Once upon a time there was a story. The beginning of the story was beautiful; perfection. It was so wonderful that you knew there was no way it could turn out as well again in the end, after the trials that happen in the middle of every good story. The first few chapters were intangible weights on the hearts of the readers. The story only grew heavier, page after page.
It got so bad that many couldn’t bear to read another word. They gave up; closed their copies. Some people threw the books off bridges or the tops of buildings. Some burned them, or soaked them with chemicals that ate them up completely, leaving nothing behind but a stench and a vague stain on the ground. Some sliced them up with razor blades; some exploded them with gunpowder so that the ashes rained down, burning the heads of everyone nearby.
Some people wanted to extend it, hoping that by creating more story it would get better. But it didn’t work that way, trying to tack on your own ending. So it seemed that it was too long for some and too short for others, with those contented in between who were accused of apathy.
Still, it was a long story; it took between sixty and ninety years to read from start to finish even though everyone read it every single day.
Some people were good at reading it, their eyes trickling between the letters and down the pages; they move through with relative ease. But for others it was an awful chore, requiring constant effort that seemed only to result in headaches as they dragged themselves over the rough terrain of words, grasping for holds in the cracks and crevasses of the alphabet. Even those who enjoyed reading occasionally suffered migraines from the constant straining.
And there was no break, no stopping to rest, because whether or not you were there to turn the pages, turn they did, and too bad if you missed a few because they couldn’t be turned the other way again. Then you were floundering in the newly confusing plot, transported from the familiar to the completely unknown in a single second.
People talked about the book all the time. In fact, it’s all they ever talked about. Even when they didn’t think they were talking about it, they were. All their talk was of high hopes for the ending, and fear about what the next chapter might hold. Sometimes they wrote stories about the story, and songs and made pictures, grasping for creative synonyms and metaphors. Some were vague, and some were obvious, but really they were all the same: just so many records of people doing everything they could to understand. To simplify.
But no matter how they tried, no one could really understand. They finished and closed it with a million unanswered questions.
Once upon a time there was a story, and it didn’t really have any resolution or anything. It just began, existed, and ended.
Tell me, what do you think the title was?
.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
"The Mushroom Life": A Brief Fictional Narrative Pondering the Benefits of Parallels with the Lives of Fungi.
The morning is naked and shivers with the cold of itself, in the same way it makes her to shiver as she dresses and forgets which colors match. Blue isn’t like black or white, she thought. It isn’t a color that they say matches everything. But then they say that everything goes with blue jeans… Then she remembers it doesn’t matter—I have no one to impress, she thinks—and dons camouflage lounge pants under the tie-dye shirt she is already wearing.
There are so many messages on her machine; so many calls to return and just the thought makes her tired. So many messages; so many questions! But then, she calls too, when she has questions.
I am not a fair person, she thinks; not very symbiotic. No, more parasitic, maybe; always taking more than giving.
She feels somber now, thinking of how she might use people. Somber and slightly ashamed and resentful. And since she never returns the calls, the only figure to bear the simmer of these feelings is the one in the mirror.
She looks at her reflection and the stretch marks there on her hips, and the scars. There is the navel piercing that at certain angles creates the illusion of allure, but her figure is average: relatively slender, but needs work. She doesn’t want to work on it.
That is why she pierced her navel. Her therapist told her, “Do something nice for the part of you that you hate the most, to make it feel pretty.” So she had a needle stabbed through it and there was blood and blood and, oh my, more blood than she thought there would be, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind bleeding and now she has her piercing. And it does make her feel pretty. It must, she supposes, because when she takes it out and looks at her stomach in the mirror without the jewel dangling in her navel, it seems to her that she is ugly.
Yesterday she dyed her hair red, but it reminds her too much of habits she is trying—I really am trying, she promises herself—to break. So maybe Wednesday it will be blond again, then Thursday purple. But no, today is Thursday, isn’t it? She doesn’t know. And now she has forgotten why she came into the kitchen, the dirty kitchen with the cracked linoleum, and wouldn’t you know every piece of wood that makes the cupboards is fake?
She peeks in the doorway and thinks it seems darker beyond, though she’d flipped the light switch. Breakfast—yes, that’s what she came for. Her hand brushes over her stomach, a bit flatter with emptiness. Well, I might as well not. No, she likes it like this, and she isn’t really hungry anyway. At least she doesn’t want to be. What a paradox. She walks on to the coffee pot. She doesn’t really need breakfast.
She doesn’t feel like she needs anything anymore. Needs food, needs conversation, needs new things or even some of the old ones. Of course, she didn’t realize that until she noticed that lately she hasn’t had any of those very often and she is still alive, still waking up every morning. And I only miss them a little bit. She thinks. Maybe the days are emptier, but empty is so much simpler. Empty is clean.
Sleep. She thinks, recounting in her mind a list of her minimalist survival, I still need sleep. She seems to sleep an awful lot these days…and now it is noon. Have two hours passed so quickly? She is still standing by the coffee, staring into the neon numbers as if hypnotized.
The mail has arrived. She always checks it—she likes opening the box, which was once empty, to find it full. Even if it is only full of empty things, like magazines she doesn’t remember subscribing to and coupons she will never redeem.
The garden is full, though. Not full of things she put there; she killed nearly everything she planted. It’s full of mushrooms again, She observes. She stops to look at them; crouches down in the half-rotted mulch. She studies the round, creamy caps and gracefully curved stem. She picks one, and her eyes slide in and out of the feather-like grooves underneath. She puts out her hand to pick the rest—such accidents don’t belong in a flower garden—but pauses for stops herself. Accidents. She realizes.They aren’t cared for, pruned or watered. They weren’t specially planted in tilled, nourished soil. They just grew; they are just growing. What do they need but a surface to stand on? What helps them live except to be left alone? They will grow in her pitiful excuse for a garden when nothing else will. How convenient that must be. She pulls back her hand. It’s when they’re neglected that they thrive.
And so she envies the mushrooms, until she realizes how much she has in common with them. What a thing to compare and contrast; the way I live as mushrooms do—needing nothing, and having nothing—with how I lived before—needing so much and having only half. She sits, resting her chin on one hand—her head feels so heavy these days—and twirling her plucked fungus in the fingers of the other. I guess I’d say this is better in the end. She pops the cap from the stem with her thumb; crushes its foamy flesh between her fingers. Yes, I think it's better; this, The Mushroom Life.
There are so many messages on her machine; so many calls to return and just the thought makes her tired. So many messages; so many questions! But then, she calls too, when she has questions.
I am not a fair person, she thinks; not very symbiotic. No, more parasitic, maybe; always taking more than giving.
She feels somber now, thinking of how she might use people. Somber and slightly ashamed and resentful. And since she never returns the calls, the only figure to bear the simmer of these feelings is the one in the mirror.
She looks at her reflection and the stretch marks there on her hips, and the scars. There is the navel piercing that at certain angles creates the illusion of allure, but her figure is average: relatively slender, but needs work. She doesn’t want to work on it.
That is why she pierced her navel. Her therapist told her, “Do something nice for the part of you that you hate the most, to make it feel pretty.” So she had a needle stabbed through it and there was blood and blood and, oh my, more blood than she thought there would be, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind bleeding and now she has her piercing. And it does make her feel pretty. It must, she supposes, because when she takes it out and looks at her stomach in the mirror without the jewel dangling in her navel, it seems to her that she is ugly.
Yesterday she dyed her hair red, but it reminds her too much of habits she is trying—I really am trying, she promises herself—to break. So maybe Wednesday it will be blond again, then Thursday purple. But no, today is Thursday, isn’t it? She doesn’t know. And now she has forgotten why she came into the kitchen, the dirty kitchen with the cracked linoleum, and wouldn’t you know every piece of wood that makes the cupboards is fake?
She peeks in the doorway and thinks it seems darker beyond, though she’d flipped the light switch. Breakfast—yes, that’s what she came for. Her hand brushes over her stomach, a bit flatter with emptiness. Well, I might as well not. No, she likes it like this, and she isn’t really hungry anyway. At least she doesn’t want to be. What a paradox. She walks on to the coffee pot. She doesn’t really need breakfast.
She doesn’t feel like she needs anything anymore. Needs food, needs conversation, needs new things or even some of the old ones. Of course, she didn’t realize that until she noticed that lately she hasn’t had any of those very often and she is still alive, still waking up every morning. And I only miss them a little bit. She thinks. Maybe the days are emptier, but empty is so much simpler. Empty is clean.
Sleep. She thinks, recounting in her mind a list of her minimalist survival, I still need sleep. She seems to sleep an awful lot these days…and now it is noon. Have two hours passed so quickly? She is still standing by the coffee, staring into the neon numbers as if hypnotized.
The mail has arrived. She always checks it—she likes opening the box, which was once empty, to find it full. Even if it is only full of empty things, like magazines she doesn’t remember subscribing to and coupons she will never redeem.
