Spiral of Divinity.

Note: This piece is the first in a series of academic/scholarly essays about "low-brow" or seldom respected art forms. As such, it's a bit more technical than most of my work. If you'd like to read something a little closer to what I usually write, please enjoy some of the older posts on this blog first, then get back to this one.

Introduction

The irrational number Phi is represented in integers by ~1.618 and is the only working integer of dividing a straight line into two segments, in which the ratio of the line to its larger segment is equal to the ratio of the larger segment to the smaller, and can thus be infinitely squared to smaller segments.

Phi’s relevance is in its persistent appearance throughout seemingly unrelated dynamic systems, be they in nature, animal biology, art, human physiology or otherwise. Phi, its reciprocal phi and their geometric equivalents have been found throughout popular works like The Last Supper and Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man as well as patterns in sunflower seeds and cephalopod shells. This paper will specifically focus on understanding Phi and its use within the song “Lateralus” by the Los Angeles-based heavy metal musical act Tool.

Understanding Phi and phi in Integer Sequencing and Geometry

To find Phi in Euclidean geometry, a straight line (a) must be divided into two segments: one larger (b) and one smaller (c). The ratio of the length of the entire straight line (a) to the larger segment of the line (b) is the same ratio as the length of the larger segment (b) to the smaller (c) (see Fig. A). Mathematically, a:b::b:c. This is only possible when the first number in the ratio is ~1.618 times larger than the second.

Conversely, Phi’s reciprocal integer, phi, is Phi minus one. To find the length of b in the above example, one must multiply a by ~0.618. Then c is equal to b times 0.618, etc., squared down into the infinitesimal. This brings us to the much simpler analytical tool of 61.8% to examine phi.

Keeping in mind the Phi ratio 1.618:1, which is referred to as The Golden Ratio or The Divine Ratio, is essential to its applications throughout the known universe. It was first discovered by Leonardo da Pisa, alias Fibonacci, b. 1175 A.D.. Fibonacci was presented with a problem at a popular math competition – “Beginning with a pair of rabbits, if each productive pair bears a new pair, which becomes productive when they are one month old, how many rabbits will there be after n months?” (Knott, Quinney) Fibonacci’s resulting equation was that each number in the sequence (F_n), which would have to be a whole number, would be equal to the addition of the previous two numbers in the sequence (represented as F_n-1 + F_n-2), starting with 0 and 1. It follows that 0 + 1 = 1, giving the first three numbers 0, 1 and 1; of course 1 + 1 = 2. The next step is that 1 + 2 = 3. To explain the equation F_n = F_n-1 + F_n-2, we would simply plug in the numbers 3 = 2 + 1. The integer sequence developed through this equation’s whole integer application is known as the Fibonacci Sequence. It proceeds as follows.

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89…

As the Sequence progresses, the ratio of the newest number (F_n) to the previous number (F_n-1) rapidly approaches The Golden Ratio and only continues to do so. By the time any mathematician adds 34 and 55 to equal 89, the relationship between Fibonacci and Phi is clear: 89:55::~1.618:1.

The final two pieces of the puzzle lie in geometry. The Golden Rectangle is drawn using either the Golden Ratio or the Fibonacci Sequence. Utilizing our first explanation of the Ratio with line segments, the wide rectangle’s x-axis, or long horizontal lines, is our full line (a). It is divided into two segments: a longer (b) and a shorter (c). The wide rectangle’s y-axis, or vertical lines, are equal in length to b, so that the rectangle’s full length to height are a:b. This results in the Golden Rectangle. If we draw a vertical line through The Golden Rectangle where b meets c on the x-axis a, the resulting larger portion of the rectangle is a perfect square, in equal length and height of b, and c is a perfectly proportioned new Golden Rectangle, whose length and height can then be calculated and segmented the same way, as can its smaller rectangle and so on.

To understand The Golden Rectangle with The Fibonacci Sequence, imagine a rectangle as wide in number as a Fibonacci number and as tall as the previous number in the sequence. For this example, let’s use 21 wide by 13 tall. The width of the rectangle, 21, is arrived by adding 8 to 13, so imagine it’s now cut into two pieces: on the left, a square 13 x 13; on the right, a vertical rectangle 13 tall by 8 wide (see Fig. B).

This new rightmost rectangle contains essentially the same ratio or proportions in height to width (8 x 13) that was just used for the initial rectangle’s width to height (21 x 13), but turned 90 degrees. So we can start over and cut it into a square at its bottom and a rectangle at its top, which can then be cut, etc.

When we draw an arc from one corner of the Golden Rectangle to the opposite corner (where we “cut” the rectangle) and repeat for each new Golden Rectangle, we’re drawing the Golden Spiral (see Fig. C).

Presence in Everyday Life

Phi and phi are not only useful tools in algebra and geometry, but maintain a frequent presence in art and popular culture – usually by accident. In the hit British horror film 28 Days Later, the plot takes a sharp turn from a small group of survivors’ attempts at escape from a zombie-infested England to a mysterious martial law drama reminiscent of Lord of the Flies. If we equate the film’s total length in minutes and seconds as the first line a in the earlier examples of the Golden Ratio and Phi, and divide it into the same proportions of two segments (b and c), the change of focus in plot from zombies to lawlessness occurs within seconds of where b meets c, with b constituting about 62% of the film’s length and c the final 38%. The aforementioned 62% of the film’s duration is nearly exactly phi, 61.8%.

In the 1975 film Jaws, the titular shark is not seen on-screen until ~61.8% of the film’s duration has passed, as well. The John Wayne Western Stagecoach features Wayne’s decision to return to a group of wagon-traveling pioneers at this moment as well – again, nearly down to the second – performing the denouement leading to the film’s final conflict. Similar examples follow suit, with climaxes or major movements changing, in Beethoven’s Fifth and Ninth symphonies, The Last Supper, Vertigo and countless others.

