wealth’s heirs,
but that’s not issue here. You want to lease
the space of longtime residents to house
an influx of young people, who, for most
part spend each waking hour at jobs.” “Espouse
prevention of displacement as guidepost,
and you can still build up, and densify.
Though do so carefully, relocate folk
in flights on-site. Building intensifies
the value of their property.” “Great joke.
All Section 8 renewals leave place cleft.”
“We’ve learned since then. Go check out HOPE SF.”
306.
They came upon a sidestreet’s local band
whose soul-funk left the Parliament, Cee Lo,
and vocalists (less-MJ) sound outmanned
and heavily outgunned. “We’re Con Brio!”
they shouted to the clot of revelers
who’d stopped to bask in Freddy Mercury’s
revival. Witnesses thought devils were
possessing frontman, such soul pure fury
could only be dark magicks’ doing. At
set’s end the hypnotized crowd then dispersed,
each person feeling like they’d seen unwrapped
entire human’s being, best to worst.
“See? Push folks out, you lose great art like that.”
“That’s empty point, none know their habitat.
307.
Plus hey, it’s better to have real debate
about the issues. Live-work spaces? Flats
so small they’re called efficiencies? Lightweight
stacked manufactured units? Each combats
some downside in a different way. I don’t
pretend to know the menu, but I know
that simple talking points both can’t and won’t
advance debate to where it needs to go.”
They walked past local car show, every whip
tricked out with spinners, lights, hydraulics, sheen
coat fleck two-tone like Béla. Craftsmanship
perfected, anti-cool like Steve McQueen,
their engines roared, crank pistons dynamite.
And next to them rode custom low-ride bikes.
308.
A nearby speaker’s Ozomatli beat
contrasted notes against Norteño band’s
ranch polka ballad. “That’s ‘Cut Chemist Suite’,”
said Cade, to meet his dutiful demands
on self to educate the masses on
the title, artist, zeitgeist, lyrics, themes,
and history of rap. Wheatgrass chiffon,
turmeric milk and other pyrrhic schemes
were sold at stalls in tiny cups. “A taste?”
they’d each get asked while strolling by. “No, thanks,”
they’d say, in dozen steps be offered paste
of cricket proteins marketed by cranks.
The walls were down, the town was out. Broiled, sun
spiced scene to cover up the snake oils spun.
309.
“Those bicycles remind me: we should think
about a way to pressure MTA
to get a realistic biking link
from Oakland to San Fran, across the Bay.
It’s idiotic when the BART’s so packed
and everyone’s outdoorsy not to build
some architectural addendum tacked
onto the Bay Bridge sides.” “Find me three skilled
artmakers from the playa, plasma tools,
and one expense account; I’ll weld myself.”
“Word. Wish I could. I hate these local rules
they say prevent it.” “Why? A thick wire shelf
is basically what you’d need, not a road.”
“Corruption’s deep in earthquake building codes.”
310.
“Especially appalling since research
has indicated happiness declines
with long commutes.” “Design some Oppo merch
to fundraise? Kickstart that?” “Yeah, good luck.” “Whine
enough on steps of city hall to nab
news coverage, parlay that into a—” “Nope.
You think that worked for one scared taxicab
medallion owner fearing he’d go broke
when Uber came? Nah. One voice is as good
as zero.” “Even as a cohort they
lost out.” “We’re better for it.” “Victimhood
is worst parley position to display.”
“Yet here again we find while chat is free,
it yields us neither bridge nor strategy.”
311.
“Reminds me of the times we phone banked. Do
reps even listen to constituents?”
“Sure, if they’re fat-stacked part of the swank few
with millions up for grabs.” “‘Once rich, you’ve sense’
is bullcrap I’ve heard to self-justify
the politicians’ begging rich man’s view.”
“With platform thus they further uglify
the tax code so their pass-through gains accrue.”
Stel: “Guys, you did that thing you do, again.”
“What?” “What?” “What?” “Spiraled out from what we want
into broad-based complaints.” “Whoops, yep.” “Amen.”
“If what we need’s a movement, Stel’s savant.
Set all her followers against the boards
that regulate bridge, activate the hordes.”
312.
“That’s not a bad idea.” “Stel, you ride
a bike yet?” “Nope.” “Okay, let’s get that did.