The garden is full, though. Not full of things she put there; she killed nearly everything she planted. It’s full of mushrooms again, She observes. She stops to look at them; crouches down in the half-rotted mulch. She studies the round, creamy caps and gracefully curved stem. She picks one, and her eyes slide in and out of the feather-like grooves underneath. She puts out her hand to pick the rest—such accidents don’t belong in a flower garden—but pauses for stops herself. Accidents. She realizes.They aren’t cared for, pruned or watered. They weren’t specially planted in tilled, nourished soil. They just grew; they are just growing. What do they need but a surface to stand on? What helps them live except to be left alone? They will grow in her pitiful excuse for a garden when nothing else will. How convenient that must be. She pulls back her hand. It’s when they’re neglected that they thrive.
And so she envies the mushrooms, until she realizes how much she has in common with them. What a thing to compare and contrast; the way I live as mushrooms do—needing nothing, and having nothing—with how I lived before—needing so much and having only half. She sits, resting her chin on one hand—her head feels so heavy these days—and twirling her plucked fungus in the fingers of the other. I guess I’d say this is better in the end. She pops the cap from the stem with her thumb; crushes its foamy flesh between her fingers. Yes, I think it's better; this, The Mushroom Life.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Note to Self/Etcetera, Whatever.
Note to Self
Look at what you’ve done;
Just watch our hands shake—
I think you revel in the way
This weakness shames me.
Our clumsy feet trip because
You shuffle like a corpse;
Dead weight, nothing more.
You hold hostage
My thoughts from our tongue;
You just love to taunt me,
Don’t you?
Everything I try to do,
You drag me down;
Why won’t you cooperate?
You parasite—
You crippled foreigner—
I can hear you laughing.
I hate the way
You tell me “sit” and “stay”,
Knowing I have no choice
But to consent,
And be disgusted
By my own submission.
I wish I could punish you—
Oh, to exact revenge—
But, as everything I do
To you I also do to me,
I’m expected to treat you well;
Because apparently I am God’s,
And not my own.
I guess He likes to collect
Broken things.
Sometimes I wonder why no one really seems to get that this is still hard to deal with; that it is constantly simmering and occasionally has to boil over.
Then I realize that they don’t understand because I never tell them. Because when I boil over, I do it alone. When the excess is all burned away, I clean up and go back out into the world, leaving behind no evidence but some vague stains of cynicism.
So here’s some evidence. Here in the city there’s not enough space around me to hold everything that spills, but the internet is awfully big so I guess it’s as good as anything to catch the overflow. I guess that's kind of what a blog's for, anyway.
Now I’m going to go put my big-girl panties on and deal with it, cause we’ve all got problems and I do have many blessings etcetera, whatever. Toodles.
Look at what you’ve done;
Just watch our hands shake—
I think you revel in the way
This weakness shames me.
Our clumsy feet trip because
You shuffle like a corpse;
Dead weight, nothing more.
You hold hostage
My thoughts from our tongue;
You just love to taunt me,
Don’t you?
Everything I try to do,
You drag me down;
Why won’t you cooperate?
You parasite—
You crippled foreigner—
I can hear you laughing.
I hate the way
You tell me “sit” and “stay”,
Knowing I have no choice
But to consent,
And be disgusted
By my own submission.
I wish I could punish you—
Oh, to exact revenge—
But, as everything I do
To you I also do to me,
I’m expected to treat you well;
Because apparently I am God’s,
And not my own.
I guess He likes to collect
Broken things.
Sometimes I wonder why no one really seems to get that this is still hard to deal with; that it is constantly simmering and occasionally has to boil over.
Then I realize that they don’t understand because I never tell them. Because when I boil over, I do it alone. When the excess is all burned away, I clean up and go back out into the world, leaving behind no evidence but some vague stains of cynicism.
So here’s some evidence. Here in the city there’s not enough space around me to hold everything that spills, but the internet is awfully big so I guess it’s as good as anything to catch the overflow. I guess that's kind of what a blog's for, anyway.
Now I’m going to go put my big-girl panties on and deal with it, cause we’ve all got problems and I do have many blessings etcetera, whatever. Toodles.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
"How to Break a Heart in 160 Characters": A Brief, Fictional Narrative.
I am shrinking, I think, or growing without the room to grow, like a reptile in a terrarium far too small.
There are people all around, everywhere everywhere all the time and they are talking—always talking. The words take up so much room in the air; the voices clog it and I can’t breathe anymore. I tried to add my part. I tried to think of it as music. But it isn’t. There was no harmony; I didn’t know how to make my words fit together with everyone else’s.
It feels strange, not speaking. It’s been nearly four weeks now since I’ve said a word, and the scabs are slowly turning into scars. Maybe I will say something when the red is all gone. Maybe then I’ll speak. Can words be blades? Each one opening a fresh new gash as they fall from my mouth, bleeding me dry? Maybe then I will speak.
I can’t quiet all the other voices, but I can quiet my own. Hush, hush; I croon to myself in my mind. Shh, it doesn’t matter. It reduces some of the oppressive noise, and I guess that’s something.
It’s hardest in the office of my therapist. It is so quiet there, as she waits for me to speak, but for a full hour I can’t even fill the void with my usual lies. I think my silence might hold more truth in it than words ever did.
I write, when I need to. Pass a note, send a text. The scratch of pen on paper, the click of keys beneath my fingers—they are not nearly as abrasive as the sound of my own words retching so clumsily from my throat.
And I don’t come down from my room; not anymore.
Once upon a time, I liked to be outside. Once upon a time, I liked people. A person. Once, we walked the back streets of down town and he kissed me under the bridge on 2nd Avenue, my back against the graffiti on the wall as his echoing whispers made me realize how profound such profanity can be.
Once upon a time I sang songs, and somehow every one of them molded themselves to his form in my mind. I don’t know if I remember them now, the molded songs; I haven’t sung any of them in so long.
I only know one for sure; the one my phone sings when he texts me. It’s playing now.
I miss you. He says. I miss him, too. But all I say is, I’m sorry.
I love you. He replies. I love him, too, but again I say, I’m sorry.
Am I ever going to see you? He asks. I begin picking at the scabs on my leg.
Not for a while, probably. I respond. I don’t want him to see me like this. And I don’t plan to be anything else any time soon.
You have to let me see you. I can help. I can at least be there for you. You don’t have to talk; just sit with me?
He’s trying, he really is. I know he is. I wish he wouldn’t. I wish he wouldn’t force me to break his heart. He knows better; he knows I’m a hopeless case.
I want to tell him, Don’t you see I’ll leave you bleeding? Get so close our wounds touch and start to grow together, heal to each other. The scab will form hard, and then we’d better tear apart quick or scar tissue will grow and then cutting that bond—and it will be cut—will prove far too painful. Recovery time too long, risk of infection too great. And the scar it would leave...one so thick that years from now it’d still ache when the weather’s right. I know that. Known it all along, every time. Knew I wouldn’t stay close enough to conjoin. I’m nothing like you think I am; nowhere, nowhere nowhere even close. Don’t you see I’ll leave you bleeding? Bleeding out.
But I want to say as little as possible; keep the text to one page in length. How do you break a heart—sever forever all arteries that pulse hope—in one-hundred and sixty characters? I’ll try.
I’m sorry; wish I could. I type and letters flicker onto the screen. But even if I did do everything you want I could never make you happy. I would drag you down. I can’t do that. I am so sorry. Goodbye.
I rise from my place on the floor, leaving my phone behind. It is so cold in me, and my rumpled bed looks like it might provide at least some false sense of solace. It is hard to breathe with the covers pulled down tight over my head, but I stay there anyway.
His song plays—muffled tones rising up from the floor, pushing their treble-tendrils between the bed sheets to wrap around my eardrums; poking at the wrinkles in my brain to set loose any memories caught there. I let it play; let it poke and prod. I won’t read the words that prompted the music. I don’t want to know. I won’t go downstairs in the morning for breakfast; I won’t let my mother drag me to therapy.
Because I have nothing left to say, not to anyone. Except God. Maybe I'll talk to Him.
There are people all around, everywhere everywhere all the time and they are talking—always talking. The words take up so much room in the air; the voices clog it and I can’t breathe anymore. I tried to add my part. I tried to think of it as music. But it isn’t. There was no harmony; I didn’t know how to make my words fit together with everyone else’s.
It feels strange, not speaking. It’s been nearly four weeks now since I’ve said a word, and the scabs are slowly turning into scars. Maybe I will say something when the red is all gone. Maybe then I’ll speak. Can words be blades? Each one opening a fresh new gash as they fall from my mouth, bleeding me dry? Maybe then I will speak.
I can’t quiet all the other voices, but I can quiet my own. Hush, hush; I croon to myself in my mind. Shh, it doesn’t matter. It reduces some of the oppressive noise, and I guess that’s something.