In human physiology, the Golden Ratio is regularly present. Dividing the finger’s length over the length from the second knuckle to the fingertip is generally equal to The Golden Ratio, as is dividing the length of the arm, from shoulder to the fingertip, over the length of the forearm, from the elbow to the fingertip. Dozens of others are found throughout the human body.

Linking The Golden Ratio’s presence in the human body to that in art and media has led many to believe in the Ratio beyond coincidence, that artwork depicting it is more naturally appealing to humans. This in turn has generated several artists to utilize the Golden Ratio or the Fibonacci Sequence either as a means to an end of fame or fortune, or simply to express the artist’s interest in the subject.

Evidence in Tool’s “Lateralus”

One thorough example of Phi in recent musical history is the song “Lateralus” by Tool.

Tool is a progressive metal quartet from Los Angeles. Progressive metal, a sub-genre of heavy metal, is partly a successor to progressive rock, which included bands like Led Zeppelin, Yes and King Crimson. Progressive rock’s main characteristic of time signatures changing regularly within the same song distinguished it from other rock music at the time. Following the advent of heavy metal music, progressive rock translated with metal’s increased usage of loud guitars with overdrive and distortion, steadier bass guitar rhythms, faster drums and more abrasive vocals and became progressive metal.

Tool, at the forefront of the progressive metal scene, released their fourth album, Lateralus, in 2001. Lateralus, and specifically its title track, are in perfect keeping with Tool’s signature sound. Tool’s songs are written regularly in 5/4 time, usually eschewing pop music’s near constant 4/4 time signature. The song “Lateralus” itself does contain several sections in 5/4 and others in 4/4, but its primary refrain is a repeat of three separate signatures – 9/8, 8/8 and 7/8. These constitute a total of 24 even beats before starting again – 9, 8, and 7.

24 is not a “Fibonacci number,” but 987 is. The band’s drummer Danny Carey stated in an interview that this was a coincidence, but singer Maynard James Keenan’s vocal patterns are anything but that. In either of the song’s verses, the singer’s stanzas of lyrics are organized in groups or lines whose syllables strictly adhere to The Fibonacci Sequence, usually increasing or decreasing along the sequence itself. For example, his first lines are “Black / Then / White are / All I see / In my infancy / Red and yellow then came to be / Reaching out to me / Lets me see,” and are sung with deliberate pauses between lines (Keenan). This means the syllables sung proceed as 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8 before descending to 5 and 3 again; the first seven digits of the Fibonacci Sequence are 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 and 8.

The following line begins at 13 syllables and works its way back down the sequence to three: “As below so above and beyond I imagine (13) / Drawn beyond the lines of reason (8) / Push the envelope (5) / Watch it bend (3).”

In addition, the second verse of the song plays out along similar lines as the beginning of the first, except that when Keenan arrives at the eight-syllable line “Red and yellow then came to be,” he descends the Fibonacci Sequence one step at a time back to one syllable per line before climbing back up to 13 and down again. “Red and yellow then came to be (8) / Reaching out to me (5) / Lets me see (3) / There is (2) / So (1) / Much (1) / More and (2) / Beckons me (3) / To look through to these (5) / Infinite possibilities (8) / As below so above and beyond I imagine (13) / Drawn outside the lines of reason (8) / Push the envelope (5) / Watch it bend (3).”

Of course it’s possible to look into any facet of the song and find what the seeker is looking for, if one tries hard enough. The second chorus of the song has the lyric “Feed my will to feel this moment, urging me to cross the line.” The first part of that line is eight syllables, and the second part is seven syllables. Though the first is a Fibonacci number, the seven syllables of the second part are sung “Urging – me to – cross the line,” which one could argue is 2+2+3, which are all Fibonacci numbers. However, this level of scrutiny feels unnatural at best, if not far-reaching and a bit obsessive.

Other examinations of “Lateralus” in search of Fibonacci prove futile as well. If we examine the song’s movements in terms of duration, as we did successfully for Jaws, 28 Days Later, Stagecoach and others, we find that 61.8% of the way through the song is about 5 minutes and 48.5 seconds, which is just shy of the halfway mark in the bridge, and not within several seconds of any changes in composition whatsoever. Also, although the song’s climax is mostly contained in eight exact lines of eight syllables each, it is paired with a couplet of 16 syllables (minus one), totaling in 95 syllables – also not a number in the sequence.

Analysis and Interpretation

However, in spite of – or perhaps because of – this obsessive and fruitless search, we find the meaning of the song and its relationship to Phi culture. “Lateralus” is a word invented by the band, although the Latin word “lateralis” means “of the side” (Dictionary.com Unabridged). Nearly all uses of the word “lateral” denote a movement to the side or a spreading out horizontally, including a lateral pass in football. Tool has often written songs and expressed their belief in expanding the human consciousness and gaining new perspectives, by any means necessary – whether thinking about a situation in life from the other person’s point of view, taking perception-altering drugs or, in this case, studying mathematics. Hence, it seems that moving laterally is being used as a metaphor for broadening our minds.

This idea is reinforced by the verses, when Keenan states “Black and white are all I see in my infancy / Red and yellow then came to be / Reaching out to me / Lets me see.” In the first verse, he then says “As below, so above and beyond I imagine / Drawn beyond the lines of reason / Push the envelope, watch it bend.” The metaphor being used here is that newborn babies can only see in black and white at birth, and shades of gray; one week after birth, babies can see in red, yellow, orange and green (Heiting). By this time, all these new possibilities about their world should fascinate babies. Likewise, at first, the singer – or the narrator, if we’re to believe he’s singing in character – had a limited view of the world, which he refers to as “my infancy.” As more colors became visible to him, which could easily mean as he gained new insight into the world, his imagination ran wild and he becomes excited at what could lay outside the frame of his logical mind. As he considers greater and more alien possibilities in the world, which are drawn “beyond the lines of reason,” he realizes just how much he’s “thinking outside the box,” to use a common phrase.

