Rewriting Stella

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.