It’s hardest in the office of my therapist. It is so quiet there, as she waits for me to speak, but for a full hour I can’t even fill the void with my usual lies. I think my silence might hold more truth in it than words ever did.
I write, when I need to. Pass a note, send a text. The scratch of pen on paper, the click of keys beneath my fingers—they are not nearly as abrasive as the sound of my own words retching so clumsily from my throat.
And I don’t come down from my room; not anymore.
Once upon a time, I liked to be outside. Once upon a time, I liked people. A person. Once, we walked the back streets of down town and he kissed me under the bridge on 2nd Avenue, my back against the graffiti on the wall as his echoing whispers made me realize how profound such profanity can be.
Once upon a time I sang songs, and somehow every one of them molded themselves to his form in my mind. I don’t know if I remember them now, the molded songs; I haven’t sung any of them in so long.
I only know one for sure; the one my phone sings when he texts me. It’s playing now.
I miss you. He says. I miss him, too. But all I say is, I’m sorry.
I love you. He replies. I love him, too, but again I say, I’m sorry.
Am I ever going to see you? He asks. I begin picking at the scabs on my leg.
Not for a while, probably. I respond. I don’t want him to see me like this. And I don’t plan to be anything else any time soon.
You have to let me see you. I can help. I can at least be there for you. You don’t have to talk; just sit with me?
He’s trying, he really is. I know he is. I wish he wouldn’t. I wish he wouldn’t force me to break his heart. He knows better; he knows I’m a hopeless case.
I want to tell him, Don’t you see I’ll leave you bleeding? Get so close our wounds touch and start to grow together, heal to each other. The scab will form hard, and then we’d better tear apart quick or scar tissue will grow and then cutting that bond—and it will be cut—will prove far too painful. Recovery time too long, risk of infection too great. And the scar it would leave...one so thick that years from now it’d still ache when the weather’s right. I know that. Known it all along, every time. Knew I wouldn’t stay close enough to conjoin. I’m nothing like you think I am; nowhere, nowhere nowhere even close. Don’t you see I’ll leave you bleeding? Bleeding out.
But I want to say as little as possible; keep the text to one page in length. How do you break a heart—sever forever all arteries that pulse hope—in one-hundred and sixty characters? I’ll try.
I’m sorry; wish I could. I type and letters flicker onto the screen. But even if I did do everything you want I could never make you happy. I would drag you down. I can’t do that. I am so sorry. Goodbye.
I rise from my place on the floor, leaving my phone behind. It is so cold in me, and my rumpled bed looks like it might provide at least some false sense of solace. It is hard to breathe with the covers pulled down tight over my head, but I stay there anyway.
His song plays—muffled tones rising up from the floor, pushing their treble-tendrils between the bed sheets to wrap around my eardrums; poking at the wrinkles in my brain to set loose any memories caught there. I let it play; let it poke and prod. I won’t read the words that prompted the music. I don’t want to know. I won’t go downstairs in the morning for breakfast; I won’t let my mother drag me to therapy.
Because I have nothing left to say, not to anyone. Except God. Maybe I'll talk to Him.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Sounds Familiar...
"That still-twitching bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly; we dug deep and threw it's elegant plumage and frantic black eyes in a hole, and we rushed out to kill something new so we could bury that, too."
With those lyrics, the Weakerthans describe with uncanny accuracy how, when I was maybe six or seven, my brother, cousins and I found a dead crow and had a funeral. We made it a sort of play-pretend game. Looking back, that seems a rather morbid game for children to play--all false sadness and how we even named the corpse.
We called him Blackberry.
I wish I had been genuinely sad.
I tried to dig him up a year later, when I was eight or nine, but I couldn't find him.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
"Hypocrisy": A Brief Narrative Comprised Mostly of Implications
Hypocrisy. He mouthed the word to himself, tongue molding the word slowly, as if it was tangible. Closing one eye, he shoved the other to the barrel of his shiny silver pistol. He preferred hooks and knives, but the guns had to be cleaned, too. Blood on the barrel. He hated that. No, he loved it. It spoke of purity. Someone had just been refined. Work was getting done; heaven was being populated. Or hell. Probably hell. He smiled. God was being satisfied.
Her mind was wandering. But wasn’t everyone’s? Her Bible lay open in her lap as the pastor’s voice echoed through the walls of the church. The sheetrock walls were stark against the red banners, bearing messages like “Prince of Peace”; “Lord of Lords”, flowing in silver script. She jumped. Settling again, she looked around to see if anyone else had been startled by the pastor’s sudden bang on the pulpit’s fake-wooden surface. They hadn’t. Embarrassed, she tried to focus on the words being preached. She knew she wouldn’t remember them, but in all honesty, she didn’t really care. She was here, wasn’t she? She donated every month, didn’t she? She was doing her part. Work was getting done. She sighed. God was being satisfied.
Her name was Mandy. And she was next on Mark’s list. Not particularly important in any way; just next. Mark smiled slightly. Mark and Mandy. Cute.
At the moment, Mark was standing at Mandy’s window, watching her. Well, not exactly; it was too dark to actually see her sleeping form on the bed, but he knew she was there. He knew because he had watched her come into the room. He’d watched her kick her black business flats into a clean corner where the white carpet met the whiter wall. He’d watched her pet her black dog on her blue queen-sized bed. He’d even watched her change out of her church attire: a black mid-calf skirt and a dark red blouse.
She changed into an oversized T-shirt, which he knew she usually took off later in the night, frustrated with the feeling of the seams pressing into her skin. These details were important. Everyone overlooked details, but not Mark. He wanted them, all of them, and he wanted to collect them himself. With his own eyes. He knew she was there. He knew it tonight, and he had known it for the past four months. But it wasn’t Mandy’s nightly habits that drew him to her. No, it was her need. The need she didn’t know she had. The need to break from her dull complacency. Hypocrisy.
Mark clenched his fists, feeling his nails bite into the palms of his hands. He ground his teeth, spittle bubbling from the corners of his mouth. Slowly, he drew his tongue across his lips. He itched to begin this job, just as he itched to begin every other job. But he was a smart man; a disciplined man. He would wait for the right moment to begin every phase of this refinement. These things took time. He would take his time, and do his job well. With one last glance at the dark window, Mark stalked off into the night. Soon it would really begin.
Her mind was wandering. But wasn’t everyone’s? Her Bible lay open in her lap as the pastor’s voice echoed through the walls of the church. The sheetrock walls were stark against the red banners, bearing messages like “Prince of Peace”; “Lord of Lords”, flowing in silver script. She jumped. Settling again, she looked around to see if anyone else had been startled by the pastor’s sudden bang on the pulpit’s fake-wooden surface. They hadn’t. Embarrassed, she tried to focus on the words being preached. She knew she wouldn’t remember them, but in all honesty, she didn’t really care. She was here, wasn’t she? She donated every month, didn’t she? She was doing her part. Work was getting done. She sighed. God was being satisfied.
Her name was Mandy. And she was next on Mark’s list. Not particularly important in any way; just next. Mark smiled slightly. Mark and Mandy. Cute.
At the moment, Mark was standing at Mandy’s window, watching her. Well, not exactly; it was too dark to actually see her sleeping form on the bed, but he knew she was there. He knew because he had watched her come into the room. He’d watched her kick her black business flats into a clean corner where the white carpet met the whiter wall. He’d watched her pet her black dog on her blue queen-sized bed. He’d even watched her change out of her church attire: a black mid-calf skirt and a dark red blouse.
She changed into an oversized T-shirt, which he knew she usually took off later in the night, frustrated with the feeling of the seams pressing into her skin. These details were important. Everyone overlooked details, but not Mark. He wanted them, all of them, and he wanted to collect them himself. With his own eyes. He knew she was there. He knew it tonight, and he had known it for the past four months. But it wasn’t Mandy’s nightly habits that drew him to her. No, it was her need. The need she didn’t know she had. The need to break from her dull complacency. Hypocrisy.
Mark clenched his fists, feeling his nails bite into the palms of his hands. He ground his teeth, spittle bubbling from the corners of his mouth. Slowly, he drew his tongue across his lips. He itched to begin this job, just as he itched to begin every other job. But he was a smart man; a disciplined man. He would wait for the right moment to begin every phase of this refinement. These things took time. He would take his time, and do his job well. With one last glance at the dark window, Mark stalked off into the night. Soon it would really begin.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Top Ten Most Overrated Things (a rare note of attempted comedy)
1.High School Graduation:
Whoopdi-frickin-do, we didn’t flunk out. I can see why the students themselves would celebrate, just for being done with school, but what’s with all the ceremonial “congratulations”? It’s saying something about our society’s standards when we are so elaborately congratulated for not flunking out of an education series that is pretty much required. College graduation? Yeah that deserves to be a big deal cause for the most part it’s a choice--much less “required” than high school--that requires purely personal discipline and self-control. I know I know, in some cases parents are “forcing” their kids to go to college, but by that time it’s really up to the student. They could still get enough of a job to live on etc. without a college degree. But without a highs school diploma? Generally if they want any quality of life above a fleabag apartment and a factory job (or prostitution and drug sales on the street. It really comes down to personal preference there), they’d better graduate high school.