In the second verse, Keenan adds that seeing the colors “Lets me see / There is so much more / And [it] beckons me to look through to these infinite possibilities” before returning to the “As below…” lyric. This further emphasizes his point that his fascination with gaining knowledge and getting a more objective view of the world is like an addiction, that it “beckons me” to “look through to” – or consider – the “infinite possibilities” that are out there.

With regards to the tool he’s using to widen his gaze, it’s clear that Keenan is using Phi and all its aforementioned components at least partially as subject matter. The formulation of lyrics in both verses, using the Fibonacci Sequence, as well as the song’s six individual mentions of spirals, tell us that much. The interest in the Golden Spiral is compounded in the bridge, when Keenan sings “I embrace my desire to […] Swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human.” It is very likely that Keenan is referring to the Golden Spiral at least somewhat with the phrase “spiral of our divinity,” as the Golden Ratio is often called The Divine Ratio and the verses’ lyrics are structured with Fibonacci numbers.

The entire bridge’s lyrics are as follows:

“I embrace my desire to

Feel the rhythm, to feel connected

Enough to step aside and weep like a widow

To feel inspired, to fathom the power

To witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain,

To swing on the spiral of our divinity

And still be a human.”

Since Phi and the Golden Ratio are found in so many unrelated places and systems throughout the known universe, it’s only natural that once one can see that it exists virtually everywhere, one would “feel connected enough to step aside” and simply weep, be it from the epiphany, the beauty of oneness in the universe or even from fear of what implications such unity could have. The inclusion of “like a widow” implies a possible sorrow of the death of something, unless Keenan is simply using consonance to follow the “w” in “weep.” If there is the implication of loss, perhaps the weeping is over his previous perception of the world dying.

Keenan continues to meditate on this new world view, which – as we learned from the verses – is a great way to expand our horizons and a goal he seems to condone. The extended sentence finds him proclaiming that he is embracing his desire to feel the inspiration, awe and beauty that would come with this scientific enlightenment, which is summarized in the line “To swing on the spiral of our divinity,” or to use mathematic and scientific tools like Phi and the Golden Spiral as tools or toys to come to the same enjoyment of life and the universe that others may find in religion, philosophy or LSD. This section ends with the caveat that he wishes to do all these things “and still be a human.” Interpretations on this final line vary, but it seems as though a level of humility and imperfection – “being human” – would need to stay in mind for Keenan so as not to become self-righteous. A not entirely dissimilar idea is expressed several songs later on the same album. “Reflection” contains the lyric “I must crucify the ego before it’s far too late,” and a variation of it.

As Keenan seems to be expressing the idea of using various tools – in mathematics and science, in this case – to open our minds to fantastic perceptions of the known universe, he also mentions that this process can’t be forced or faked, lest the person risks consequences of disconnecting from the entire endeavor. Nowhere is this clearer than in the first chorus of “Lateralus,” which reads as follows: “Over-thinking, over-analyzing separates the body from the mind / Withering my intuition, missing opportunities and I must / Feed my will to feel my moment, drawing way outside the lines.” In other words, to keep a strong intuition and stay on the same wavelength as this sort of manual evolution, things like working falsely towards the answer one wants is counterproductive – like our earlier examples of seeking to break down lyrical syllables that don’t fit the mold or assign connotation to its lack of a Jaws-like denouement at 62% of its duration.

Conclusion

Any attempt to fully analyze and interpret lyrics from Tool songs will likely be met with a degree of woe. In a 1997 interview in Alternative Press Magazine, Keenan himself had the following to say about fans’ varying takes on their music: “I’m not going to spoon-feed anybody and rob them of their personal experiences. I read the interpretations of the lyrics that people send to [the Tool web] page. They’re way off. But that’s fine” (Pettigrew). Tool have never included lyrics with their albums, only much later releasing differing drafts of the lyrics to a fan’s website.

The same may or may not be said about the song’s popularity. In a recent poll on toolshed.down.net, the internet’s leading Tool website, “Lateralus” was voted Tool’s most popular song in a grand prix-style series of “either/or” votes, beating six other songs and winning its final round by a 2:1 vote against Tool’s next fan favorite, “Third Eye” (Akhtar). It’s impossible to gauge whether the supposed “naturally pleasing” presence of Phi and the Fibonacci Sequence play a part in the popularity of “Lateralus,” or if knowledge of the band’s intentional use of those was admired and respected enough by fans to win it some votes. As is often the case with Tool, fans should probably read into it however much they like, save for a grain of salt.

Phi and its subsequent studies permeate countless facets of nature and have played a subtle role in several wildly popular and successful pieces of artwork. Some of their uses have been intentional by the user, as with “Lateralus,” and some have been unintentional, as with Phi’s permeation throughout our skeletal systems. Whether utilized naturally or artificially, implementing Phi is a universal phenomenon worth studying and can help humankind take one step closer to understanding the very fabric of nature – Tool’s song is just one tribute and a call to arms for those ready and willing to unravel the mystery.

Bibliography

28 Days Later (2002). Dir. Danny Boyle. DNA Films and British Film Council.

Akhtar, Kabir. “Tool Madness.” The Tool Page. Web. 7 July 2011. <http://toolshed.down.net/news/madness/>

Dictionary.com Unabridged. “lateral.” Random House, Inc. 28 January 2012. <http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/lateral>

Heiting, Gary, OD. “Your Infant’s Vision Development.” All About Vision. October 2010. Web. 28 January 2012. <http://www.allaboutvision.com/parents/infants.htm>

Jaws (1975). Dir. Steven Spielberg. Universal Studios.

Kator, Andrew, and Legaz, Jennifer. “Quick Tips in Art and Design: Pattern.” Web. 28 January 2012. <http://articles.katorlegaz.com/quicktipsinartanddesign/pattern/>

Keenan, Maynard James, and Tool. “Lateralus” and “Reflection.” Lateralus. CD, Volcano Entertainment, 2001.

Keenan, Maynard James, and Tool. “Lateralus.” The Tool Page. Web. 7 July 2011 and 28 January 2012. <http://toolshed.down.net/lyrics/lateraluslyrics.php#09>

Knott, Quinney. “The life and numbers of Fibonacci.” Plus Magazine. 31 August 1997. Web. 7 July 2011. <http://plus.maths.org/content/os/issue3/fibonacci/index>

Pettigrew, Jason. “Nobody’s Tool.” Alternative Press. March 1997: 52. Print.

PhiPoint Solutions, LLC. “Phi for Neophites.” Goldennumber.net Web. 7 July 2011. <http://www.goldennumber.net/neophite.htm>

Modern Warfare 3 / Battlefield 2 Review Bombers.

It's only just occurred to me that my last full entry in this blog is almost a year old. My apologies; It's been a very complicated fall/winter. I plan to dust off and finish a few things by the end of February to post, but in the meantime, please enjoy this article I wrote for IGN last November. Whether you're a gamer or not, I think it speaks volumes about online culture.

http://games.ign.com/articles/121/1212549p1.html

Samigina.

Unpublished

The road to Baltimore at midnight in January is so cold your tires will complain. In a mid-size two-door sedan with a heater working part-time, it’s hard to talk or think about anything but the weather, which doesn’t help. No matter the volume of the radio, or the quantity of salt and processed cheese on the bags of chips, the discomfort of the bladder and the skin permeate anything under the moon.

The foam 1-Up mushroom from Super Mario Bros. atop Stuart’s radio antenna was so cold it practically broke in half as we made our way east, then north, from Leesburg, VA to cross the state line and towards Baltimore. Our conversation changed from what our balls had turned into to what our relationships had turned into.

“Sarah and I have a deal,” Stuart said. “If she runs a tangent on a subject she knows holds no interest to either of us for more than three minutes, she has to bake me a pie.”

“Oh man, that’s a deal,” I said.

“What about you?”

“We just tolerate each other’s tirades, I guess.”

“How does that work out for you?”

“Fine, overall. I mean sometimes she…well, I’ll…”

“Yeah?”

“Man, it’s fuckin’ cold.”

We made our way downtown and struggled with our printed directions for a few minutes before locating a crowd of pilgrims and onlookers lining a 10-foot stone wall around Westminster Hall and Burying Ground.

“Is that them?”

“That has to be them; look at the make-up on that chick.”

Stuart parked the car less than 10 feet from where we camped the rest of the night with the other members of the crowd. There were 50 or 60 men and women of all ages bundled in jackets, scarves, snow hats, gloves, thick skate shoes, boots, long johns, blue jeans, snow pants, ski masks, beanies, mittens and, oddly enough, a couple miniskirts in our accompaniment. Among the crowd, our teeth chattered, our noses turned red and ran, we shivered and cuddled and drank and talked. Unlike the blizzard of the following winter, which brought our neighborhood together into a community of sharing and symbiotic friends, nobody along the wall seemed to have hot cocoa or coffee to share. A few people broke out heating pads and acted as misers over them as though they were the last food on a desert island. Everyone tried to become friends with the guy who had the heater powered by a crank generator.

We met a short, stout English teacher with black hair and her husband. She’d driven in from the Midwest and her students were texting her incessantly to inquire about the night. Stuart piped up first.

“So, you’re an English teacher?”

“Oh, honey, look; Jennifer from my third period just sent a picture of her and her friends’ sleepover since they couldn’t come. Can you believe it? What great kids. Yeah, I teach freshman English Lit just outside Chicago.”

“I’ve been thinking of teaching myself; is it worth it, all in all?”

She was responding, and her keypad went click, click, click.

“I love English; it’s a great subject.”

“….All right then.”

None of us knew we were, in all likelihood, there to witness the end of an era. It was just another January 19 downtown to most of the troupe and Stuart and I did our best to blend in. There were a few tiny goth girls enamored and late-teen sports boys attending for extra credit, but primarily there were middle-aged men and women and a few real eccentrics in the crowd to cheer on the Poe Toaster.

Edgar Allan Poe never escaped controversy, nor mystery. For every student who loves and understands the loss and harrowed loneliness piercing through the majority of his body of work, there are ten who will ask “Didn’t he marry his cousin and die of rabies?” Stuart was even in a production of a play at college called “Nevermore,” which offered a romantic look at the final days of Poe’s life, during which he went missing and was later found dead.

Then in 1949, Boston’s own Evening Sun reported that a mysterious figure dressed all in black, save for a white scarf, had been seen stopping at Poe’s grave on the anniversary of Poe’s birthday, leaving at his headstone three roses and a near-full bottle of Cognac, only missing enough for him to have drunk to Poe and made his peace.

The next year, it happened again.

Over the next 60 or so years, people began to wait outside Westminster all night, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Poe Toaster and share in the commemoration of the life and work of the renowned poet. At first oddities fanatics and thrill-seekers, then more somber English scholars and lifelong fans would crowd around peering through the shut cast-iron gates on January 19 every year. Surely the Poe Toaster caught on, as his tribute metamorphosed from a plain stroll to a near magic act to avoid crowds, lest he be unriddled and unmasked by the curious onlookers.

As far as the public could tell that night, there were only two entrances to the cemetery where Poe had been laid to rest: the main entrance, which the majority of us surrounded, and a smaller gate around another side which offered a far more limited view of the area. Between both entrances was the high stone wall, and beyond the other entrance was a city block, ending the cemetery with a tall office building. The church itself bordered another wall and the fourth, we were told, was also blocked in by office buildings.