(Disclaimer: this entire list is spoken in generalities; I realize there are some exceptions to everything I say.)
2.Expensive Jewelry:
Unless one is going to use it as currency, why does it matter if a diamond is real when it could be replaced with a crystal or even a rhinestone and look exactly the same? Granted, it wouldn’t look the same if you took it to someone who knows precious stones and asked them to examine it, but for general intents and purposes (like wearing the jewelry), it has the same effect. It is unlikely one is going to run into someone who a) knows diamonds/gold/rubies/whatever well enough to tell their authenticity with the naked eye, b) cares enough whether or not one’s jewelry is real to come up and closely examine it, and c) will look down on you for being a cheapskate if your earrings aren’t “real”. So, if you like that bracelet and you think it goes well with your dress (or if you think that giant earring would really complete your pimp ensemble), who cares if you bought it at a garage sale for two bucks?
What about a gift, you may wonder? If you have the money and you want to show someone you care, isn’t expensive/real jewelry a good option? It depends on the recipient, I suppose. Personally I think that anyone, provided they are lucky enough to have the funds, could go out and buy a diamond necklace. I think gifts are more meaningful if they are homemade with the recipient in mind (“I know you like the smell of gasoline, so I made you this gasoline-infused pillow so you can enjoy the scent as you go to sleep.”), or if it’s something of the giver’s that has meant a lot to them (“This sock was my late father’s; I want you to have it”), or something of the giver’s that the giver has noticed that the recipient likes (“I’ve noticed how you’re always eyeing that yamaka of mine whenever you come over. I’m not Jewish and you really seem to like it, so you can have it.”), or something bought by the giver strictly because it reminded them of the recipient (“I was at Target and I saw this rooster-shaped colander and I thought of you, cause I know you love chicken pasta.”). However, if the recipient is someone who really loves or collects valuable jewelry/precious stones, nice jewelry would be a good gift. Not because of the price or authenticity, but because it is of specific interest to the recipient. In short, as far as gifts go, it is the thought and how-well-the-giver-knows-the-recipient that counts, in my opinion.
Again, I speak in generalities mixed with my own personal opinions.
3.Internet Phones
Are we so addicted to facebook that we just HAVE to get our fix of status updating THIS MINUTE? We can’t even wait until it’s appropriate to open the laptop, or even until we get home (gasp! The inconvenience!)? Will we go into excruciating withdraw if we can’t google “can Egyptians grow facial hair” RIGHT NOW? Need to get directions someplace? The number for “Larry’s Ink” so you can ask why you’re getting the finger from every Chinese person who sees that character you got tattooed on your face? Need to know what time the pharmacy closes so you can pick up your pinworm medicine? Want to compare gas prices so you can find the cheapest place to fill up your SUV that never leaves suburbia? It’s a phone. Dial the operator. If (s)he can’t answer your question, (s)he can give you the number of someone else who can.
4. “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin
Don’t get me wrong; it’s an awesome song. I do love it. But there are many songs that are just as awesome yet far less famous; some of which make a bit more sense. I don’t know about you, but I have trouble relating to a bustle in your hedgerow. Don’t worry, Rob; I’m not alarmed. And the guitar riff? Yes, it’s really cool. But it gets old when every guitar player and their mom learns it and sits around playing it, hoping people will notice how awesome they are.
5.Angry White Bands
We know, we know. She left you and it broke your heart. And you have such a macho-man complex that you have to scream unintelligible sentence fragments about hardcore things like drugs, suicide, murder, and rape into a microphone while your friends bang on heavily distorted instruments like children with pots and pans to get back some of the masculinity you lost when you realized that you weren’t quite the self-sufficient male that you thought you were.
6.Organic Food
I don’t care how many green-thumbed scientist nerds have sliced and diced produce. Health nuts spend twice the money on pesticide-free apples, and yet, in general, it doesn’t extend their lifespan by that much. Sometimes not at all. I’ll eat my bug-sprayed apple (oh, here’s a revelation: I’ll wash it.) and if, down the road, I suffer significantly from the pesticides, I’ll spend the money I saved by not buying overpriced organic produce on whatever medical procedure is required to treat the problem. However, in the likely event that I don’t suffer any health problems due to consuming non-organic apples, I could spend that extra cash on whatever the hell I want. Or put it in a retirement fund so in my elderly years I can lounge by a pool and laugh at the health nuts cause they spent so much money on organic produce they can’t afford a nice living facility (let alone in-home care), and so they have to live out those extra two years in a crappy nursing home. So no matter what, you’ll certainly be no worse off in the end than the health nuts for eating non-organic produce. You might even come out ahead. But hey, if it makes you feel better to shell out the extra cash for a banana with an earth-toned label that reads “Organic!”, be my guest. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
7.Sudoku
It’s just like any other puzzle. It has nothing to do with the numbers; if you’re good at Sudoku it doesn’t mean that you’re a math genius (maybe you are. Don’t know, don’t care. The point is, the two aren’t connected). Just because it has an exotic-sounding name doesn’t mean it’s any more effective than a crossword puzzle or a Rubix Cube. It might even be less so. Crossword puzzles expand vocabulary as well as exercise problem-solving skills, and Rubix Cubes have pretty colors. And, retro is coming back, so there’s a plus.
8.Things With Touch-Screens
Touching an icon on the screen is not any easier than pressing the “enter” key, but it seems like it because it reminds us subconsciously of when we were toddlers. Mommy said, “Which candy do you want?”. We would boldly jab at our coveted item with a chubby finger and demand, “That one!”, and enjoy the immediate results that took almost no effort on our part.
And, you uptight technology nerds, how many times have you scolded us free-spirits for getting fingerprints on the screen when we borrowed your phone or ipod? And now you all have the latest touch-screen things, and it makes you feel so smart. I was touching screens long before you, you hypocrites. What, you can get fingerprints on the screen, but I can’t? You think your fingerprints are better than mine? Of course, now that it’s YOUR idea, it’s ok. Go ahead and touch those screens like toddlers. I’ll be pressing the “enter” key like an adult.
9.The Personal Lives of Celebrities
Who. Cares. I’m not even sure what to say about this one, cause I cannot fathom why people care about what parts of Angelina Jolie are fake, or drama in her and Brad’s relationship. “Zac Way-To-Cool-To-For-The-‘H’ Efron and Vanessa Whatsherface are dating! Oh, no they’re not. Wait, yes they are! Oh, never mind; it’s been ten minutes. They broke up again. HOW SAD!”
Honestly, people…why?
10. Any Kind of Vegetable-Infused Body Wash or Lotion
If you want to smell like a cucumber, go buy (a non-organic) one for a fraction of the price, cut that sucker in half, and use it like a deodorant stick (goes on clear!). Gee, I wonder why people don’t do that. Maybe it’s cause cucumbers hardly smell AT ALL, and what little smell they do have is the scent of wet grass. Then why have they started putting cucumbers in soap-like cosmetics? What do you think they do with all those cucumber-slice-eye-pad-things after the rich chicks leave the spa? That’s right; they shove ‘em in the blender, dump them in the leftover plain body wash and lotion, stick a translucent label on a transparent bottle to make our minds subconsciously go from “clear” to “water” to “refreshing”, and overprice them at $10.99. Hey, it’s a rough economy; can you blame them for exploiting the gullibility of unique-scent-obsessed consumers? Really like that cucumber body wash but don’t want to risk being said consumer? Buy a bar of soap, slice up a cucumber, and go nuts (the matching deodorant comes free with the cucumber, if you only slice up one half).
Whoopdi-frickin-do, we didn’t flunk out. I can see why the students themselves would celebrate, just for being done with school, but what’s with all the ceremonial “congratulations”? It’s saying something about our society’s standards when we are so elaborately congratulated for not flunking out of an education series that is pretty much required. College graduation? Yeah that deserves to be a big deal cause for the most part it’s a choice--much less “required” than high school--that requires purely personal discipline and self-control. I know I know, in some cases parents are “forcing” their kids to go to college, but by that time it’s really up to the student. They could still get enough of a job to live on etc. without a college degree. But without a highs school diploma? Generally if they want any quality of life above a fleabag apartment and a factory job (or prostitution and drug sales on the street. It really comes down to personal preference there), they’d better graduate high school.
(Disclaimer: this entire list is spoken in generalities; I realize there are some exceptions to everything I say.)