As the night drew on, every person walking the streets was suspect. “Did you see how quickly that guy walked past us?” a woman said. “I bet that was him. He was just scouting the location, seeing where his best entrance would be.”

“Well I was sure I saw someone in that office building behind the cemetery a few minutes ago,” someone else said. “I bet he’s got the lights off and a window open and he’ll scale down and pay his respects.”

Stuart and I were fascinated by the event and happy to honor the writer, but we couldn’t help slipping in a few comments. “Nah, man, you see that headstone next to the mausoleum? That high one, that looks a little too new? I swear I just saw it wobble. He’s probably in it and he’s making his way over an inch at a time to visit Poe.”

Then ten minutes later someone came over and said “I heard he might be in one of the gravestones; my buddy and I saw one move a few minutes ago.”

“What do you think, Stu?”

“…It is really, really cold out here.”

He was right. We had stopped moving around as every step was agony on our frozen toes. A woman reading “The Raven” with as much gusto as she could muster had stopped long enough to tuck her face into a winter jacket and continue her recitation through its collar.

“Mmph a ruvmph, ‘Nevermore.’”

A large metalhead had been carrying around a foot-long coffin all night. God knows what’s in it, I thought. Then I saw him talking to an elderly gentleman on the other side of the gates, who we believed was the curator of the grounds. I trotted over to them on my heels so as not to snap any thawed toes and listened to their conversation.

“…so they’re just like little tributes; I brought one for the Toaster and one for you, if you think your connections at the museum might be interested in carrying them.”

“Oh, yeah,” the other man said with a clear air of dubious caution. “I’ll definitely take this inside and show it around the next time I see the rest of the staff.” It was the same tone I used when a threateningly aggressive man approached me in a bookstore the previous Christmas season and ordered me to buy a spy novel by his favorite author.

Near the metalhead with the coffins, the teenage Goths with the zombie Poe t-shirts and fishnets stared in mock indifference at the graveyard. In reality I could see a thrill dancing behind their eyes so fiery they could barely sit still. Between us and them was a tedious dork who kept asking us what our favorite story “of Edgar’s” was, taking for granted that we were all on a first-name basis with Poe.

“I have to find a bathroom,” I told Stuart.

“There’s a hospital a block that way and down the side street,” replied a man with snow caught in his beard.

I fled and sought the hospital. Everyone’s personalities were starting to grate my nerves like the beating of the hideous heart. I began to wonder if even Stuart and I were starting to get sick of the sight of each other; we’d been rolling our eyes at some of the more fanatical members of the crowd for hours and it was only a matter of time before that intolerance extended to each other. That’s what below-freezing temperatures do to friends, I imagined.

I was allowed into the lobby of the hospital by security but not into its bathroom.

“Oh come on man, it’s 15 degrees out and we’re all waiting by Poe’s gravesite and I really have to piss.”

“Sir, this bathroom is for patients and visitors only.”

I left and tried to find another bathroom or street corner to relieve myself. Before I could, I managed to catch the attention of a suspicious-looking man who started walking towards me from 50 feet off.

I tried to nonchalantly turn and walk the other way, and he continued to follow me. I rounded the corner of the hospital, out of his sight, and ran until just before he would be able to spot me again. When he came around the corner, he broke into a jog to catch up with me.

Fuck, I thought, walking briskly back towards Westminster. How stupid am I to walk around downtown Baltimore in the middle of the night alone? This is how idiots die, jonny you…idiot. They camp outside famous people’s graves like stupid tourists and get mugged.

Just before he got to me I rounded the last corner and started loudly talking to the crowd of onlookers again. My pursuer stopped and turned around, retreating to his street in front of the hospital. I doubled back and pissed behind a dumpster near the crowd.

As I passed the small gate towards the main entrance, a couple of the younger kids tried scaling the wall, getting boosts from their friends and snooping over the masonry in hopes of seeing the Poe Toaster. A few minutes earlier, one had hopped over and tried hiding in the shadows on the corner of the property from the caretakers and curator, but they found him and ushered him back out onto the sidewalk.

“How’d it go?” Stuart asked. “You find a bathroom?”

“More or less.”

“I’m not sure I can take much more of this cold.”

“If you don’t mind risking a mugging there’s a hospital where you can argue with a security guy until…”

“Until what?”

“Stuart, look at that.”

A van turned onto our street and turned its lights off and kept driving.

“Why’s that guy got his lights off?”

“Looks pretty suspicious.”

“I think he’s stopping.”

One by one, everyone turned and stared at the van.

“Stuart, I think that’s him.”

“jonny?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you whispering?”

“…I don’t know.”

There was no movement inside the van. There was no movement in the crowd. The frostbite, the tedium of company and the wait all melted into the background. Minutes passed and enough of the crowd turned back to what they were doing that it almost seemed to have never happened. We kept our eyes peeled.

An eternity later, the curator appeared again and told us the Poe Toaster had already come and gone and we should all go home and get out of this weather. Nobody believed him. Nobody moved. Denial turned to anger, and people started cursing and leaving. Our group diminished from 50 to 20 over the course of five or ten long minutes.

Then one indignant woman, standing next to our English teacher from Chicago, declared she was going to go find out who was in the van. No sooner had the sentence escaped her lips than it started up, its brights blinding us all, and peeled out of its parking spot at an alarming speed. It was like someone had punched the gas and was escaping a bank robbery.

It was only then we saw the manhole over which the van had been parked.

“Oh, son of a bitch.”

“He walked right under our feet! He opened that manhole and went and paid his respects while we all stared at his god-damn van!”

“I am not coming back for this next year.”

“What a genius!”

A few of us started laughing. The little we’d seen, the winter we’d braved, the pomp and circumstance of the night all ended with such an anti-climax it was befitting of some of Poe’s most underrated work. The night felt like it needed a redo, another viewing.

Confused, half-frozen and hungry, we all moped back to our cars and drove home. Stuart told me a few days later there was a blurb about it in a Baltimore newspaper he’d found online, after returning home. At the time we’d felt cheated, but had we known it was the last visit of the real Poe Toaster to Edgar Allan’s final remains, we surely would’ve raised a solemn glass with him and saluted his life and work, imitating his same admiration of one of America’s great writers before disappearing into the biting cold fog of New England for the last time.

Ka'ahumanu

from 'The Xenophobe'

It occurred to me in 1996 at some point. I was at the front of my middle school’s campus and the buses had just dropped us off. It was bright, hot and early that morning. My backpack had about 30 lbs. of books in it and I was looking at the field, the portable classrooms, the big peach-colored buildings, the countless bugs swarming and the construction work going on near the other corner of campus.

“Man, fuck this.”

And I turned around and left.

I got to the edge of the school property and took my first step into a larger world, of optional class attendance and absenteeism-for-mental-health. I remember feeling like a total badass. I walked to the end of the block, then over to a tourist-trap strip mall. I bought a Coke with my lunch money and sat at a table for about an hour trying to come up with something to do or someone to see.

But everyone was in class. Shopkeepers started giving me dirty looks. “Don’t you have school today?”

Sheepishly, I wandered back to campus halfway through the day, warm Coke in hand.

“Dude, where were you all morning?”

“Ditching.”

“Whooooooa.”

The entire fruits of my labor were three missed lectures and a warming bottle of soda. Even still, I was hooked. It was shortly thereafter that I reached high school and the stakes were raised.

Maui High faced east. This meant from the front of its campus, staring at the whole of its collection of buildings, you were pointed west and the Iao Valley was a lovely, foggy backdrop against it.

Maui High had a six-foot fence around its entire perimeter, with the exception of two spots. The bus lanes that dropped the kids off at the front of the campus had locking gates. Even if they hadn’t, they were right in front of over half the staff’s and faculty’s offices, and the remainder of the front of campus was empty, save for that chain-link fence, so any escapees were visible to anyone peering across the front half of the campus.

The other spot was at the northwest corner of campus. There was a soccer field adjacent to the locker rooms and a banyan tree at the corner of campus with a trunk you could park a Mini Cooper inside. There was also no chain-link fence, and the buildings were mostly windowless classrooms. When you combine those with its seldom visits from campus security, it was like The Underground Railroad of slackers, stoners and misfits.

The real problem was security. They patrolled on golf carts at approximately 60-second intervals around campus. They were almost always somewhere along the front of campus, but only intermittently in view of the northwest corner. The trick was to hang out until they passed, and once out of their field of view, run. From the locker rooms it was a 20-second run to the far side of the banyan tree, then another 10-second dash across the street and behind the nearest house to campus. The neighborhood next to school hid the ditchers from that point on, and the mall was nearby.

Freshmen and sophomores who had struck up paid deals to hide in the trunks of seniors with early leave were suckers, I thought. What kind of self-respecting punk handed over cash for the privilege of being locked in a trunk face-down in jumper cables and red dirt until the driver felt like letting him out in front of God knows who? Those of us with dignity just dropped our books in our lockers and hauled ass. By the time the trunk-ditchers were released from their tombs after their drivers had run an errand or two, most of the rest had hoofed it to the mall and gotten the best tables at the coffee shop and drunk whatever was in their bags.

We knew half the staff at the coffee shop – one of them managed my first band – and so they’d get us free drinks on occasion. Also, the post-high school mallrats were always in abundance: Omar, who had gauged his tongue bar out so far he could lock a Master Lock through it; Charles, who worked nights and had nothing to do all day but hang out with us; Portia, the first transgendered person I ever met and nice as could be; Jade, who home-schooled, etc.

The third option was more of an emergency escape hatch than anything else. Near the southeast corner of campus, almost directly opposite the soccer field, the portable classes lined up in a row and one in particular stood across the street from the closest house to our high school. Coincidentally, my third period American Government class was held in this very shack and I had triple the absences in it than my closest second.

As it went, the street bordering the campus on the south, running east to west, was angled ever-so-slightly north as it ran east. At that nearest point, just at the corner of my Government class, was one tiny three-foot wide gate the school had been made to install for emergency evacuation purposes. To get to it, nobody could waltz around the front of the building – the teacher knew the gate was there and promised security she’d keep an eye out for ditchers – and if you went around the back, there was an additional appendage to the chain-link fence that blocked the route to the open gate. This fence appendage was about two feet shorter than the rest of the fence and 18 inches shorter than the bottom of the windows in the classroom, so to get out was an acrobatic feat of vaulting over the fence while keeping low – and quiet, of course – but not until after hearing the teacher sit in her chair and start to call attendance. Once over, it was easy to walk straight south out the open gate and into the residential neighborhood. Of course, to get to the only point of interest, the mall, it added an extra 15 minutes of circumnavigating campus to escape from the southeast corner, so most of us just used the soccer field.

School, in that sense, was like its own little battle map. Every student in attendance at that institution could point out the best spots to ditch, to smoke, to egg classrooms, to disappear with a fling and of course which bathrooms to avoid. Some of the locals had developed nasty crack habits and took to smoking it in one set of bathrooms in a big building on the southern end of campus, which made them even more prone to violence against littler kids than usual. Often on the way to class I’d smell that smoke coming out a bathroom window and it would make me shudder – it was like the smell of death in amphetamines and sky blue tile.

The strangest story we ever had while ditching was that one of the faculty members had decided to ditch school too, so when we saw him it was incredibly awkward. It was strange enough for us being semi-caught a mile from campus, and it was stranger for him to be negotiating with 15-year-olds and saying “If you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you.”