2.Expensive Jewelry:
Unless one is going to use it as currency, why does it matter if a diamond is real when it could be replaced with a crystal or even a rhinestone and look exactly the same? Granted, it wouldn’t look the same if you took it to someone who knows precious stones and asked them to examine it, but for general intents and purposes (like wearing the jewelry), it has the same effect. It is unlikely one is going to run into someone who a) knows diamonds/gold/rubies/whatever well enough to tell their authenticity with the naked eye, b) cares enough whether or not one’s jewelry is real to come up and closely examine it, and c) will look down on you for being a cheapskate if your earrings aren’t “real”. So, if you like that bracelet and you think it goes well with your dress (or if you think that giant earring would really complete your pimp ensemble), who cares if you bought it at a garage sale for two bucks?
What about a gift, you may wonder? If you have the money and you want to show someone you care, isn’t expensive/real jewelry a good option? It depends on the recipient, I suppose. Personally I think that anyone, provided they are lucky enough to have the funds, could go out and buy a diamond necklace. I think gifts are more meaningful if they are homemade with the recipient in mind (“I know you like the smell of gasoline, so I made you this gasoline-infused pillow so you can enjoy the scent as you go to sleep.”), or if it’s something of the giver’s that has meant a lot to them (“This sock was my late father’s; I want you to have it”), or something of the giver’s that the giver has noticed that the recipient likes (“I’ve noticed how you’re always eyeing that yamaka of mine whenever you come over. I’m not Jewish and you really seem to like it, so you can have it.”), or something bought by the giver strictly because it reminded them of the recipient (“I was at Target and I saw this rooster-shaped colander and I thought of you, cause I know you love chicken pasta.”). However, if the recipient is someone who really loves or collects valuable jewelry/precious stones, nice jewelry would be a good gift. Not because of the price or authenticity, but because it is of specific interest to the recipient. In short, as far as gifts go, it is the thought and how-well-the-giver-knows-the-recipient that counts, in my opinion.
Again, I speak in generalities mixed with my own personal opinions.
3.Internet Phones
Are we so addicted to facebook that we just HAVE to get our fix of status updating THIS MINUTE? We can’t even wait until it’s appropriate to open the laptop, or even until we get home (gasp! The inconvenience!)? Will we go into excruciating withdraw if we can’t google “can Egyptians grow facial hair” RIGHT NOW? Need to get directions someplace? The number for “Larry’s Ink” so you can ask why you’re getting the finger from every Chinese person who sees that character you got tattooed on your face? Need to know what time the pharmacy closes so you can pick up your pinworm medicine? Want to compare gas prices so you can find the cheapest place to fill up your SUV that never leaves suburbia? It’s a phone. Dial the operator. If (s)he can’t answer your question, (s)he can give you the number of someone else who can.
4. “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin
Don’t get me wrong; it’s an awesome song. I do love it. But there are many songs that are just as awesome yet far less famous; some of which make a bit more sense. I don’t know about you, but I have trouble relating to a bustle in your hedgerow. Don’t worry, Rob; I’m not alarmed. And the guitar riff? Yes, it’s really cool. But it gets old when every guitar player and their mom learns it and sits around playing it, hoping people will notice how awesome they are.
5.Angry White Bands
We know, we know. She left you and it broke your heart. And you have such a macho-man complex that you have to scream unintelligible sentence fragments about hardcore things like drugs, suicide, murder, and rape into a microphone while your friends bang on heavily distorted instruments like children with pots and pans to get back some of the masculinity you lost when you realized that you weren’t quite the self-sufficient male that you thought you were.
6.Organic Food
I don’t care how many green-thumbed scientist nerds have sliced and diced produce. Health nuts spend twice the money on pesticide-free apples, and yet, in general, it doesn’t extend their lifespan by that much. Sometimes not at all. I’ll eat my bug-sprayed apple (oh, here’s a revelation: I’ll wash it.) and if, down the road, I suffer significantly from the pesticides, I’ll spend the money I saved by not buying overpriced organic produce on whatever medical procedure is required to treat the problem. However, in the likely event that I don’t suffer any health problems due to consuming non-organic apples, I could spend that extra cash on whatever the hell I want. Or put it in a retirement fund so in my elderly years I can lounge by a pool and laugh at the health nuts cause they spent so much money on organic produce they can’t afford a nice living facility (let alone in-home care), and so they have to live out those extra two years in a crappy nursing home. So no matter what, you’ll certainly be no worse off in the end than the health nuts for eating non-organic produce. You might even come out ahead. But hey, if it makes you feel better to shell out the extra cash for a banana with an earth-toned label that reads “Organic!”, be my guest. Whatever helps you sleep at night.
7.Sudoku
It’s just like any other puzzle. It has nothing to do with the numbers; if you’re good at Sudoku it doesn’t mean that you’re a math genius (maybe you are. Don’t know, don’t care. The point is, the two aren’t connected). Just because it has an exotic-sounding name doesn’t mean it’s any more effective than a crossword puzzle or a Rubix Cube. It might even be less so. Crossword puzzles expand vocabulary as well as exercise problem-solving skills, and Rubix Cubes have pretty colors. And, retro is coming back, so there’s a plus.
8.Things With Touch-Screens
Touching an icon on the screen is not any easier than pressing the “enter” key, but it seems like it because it reminds us subconsciously of when we were toddlers. Mommy said, “Which candy do you want?”. We would boldly jab at our coveted item with a chubby finger and demand, “That one!”, and enjoy the immediate results that took almost no effort on our part.
And, you uptight technology nerds, how many times have you scolded us free-spirits for getting fingerprints on the screen when we borrowed your phone or ipod? And now you all have the latest touch-screen things, and it makes you feel so smart. I was touching screens long before you, you hypocrites. What, you can get fingerprints on the screen, but I can’t? You think your fingerprints are better than mine? Of course, now that it’s YOUR idea, it’s ok. Go ahead and touch those screens like toddlers. I’ll be pressing the “enter” key like an adult.
9.The Personal Lives of Celebrities
Who. Cares. I’m not even sure what to say about this one, cause I cannot fathom why people care about what parts of Angelina Jolie are fake, or drama in her and Brad’s relationship. “Zac Way-To-Cool-To-For-The-‘H’ Efron and Vanessa Whatsherface are dating! Oh, no they’re not. Wait, yes they are! Oh, never mind; it’s been ten minutes. They broke up again. HOW SAD!”
Honestly, people…why?
10. Any Kind of Vegetable-Infused Body Wash or Lotion
If you want to smell like a cucumber, go buy (a non-organic) one for a fraction of the price, cut that sucker in half, and use it like a deodorant stick (goes on clear!). Gee, I wonder why people don’t do that. Maybe it’s cause cucumbers hardly smell AT ALL, and what little smell they do have is the scent of wet grass. Then why have they started putting cucumbers in soap-like cosmetics? What do you think they do with all those cucumber-slice-eye-pad-things after the rich chicks leave the spa? That’s right; they shove ‘em in the blender, dump them in the leftover plain body wash and lotion, stick a translucent label on a transparent bottle to make our minds subconsciously go from “clear” to “water” to “refreshing”, and overprice them at $10.99. Hey, it’s a rough economy; can you blame them for exploiting the gullibility of unique-scent-obsessed consumers? Really like that cucumber body wash but don’t want to risk being said consumer? Buy a bar of soap, slice up a cucumber, and go nuts (the matching deodorant comes free with the cucumber, if you only slice up one half).
Saturday, November 13, 2010
My Twisted Poet Tree
I’m still afraid of so many things. Maybe if I was put into a box and frozen for a few years, my heart would get frostbite, and when it thawed pieces would fall off and with any luck, they would take some things with them. Or a doctor could remove them carefully with sterile clamps and scalpels, all neat and orderly, and sew me back up with nice orderly stitches in a straight orderly line. That would be so much better than what I have to do. So much better to be orderly. So much better to be neat and clean.
But instead I have to reach into myself and rip out the pieces. It hurts it hurts it hurts so much but if I leave them they will rot away there, and take the rest of my heart with them. Maybe it will be less painful if I refuse to write it. If I never again see it before me as ink on paper, in my clumsy script. Maybe I will forget how to write those three letters in that order, and so forget a bit of it.
Every prayer concerning it I’ve put into bottles and hung from my tree. I have lots of things on my tree. Empty bottles of wine, fragile teacups, shiny silver trinkets, sparkling baubles and things that glitter in the sunlight. I have carved things into its wooden skin; words and phrases and pictures and symbols like pale scars in the rough, dark brown hide. A heart is there, with my initials on one side and a plus sign in the middle and a blank space on the other side. I’ll carve my future husband's initials there when I know who he is. Even if I have to come back from miles away.
I’ll go back to where I spent the longest and went through the most and was innocent and romantic and dark and fallen. The place my life changed forever. Many times. Where I longed so much for things out of my reach. I’ll come back and say to my ghosts, “See? It all turned out alright.”
I’ll carve his initials next to mine, and a symbol of closure on the tree. My ghosts will play here, whispering in the branches and swaying the memories of the pretty things that once hung there, catching the light. They will float upon the roof and watch for shooting stars; easy, lucky, free. They will be at peace, because I’ve come back to tell them that I’ve found my place. Life won’t be perfect, but I’m no longer lost. My ghosts will know that and rest. My tree needs a name. Something as sparkling and romantic and magical as it is. In some foreign language; something silver and glass and transparent colors. I love my tree.
And I like boxes. I like to hide things in them—little things—and forget about them so when I find them again and open them it’s like finding old friends. Once a boy brought me two turtle eggs he’d found in the woods. I put them in a tin box with some warm, wet tissues and shoved the tin to the back of my dresser.
I don’t know how long it was until I remembered the eggs. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t even remember them by myself. I was being forced by maternal powers to clean my room, and I happened to find the box. Even then, I couldn’t remember what I’d put in it.
I opened the lid. There was a baby turtle inside, scrambling around on his slippery metal floor, all lost and confused and shocked by the sudden light. The first light he’d ever seen. And I was the first face he saw. Not that it matters much with turtles, I guess. His brother egg was dead, but that didn’t make this one’s survival any less miraculous to me. I’d hatched a healthy baby turtle, almost completely by accident.
There in the damp dark, where I’d left him forgotten, God developed his transparent claws, his quarter-sized shell, his soft, baggy skin, his tiny tail, and his efficient little beak with which he tore through the rubbery eggshell. And so, there in a metal box amid wads of soggy Kleenex and a miscarried sibling, a little life began and lived for days—possibly a week or more. He shouldn’t have been able to breathe; the box lid was sealed and secure. He had no meal to supplement his tiny strength after birth. It was certainly with no help from me, his negligent foster mother, that he survived. His ever-watchful, ever-loving Father cared for him.
I named him Rocky and fed him wet dog food in a ten-gallon terrarium. He liked to sleep under dirt and peat moss, and when he was lethargic I would put him outside in the sunshine for awhile.
Winter passed and Rocky stayed in my warm room, bypassing the normal hibernation practiced by the rest of his species out in the cold.
When summer came again, I took him back out to the woods, to the pile of rocks where his egg was found. I admit I was worried about him; worried that he wouldn’t know how to survive in “the wild”. But as I walked back to my house after setting Rocky free, I remembered how God took care of him in the dark places when no one could see; when no one even remembered or cared. God would take care of him now, out in the sunny woods.
And, because “are you not more valuable than many sparrows?”, God will take care of me too, in the dark places and in the sunshine.
But instead I have to reach into myself and rip out the pieces. It hurts it hurts it hurts so much but if I leave them they will rot away there, and take the rest of my heart with them. Maybe it will be less painful if I refuse to write it. If I never again see it before me as ink on paper, in my clumsy script. Maybe I will forget how to write those three letters in that order, and so forget a bit of it.
Every prayer concerning it I’ve put into bottles and hung from my tree. I have lots of things on my tree. Empty bottles of wine, fragile teacups, shiny silver trinkets, sparkling baubles and things that glitter in the sunlight. I have carved things into its wooden skin; words and phrases and pictures and symbols like pale scars in the rough, dark brown hide. A heart is there, with my initials on one side and a plus sign in the middle and a blank space on the other side. I’ll carve my future husband's initials there when I know who he is. Even if I have to come back from miles away.
I’ll go back to where I spent the longest and went through the most and was innocent and romantic and dark and fallen. The place my life changed forever. Many times. Where I longed so much for things out of my reach. I’ll come back and say to my ghosts, “See? It all turned out alright.”
I’ll carve his initials next to mine, and a symbol of closure on the tree. My ghosts will play here, whispering in the branches and swaying the memories of the pretty things that once hung there, catching the light. They will float upon the roof and watch for shooting stars; easy, lucky, free. They will be at peace, because I’ve come back to tell them that I’ve found my place. Life won’t be perfect, but I’m no longer lost. My ghosts will know that and rest. My tree needs a name. Something as sparkling and romantic and magical as it is. In some foreign language; something silver and glass and transparent colors. I love my tree.
And I like boxes. I like to hide things in them—little things—and forget about them so when I find them again and open them it’s like finding old friends. Once a boy brought me two turtle eggs he’d found in the woods. I put them in a tin box with some warm, wet tissues and shoved the tin to the back of my dresser.
I don’t know how long it was until I remembered the eggs. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t even remember them by myself. I was being forced by maternal powers to clean my room, and I happened to find the box. Even then, I couldn’t remember what I’d put in it.
I opened the lid. There was a baby turtle inside, scrambling around on his slippery metal floor, all lost and confused and shocked by the sudden light. The first light he’d ever seen. And I was the first face he saw. Not that it matters much with turtles, I guess. His brother egg was dead, but that didn’t make this one’s survival any less miraculous to me. I’d hatched a healthy baby turtle, almost completely by accident.
There in the damp dark, where I’d left him forgotten, God developed his transparent claws, his quarter-sized shell, his soft, baggy skin, his tiny tail, and his efficient little beak with which he tore through the rubbery eggshell. And so, there in a metal box amid wads of soggy Kleenex and a miscarried sibling, a little life began and lived for days—possibly a week or more. He shouldn’t have been able to breathe; the box lid was sealed and secure. He had no meal to supplement his tiny strength after birth. It was certainly with no help from me, his negligent foster mother, that he survived. His ever-watchful, ever-loving Father cared for him.
I named him Rocky and fed him wet dog food in a ten-gallon terrarium. He liked to sleep under dirt and peat moss, and when he was lethargic I would put him outside in the sunshine for awhile.
Winter passed and Rocky stayed in my warm room, bypassing the normal hibernation practiced by the rest of his species out in the cold.
When summer came again, I took him back out to the woods, to the pile of rocks where his egg was found. I admit I was worried about him; worried that he wouldn’t know how to survive in “the wild”. But as I walked back to my house after setting Rocky free, I remembered how God took care of him in the dark places when no one could see; when no one even remembered or cared. God would take care of him now, out in the sunny woods.
And, because “are you not more valuable than many sparrows?”, God will take care of me too, in the dark places and in the sunshine.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Though Her Sins are Many...
Your grace is a thing I can’t comprehend,
So I will hate myself instead
And spit on this precious freedom You gave,
As if it’s just part of some bargain we made.
Why do I keep going on as if
I could bleed enough to pay for this?
Or if I could make my scars match Yours,
I’d owe any less than the lowest of whores?
I look up from scrubbing these wounds to find
That You have sorrowfully knelt beside.
“Why are you troubled?” Your whisper’s a mourn;
“Here now are My feet, My hands and bones.
I died so that you could stop living this way,
And, though scars remain, your sins are erased.”
So I will hate myself instead
And spit on this precious freedom You gave,
As if it’s just part of some bargain we made.
Why do I keep going on as if
I could bleed enough to pay for this?
Or if I could make my scars match Yours,
I’d owe any less than the lowest of whores?
I look up from scrubbing these wounds to find
That You have sorrowfully knelt beside.
“Why are you troubled?” Your whisper’s a mourn;
“Here now are My feet, My hands and bones.
I died so that you could stop living this way,
And, though scars remain, your sins are erased.”
Friday, November 5, 2010
Praises Far too Simple
I sang no dirge at Your birth, my Lord;
Though You were born to die.
Only praises on my lips, oh Lord,
When for me You were bled dry.
Such mercy You’ve granted my soul, oh God;
So tenderly stitching my wounds,
Though I deserve the pain, my God,
For what I’ve done to You.
But now guilt need not drag me down;
The tears in Your flesh hold claim.
With gentle love You found my eyes,
And softly You whisper my name.
How can I resist Your call, my Love?
How can I stay away
When You tell me I am beautiful;
Cleanse shame and ease my pain?
Your words are my soul’s healing balm,
Like oil that soothes the skin;
For by itself, it’s cracked and dry,
Until I soak You in.
I never can phrase it just right, my Lord.
I never quite know what to say.
But I know that I miss You painfully
Whenever I wander away.
Though You were born to die.
Only praises on my lips, oh Lord,
When for me You were bled dry.
Such mercy You’ve granted my soul, oh God;
So tenderly stitching my wounds,
Though I deserve the pain, my God,
For what I’ve done to You.
But now guilt need not drag me down;
The tears in Your flesh hold claim.
With gentle love You found my eyes,
And softly You whisper my name.
How can I resist Your call, my Love?
How can I stay away
When You tell me I am beautiful;
Cleanse shame and ease my pain?
Your words are my soul’s healing balm,
Like oil that soothes the skin;
For by itself, it’s cracked and dry,
Until I soak You in.
I never can phrase it just right, my Lord.
I never quite know what to say.
But I know that I miss You painfully
Whenever I wander away.
Friday, October 29, 2010
An Attempt to Tip the Scales
Career. Professionalism. Propriety. Financial security. Respectability. Success? Relative.