It wasn’t until the end of my tenure on Maui that security discovered our route near the soccer field and covered it en masse, after our last great adventure out. A school assembly had been called and none of us had any intention of sitting through 90 minutes of cheerleader pep and being slapped in the back of the head by locals. We had to leave in several groups, as nothing draws suspicion on or off campus like 10 kids hanging out in a pack, constantly peering over their shoulders.

I went on the first party, of underclassmen. It was three younger friends and me. The second party was leaving the opposite end, via the narrow gate, around the same time. We were the guinea pigs; if we got caught, the older kids knew security was onto us. I was actually older than two of the kids in the third party but they were decidedly cooler so I got stuck babysitting the freshmen and geekier sophomores.

Security passed by and we picked our moment and ran. I was paranoid about being seen with my backpack at the mall so I ditched it under our car, which was parked at the corner behind the banyan tree. We sprinted for the next block and embraced freedom after making our way northwest; I planned on picking up my bag after school as we got back to the car.

We went bowling, first; our bowling alley had the best food on earth and we had lunch and bowled a couple games for about $6 each. We moseyed to the mall and spent our usual day window-shopping, chatting and wasting our idle youths away.

By noon, only one person from the second group showed up and came running, soaking wet. It was one of the local skaters.

“Man, everyone got fucked.”

“What?!”

“I barely made it here; security caught me and the other freshmen a block from campus and I jumped into some dude’s swimming pool to hide. They didn’t see me when they rolled on by to catch everyone else running.”

“What about all the upperclassmen? Where are they?”

“Man, I don’t even know. I heard some yelling when I was crossing by the houses near the soccer field but who the hell knows; I wasn’t stickin’ my head out to see.”

Anxiety got the better of all of us, then. We worried far too much to enjoy our free time and ended up going back to school early.

We came back via the soccer field. If we ever had to come back in the middle of the day, odds were good we could blend in once we got back on school property. Plus my bag was there, under the car, with all my books in it.

Only when we got to the car, there was no bag. There was no 40 lb. stack of $30 textbooks in it. There was just settled dust and dying grass and the car. The bag wasn’t in the car, so I knew my brother hadn’t put it in there for me. My stomach tied itself in knots and I spent the rest of the day coming up with any excuse, any lie, anything to get me out of losing an entire set of textbooks.

By the time I caught up with the upperclassmen – Jeff, Eli, my brother, Alicia, Roach and Jago – I was livid.

“What the fuck happened to you, Jeff?”

“Cool it, buddy; security caught us by your car and we all got shat on. You guys are the only ones who made it out.”

“So I’m supposed to feel bad for you because you can’t run your fat asses fast enough across a soccer field? Where’s my bag? It was under the car this morning.”

“I don’t know.”

“Eli, where’s my bag?”

“Haven’t seen it, dude.”

Eventually someone remembered they saw security take it.

I went to the security office and asked for my bag. I figured they were going to hold it hostage until they could run me through the ringer and make me admit to ditching out. I’d get a detention or two, sure, but it would be better than replacing those books. They claimed not to have it. I had to go home and tell my parents the whole story, front to back. They were furious. They were even angrier when they got off the phone with the school, everyone at which swore not to have seen my bag.

It never turned up. I got out of having to buy a few of the books, but my parents and I had to fork over almost $100 for those I couldn’t escape. In the end, it mostly took the wind out of my absentee sails.

By the time we moved to Atlanta, schools had started cracking down on ditchers. All absences had to be accompanied by at least a parent’s note if not a doctor’s, and we were made to carry around handbooks with personal attendance records in them. All absences and tardiness were marked and initialed off by staff and faculty, in pen, and we had to check in at the end of every few weeks. Too many absences meant detention, and too many more meant expulsion. I went to all six classes five days a week. The last resort would have been to fake sick and spend an hour in the nurse’s office, but come on.

Of course, in college nobody cares about attendance; nobody gave a damn when I took a day off. Most of my classes had mandatory attendance, but those professors gave us two freebies – any more than that, and they bumped our grade down a full letter at the end of the semester. Also, I wasn’t in class from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. straight, and the beatings decreased in Atlanta high schools and became non-existent in college so it was a much easier institution to stomach. Playtime metamorphosed from playing hookie to barhopping and students were so unafraid of teachers they brought beer to class, but the real secret weapon the schoolmasters unleashed was simply of our own aging. Near-perfect attendance records and knowledge gained from our educations became points of confidence, not shame; the loose schedule and price tag accompanying a university matriculation were enough incentive to spark in us a sense of personal responsibility.

But when we were young, we damn sure made those security guards earn their paychecks.

Moonlight Over Ephemera.

from 'The Xenophobe'

The sun had set an hour before we left the house. It was summer and the world went dark around 9. My brother drove my mom’s ’93 Camry and I rode shotgun. We listened to Frank Sinatra and Sex Pistols while we drove around the mountain looking for the parking lot party. Mount Haleakala – or House of the Rising Sun, I was told – rose two miles above sea level and housed several observatories at the top. Before dawn, tourists were driven to the top of the mountain and given bicycles to ride all the way down. It took four hours.

By this time we’d moved from the south tip of the island to a small hippie town halfway up Haleakala. At that altitude the temperature was cooler, if not quite comfortable. On occasion we suffered as the mercury rose to 90, but more often the evenings and nights waned breezy and relaxing. It was a night like this that found us in search of our friends from high school. Mostly it would be my brother’s friends; mine were still a year off from partaking in any alcohol or recreational drug use.

We found it in an hour. There was a small parking lot across the street from several houses on stilts over rock faces. The lot itself was only separated from a 100-foot cliff by a modest guardrail. By the time we arrived, the street 100 feet below us was already littered with broken bottles. There wasn’t much else to do on the island; there were few concerts and fewer road trips. If you didn’t surf, skate or work, it’s likely you drank, smoked or played video games – or all three.