My brother wants to be a lawyer. A prosecutor. He is more than smart enough and well on his way. It’ll happen; I know it will. Ten years from how he’ll be passionately prosecuting a human-trafficking case of Supreme Court levels. He’ll pace slowly back and forth before a jury or judge, ask them questions they already know the answer to, just to make his point.
He’ll wear suits all the time and keep his embossed business cards in an engraved brass case. He’ll hand them out to wealthy clients, but there’s a waiting list so until it’s their turn he’ll have someone else deal with them; maybe a pretty blond secretary who tries and fails to get his attention by showing too much cleavage, or an intelligent but nervous intern who tries and fails to get his attention by quoting famous dead men.
They fail to get my brother’s attention because he is thinking about his cases, and when he isn’t, he is thinking about his wife and children to whom he goes home every evening.
I am fairly certain that this is his future. His success. I’ve known it for years; since we were children. Years ago, my mom mentioned that Evan would make a good lawyer. At that moment I knew with strangely strong certainty what lay ahead for him.
Even when he was an English major, even when he considered medical school. I knew it would be law. And I know he will be good at it. I know he will be successful. Check back with me in ten years; I’ll be right. You’ll see.
I am not so certain about my own future. I have gone far, far from any childhood inklings of a niche.
My very first aspiration was to be a pony, but the horrid process of growing up rendered even that unattractive; gave me the maturity to realize that ponies live outside in all weather, eat grass, and are sometimes abused and neglected.
I don’t want to be a pony anymore.
So I’m lost. My visions of success are so varied and so many doors have closed that I’m not sure what is even safe to dream anymore.
I have one—a dream, that is--one so unrealistic I know it is dangerous to think about. I know it will only send me after ghosts and I will catch those ghosts because I am stubborn but when I do, I’ll fall through their evanescence and land rock-bottom. I know it’ll bruise.
But tonight I am too tired for caution; too tired to suppress all thought of the future I’d wish for if there was anything trustworthy to wish on.
An apartment that allows dogs, in Chicago or maybe Portland. An art gallery where I spend most of my free time. Not my own gallery--I'll be too busy with my position at the FBI as a Criminal Investigative Analyst--but my art will be there, pieces of myself hung up on the walls, and in some dim-lit room I'll play my songs, though no one will know they're mine. A few independent albums that are loved by the bohemian underground, but my face never shows up on any kind of screen.
Mission work in South Africa; maybe some with children in Uganda or Kenya. I'll document with camera and pen between adventures that cause me to forget myself completely.
Night falls but we don’t make a fire. Deep in the balmy jungle, we just unroll our blankets and curl up under a makeshift tent. The calls of howler monkeys, the panting of some cunning hunter in the dark, the drip drip drip of the tropics and the air thrums with some morbidly eloquent magic so intense I can feel it vibrating against my skin. Goosebumps rise everywhere and I breathe deep to calm the erratic spasms of my heart as it pounds with the night—not afraid but trembling with life and exhilaration fueled by danger and mystery and beauty. Maybe a little afraid. But the fear is like a drug when combined with the thaumaturgic, nearly sacred rite of what it is to spend a night in the bush.
And I'll chase the animals, for a week or two, when my work with the children is done for the year. I will have special photography permission from Kruger National Game Reserve and they’ll send a bush-guide out with me. By this time, though, I’ll have had plenty of bush experience and won’t really need him, so I’ll just make him carry my tripod.
I’ll chase the wild animals. I’ll stalk elephants and hunt lions, and when I hear the bloodcurdling snarl of a leopard on the kopje my heart will leap—but from excitement, not fear. I would risk much for a dynamic close-shot of this scathingly beautiful monster, baring her huge fangs and funneling all of her fury directly at me through green eyes so intense I can feel their burn, scalding and far more penetrating than the glare of the African sun. The glare that no longer sends me to bed for days, cause by then maybe, in this dream world, I'll have had a miraculous remission of my disease.
Yes, these dreams are dangerous to think about. And they’re on my mind too much lately, so much I can’t tell if I’m living in a past I can’t get back or a future that doesn’t exist.
Something else has been happening to me lately, or maybe it’s already happened and I’m just now noticing it. My brain is rusty—the wheels catch on each other as they turn and I think something is seriously wrong with the connection to my tongue. I know what I want to say. Give me a pen and paper, give me a keyboard and I’ll say it. It’ll be in purple prose and metaphor; run-on sentences and grammar purposely skewed in attempt at creative style, but I’ll say it and you’ll probably understand, mostly.
I can’t talk anymore, though. I say things but they are simply-spoken; there are no synonyms in my mind and the words I do speak never reach anyone. They get lost, blown back by the wind; dangling from my earrings or something so that I hear their jingle and to me the rhythm makes sense enough to dance to, but I stay still cause no one else knows what I mean. Every other beat they hear, maybe, and some extra pauses; mistake-notes. I sound incompetent; I sound awkward and it makes me want to end every conversation by begging whomever to believe that I really am not as ignorant as I seem.
Yes, there’s something broken in my brain. And it makes me wonder if I’ll ever be anything more than a dip in and back out of anyone’s life. The character-part to your hero.
I wouldn’t mind it, I suppose, remaining the character-part. The only time I was successful as an actress in was in a character role; one that didn’t really matter but the audience remembered her.
And that’s really what I want, I guess—to be remembered.
Ultimately what else is there to want, when you consider the alternative? Forgotten. You meet people, go in and out of their lives like they do yours, and it goes on until you die and if they don’t really remember you then what’s the point?
I’m fairly certain of some who will remember me. I’m also fairly certain of some who will forget.
Some who have already forgotten. Given up on me and I don’t blame them cause I have a fair amount of preoccupation and I’m so tired that I just don’t have the strength in me to be memorable.
To be particularly funny or intelligent or a good friend-—to attempt the regaining of qualities I once had. Too complicated, too messy—-so I understand the forgetting.
I want to wear a sign. One that says, 'You should've known me Before--I was once so much better than this.'
Every day is a new opportunity to make my mark on someone’s mind though, I suppose; tuck a little bit of myself in between the wrinkles of their brain and make sure it’s stuck fast so that if I never get another chance, at least there’s something.
I’m not as good at that as I used to be. It used to be easy for me to leave an impression. These days I’m lucky just to remind those who already know. To keep time from eroding my fingerprints. It’s exhausting.
So that’s mostly what I work on now—keeping defined what I’ve already stamped. I’ve been too full for anything else. Full of the thoughts belonging to us Romantics, full of Guilt, full of Anger, full of Tired. Angry because I'm Tired; Guilty because I'm Angry and I really have no right to be.
The overflow manifests itself as so many things, but mostly obviously as static in my connections with others. Hermit that I am, when a connection ceases to be an option I grow claustrophobic in the feeling of emptiness around me.
I saw an episode of “The Twilight Zone” when I was a kid, and I only remember two parts. I think about those parts fairly often, though. I remember how the protagonist liked peanut butter on cheeseburgers, and I remember when he went Nowhere.
He stood in a big white blank, with only the occasional misty shadow to hint at some sort of dimension. But instead of that depth providing some comfort—some sense of perspective and normalcy in terrestrial space—it only emphasized the vast nothingness surrounding him.
I feel like that sometimes, usually when I’m driving and its morning and cloudy. There are cars all around me on the highway, traffic traffic traffic showing too many signs of life and yet, somehow, I feel Nowhere anyway.
A feeling of flatline; a deep-set sense of being lost, dull ache muffled by the fog.
I listen to Edgar, my iPod, but he doesn’t help then, as beautiful as the music is that he’ll play for me. No, Edgar doesn’t help cause I know it’s just a recording; false voices stuck up against the same wall that separates my mind from the world at times.
So I turn on the radio, to remind me that there’s life out there. Not just beating hearts pumping blood encased in epidermis, but working minds that are thinking at this very moment and trying to do something—anything. Sell toothpaste, explain how Swiss cheese can explode, accepting callers for these pendant keychains; I don’t care. People thinking and talking right now, right as I am and ones who aren’t on autopilot. Who aren't so stuck in their own heads they forget that life is for living. Or at least ones who seem that way.
I like the concept of radio. I like NPR for what it can tell me about the rest of the world and I like music stations for the DJ’s laughing between songs and I like them all for how they help me to not feel so alone; how they break up the isolation that threatens to suffocate me--while at the same time keeping a safe distance.
Was it just yesterday that I lost me? No, it was months—years—ago, but I guess withdraw never really ends.
I’m tired of it. I’m so tired all the time but I can still be as explosive as anyone else. There are times when I am so tired I can feel the dark circles under my eyes; I can feel the way they’ve sunken deeper into my skull and if there wasn’t so much flammable substance inside me I could easily fall asleep, but something’s lit my fuse so rest isn’t an option at the moment. Even though my muscles are shaking visibly with exhaustion from the day while my fingers twitch, missing the keys as I type, I can’t stop. I can’t be still at times like these.