The muggy air thinned by degrees and our friend Jenny saw us first. She yelled to us and we made our way around the cars, talking to everyone sitting on hoods and trunks, music blaring out through windows.

I went to talk to Jenny’s car. My brother’s friends had never thought much of me and I always desperately wanted to change that. Jenny held out a bottle.

“Hey, try this.”

“What is it?”

“Peach Schnapps.”

“What the hell is Schnapps?”

I took it and sniffed the mouth. It smelled like paint.

“You’ll love it; it’s so good,” she said, as I glassed the party through the rippled glass of the bottle. I took a swig and it felt like fire burning down my throat and lungs into my belly.

“Jesus Christ!”

“How amazing is that?”

“Keep it.” I coughed and moved on, alcoholic saliva falling out of my mouth and onto the pavement. Even still, I felt a bit fuzzy and warm and the stars twinkled a bit brighter than they had.

Lono was there. For all intents and purposes, Lono was the luckiest guy we knew. He had epilepsy and got something like $1,500 a month from the government for disability, which was enough to pay his rent and buy his groceries. Luckily for him, he lived with his girlfriend and she paid their rent so he had $1,500 a month for bills and whatever else he wanted. He was also the most reliable person we knew; I never saw a day where I couldn’t go over to his house and play video games with him.

Thomas was there too. Thomas stood six-and-a-half feet tall and had shoulder-length fire engine red hair. As far as I knew, he was full-blooded Hawaiian or close to it and I always thought he looked like Perry Farrell from Jane’s Addiction. A couple weeks prior to the parking lot party he’d had an embarrassing incident in History class. The teacher was waxing endlessly about George Washington Carver and mentioned his work with the peanut. Thomas had a mouthful of potato chips and said “I like peanuts!” but the “t” was muffled and everyone thought he said “penis.” I walked over to his car at the party while he was looking away.

“Peanuts anybody?”

“Shut up jonny.”

Everyone loved Thomas; he was nice to everybody no matter what. He was friends with the other seniors his age but he always made time to hang out with the freshmen and sophomores like me and my friends when we started at Maui High. He also lived closest to school so whenever we’d ditch, we’d go to his house and eat and watch TV before we went anywhere else.

So the parking lot was packed. Only a couple of my friends were scattered about and had been invited by the older kids. The night trod on likewise; the moonlight and one flickering streetlamp lit our adolescent debauchery as we walked around making and breaking conversations with friends from around the island. An hour in, Dome spoke up.

“Hey jonny; Jnana’s over there.” He pointed off to the side and I saw her silhouetted against the sky; she was reclined sitting on the grass beneath a large oak tree. It was then I remembered where we were; the parking lot was less than a block from her house. I hadn’t noticed her the entire time. She’d been sitting there since we arrived.

Jnana was great. She wore chest-length flowing Irish red hair. Her sister used to run around with Dome; nobody would ever talk about how it ended. I met Jnana in 8^th grade, over a year prior. She just showed up at school one day, from God knows where. That year she had a pixie cut and started taking all this shit from the locals about it.

“Ho, braddah, is that one boy or one girl?”

I thought she was unimaginably cute; she had this Pearl Jam shirt from their 2^nd album, Vs., and I could never take my eyes off her. My biggest regret on Maui was probably not becoming better friends with her faster. Underneath all my delusions of fair thinking and open-mindedness I was still too chickenshit to really open up to her. I knew the locals didn’t like her, and they didn’t like me. More than almost anything, I’d just wanted to be left alone and I was enough of a prick to pay for that shyness with friends.

But the parking lot party was all smiles. I’d slowly earned Jnana’s friendship, whether I deserved it or not, and her long hair blew in an increasingly violent wind. Dome’s voice broke my heady daydream.

“jonny?”

“What’s up?”

“I said it’s time to go talk to her, man.”

She was staring off into the distant horizon, where the valley met the Pacific and where the starlight crashed into the sea. “I don’t know, man.” I went anyway. Jenny would later say the Schnapps was helping me muster up what little bravery I could.

I tried to look impressive but apathetic walking over to Jnana.

“Hey Jnana; what’s up?”

“Hey jonny. How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

I sat next to her for a minute. Away from the cheap jokes and anecdotes of the bottle-and-joint party to our left, we could hear the trees rustling in the wind. I looked down at the grass. Jnana had taken her shoes off and her bare feet were nestled into the ground. Her dark dress was a shadow on her and for the only time that year, it suddenly started to pour rain.

It started as a heavy mist and by the time everyone could organize carpools and run to them it was a monsoon. My brother and I jumped into the Camry and rode off back down south towards our house.

The rain fell so hard we maxed out the speed of the windshield wipers and visibility was still less than 30 feet. “Man, we are so fucked.”

“Shut up; shut up!”

As we adjusted to the mayhem, we realized we were lost. We were headed in the right direction, but the street names and buildings were alien. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know; be quiet.”

We turned the music down and traversed narrow streets while clouds pissed on us triumphantly. Things got quiet; we only heard the spatter of the rain and the windshield wipers. Neither of us talked. I thought about Jnana, her dress and bare feet amplified by the moonlight. Then I was screaming.

“Jesus, look out!”

A large white owl was beating his wings in a slow flight across the street. My brother tried to yell “Owl!” but his mouth had been closed and it caught him by surprise, so it came out “Ndyowl!” and I ducked my head down by the passenger glove compartment.

I heard a high-pitched thud. The owl’s feet caught the upper driver’s side corner of the windshield. I kept my head down for a moment, buried under my arms, and finally released and looked around. My brother had done the same and wasn’t watching the road.

“Drive, dumbass!”

And he did. We got home and I crashed, dressed, into bed, and the cheap liquor and various smokes wafted into my nose as I fell asleep, and I dreamed of owls and grass blowing in a violent wind.