I’m stuck at the moment, though; stuck inside the dorms, otherwise I would go out walking.
And if it was just half an hour later, when hallmates' guests are gone and doors are shut, I might even run up and down the halls just because I feel like I need to.
But doors are open; laughter, music floating out to warn me of eyes to see and minds to wonder at my strange behavior.
Someone would ask, I'm sure. What are you doing, what the hell is wrong with you. And I don’t want to explain.
Because it was never supposed to mature like this. It's not even supposed to crawl out of my fingertips, into these pages.
It’s like a gremlin, or like that pet that looks so adorable and harmless so you bring it home even though you know deep down you can’t contain it forever.
It grows up quick and turns on you, baring its fangs, watching you all the time with its black-bead eyes and it drives you insane, this thing you brought home.
And you know it knows. You know it’s laughing at you inside; mocking you and all you want to do is get rid of it, but some nonsensical guilt keeps you feeding it table scraps right from your hand. Your fingers start to bleed from the bites, then scar, then bleed again.
The Thing grows fat while you starve and you know this mess is all your fault.
Knowledge of the problem does nothing to change the fact.
See? Look--it’s admitted; realized.
Now what do I do about it?
My brother wants to be a lawyer. A prosecutor. He is more than smart enough and well on his way. It’ll happen; I know it will. Ten years from how he’ll be passionately prosecuting a human-trafficking case of Supreme Court levels. He’ll pace slowly back and forth before a jury or judge, ask them questions they already know the answer to, just to make his point.
He’ll wear suits all the time and keep his embossed business cards in an engraved brass case. He’ll hand them out to wealthy clients, but there’s a waiting list so until it’s their turn he’ll have someone else deal with them; maybe a pretty blond secretary who tries and fails to get his attention by showing too much cleavage, or an intelligent but nervous intern who tries and fails to get his attention by quoting famous dead men.
They fail to get my brother’s attention because he is thinking about his cases, and when he isn’t, he is thinking about his wife and children to whom he goes home every evening.
I am fairly certain that this is his future. His success. I’ve known it for years; since we were children. Years ago, my mom mentioned that Evan would make a good lawyer. At that moment I knew with strangely strong certainty what lay ahead for him.
Even when he was an English major, even when he considered medical school. I knew it would be law. And I know he will be good at it. I know he will be successful. Check back with me in ten years; I’ll be right. You’ll see.
I am not so certain about my own future. I have gone far, far from any childhood inklings of a niche.
My very first aspiration was to be a pony, but the horrid process of growing up rendered even that unattractive; gave me the maturity to realize that ponies live outside in all weather, eat grass, and are sometimes abused and neglected.
I don’t want to be a pony anymore.
So I’m lost. My visions of success are so varied and so many doors have closed that I’m not sure what is even safe to dream anymore.
I have one—a dream, that is--one so unrealistic I know it is dangerous to think about. I know it will only send me after ghosts and I will catch those ghosts because I am stubborn but when I do, I’ll fall through their evanescence and land rock-bottom. I know it’ll bruise.
But tonight I am too tired for caution; too tired to suppress all thought of the future I’d wish for if there was anything trustworthy to wish on.
An apartment that allows dogs, in Chicago or maybe Portland. An art gallery where I spend most of my free time. Not my own gallery--I'll be too busy with my position at the FBI as a Criminal Investigative Analyst--but my art will be there, pieces of myself hung up on the walls, and in some dim-lit room I'll play my songs, though no one will know they're mine. A few independent albums that are loved by the bohemian underground, but my face never shows up on any kind of screen.
Mission work in South Africa; maybe some with children in Uganda or Kenya. I'll document with camera and pen between adventures that cause me to forget myself completely.
Night falls but we don’t make a fire. Deep in the balmy jungle, we just unroll our blankets and curl up under a makeshift tent. The calls of howler monkeys, the panting of some cunning hunter in the dark, the drip drip drip of the tropics and the air thrums with some morbidly eloquent magic so intense I can feel it vibrating against my skin. Goosebumps rise everywhere and I breathe deep to calm the erratic spasms of my heart as it pounds with the night—not afraid but trembling with life and exhilaration fueled by danger and mystery and beauty. Maybe a little afraid. But the fear is like a drug when combined with the thaumaturgic, nearly sacred rite of what it is to spend a night in the bush.
And I'll chase the animals, for a week or two, when my work with the children is done for the year. I will have special photography permission from Kruger National Game Reserve and they’ll send a bush-guide out with me. By this time, though, I’ll have had plenty of bush experience and won’t really need him, so I’ll just make him carry my tripod.
I’ll chase the wild animals. I’ll stalk elephants and hunt lions, and when I hear the bloodcurdling snarl of a leopard on the kopje my heart will leap—but from excitement, not fear. I would risk much for a dynamic close-shot of this scathingly beautiful monster, baring her huge fangs and funneling all of her fury directly at me through green eyes so intense I can feel their burn, scalding and far more penetrating than the glare of the African sun. The glare that no longer sends me to bed for days, cause by then maybe, in this dream world, I'll have had a miraculous remission of my disease.
Yes, these dreams are dangerous to think about. And they’re on my mind too much lately, so much I can’t tell if I’m living in a past I can’t get back or a future that doesn’t exist.
Something else has been happening to me lately, or maybe it’s already happened and I’m just now noticing it. My brain is rusty—the wheels catch on each other as they turn and I think something is seriously wrong with the connection to my tongue. I know what I want to say. Give me a pen and paper, give me a keyboard and I’ll say it. It’ll be in purple prose and metaphor; run-on sentences and grammar purposely skewed in attempt at creative style, but I’ll say it and you’ll probably understand, mostly.
I can’t talk anymore, though. I say things but they are simply-spoken; there are no synonyms in my mind and the words I do speak never reach anyone. They get lost, blown back by the wind; dangling from my earrings or something so that I hear their jingle and to me the rhythm makes sense enough to dance to, but I stay still cause no one else knows what I mean. Every other beat they hear, maybe, and some extra pauses; mistake-notes. I sound incompetent; I sound awkward and it makes me want to end every conversation by begging whomever to believe that I really am not as ignorant as I seem.
Yes, there’s something broken in my brain. And it makes me wonder if I’ll ever be anything more than a dip in and back out of anyone’s life. The character-part to your hero.
I wouldn’t mind it, I suppose, remaining the character-part. The only time I was successful as an actress in was in a character role; one that didn’t really matter but the audience remembered her.
And that’s really what I want, I guess—to be remembered.
Ultimately what else is there to want, when you consider the alternative? Forgotten. You meet people, go in and out of their lives like they do yours, and it goes on until you die and if they don’t really remember you then what’s the point?
I’m fairly certain of some who will remember me. I’m also fairly certain of some who will forget.
Some who have already forgotten. Given up on me and I don’t blame them cause I have a fair amount of preoccupation and I’m so tired that I just don’t have the strength in me to be memorable.
To be particularly funny or intelligent or a good friend-—to attempt the regaining of qualities I once had. Too complicated, too messy—-so I understand the forgetting.
I want to wear a sign. One that says, 'You should've known me Before--I was once so much better than this.'
Every day is a new opportunity to make my mark on someone’s mind though, I suppose; tuck a little bit of myself in between the wrinkles of their brain and make sure it’s stuck fast so that if I never get another chance, at least there’s something.
I’m not as good at that as I used to be. It used to be easy for me to leave an impression. These days I’m lucky just to remind those who already know. To keep time from eroding my fingerprints. It’s exhausting.
So that’s mostly what I work on now—keeping defined what I’ve already stamped. I’ve been too full for anything else. Full of the thoughts belonging to us Romantics, full of Guilt, full of Anger, full of Tired. Angry because I'm Tired; Guilty because I'm Angry and I really have no right to be.
The overflow manifests itself as so many things, but mostly obviously as static in my connections with others. Hermit that I am, when a connection ceases to be an option I grow claustrophobic in the feeling of emptiness around me.
I saw an episode of “The Twilight Zone” when I was a kid, and I only remember two parts. I think about those parts fairly often, though. I remember how the protagonist liked peanut butter on cheeseburgers, and I remember when he went Nowhere.
He stood in a big white blank, with only the occasional misty shadow to hint at some sort of dimension. But instead of that depth providing some comfort—some sense of perspective and normalcy in terrestrial space—it only emphasized the vast nothingness surrounding him.
I feel like that sometimes, usually when I’m driving and its morning and cloudy. There are cars all around me on the highway, traffic traffic traffic showing too many signs of life and yet, somehow, I feel Nowhere anyway.
A feeling of flatline; a deep-set sense of being lost, dull ache muffled by the fog.
I listen to Edgar, my iPod, but he doesn’t help then, as beautiful as the music is that he’ll play for me. No, Edgar doesn’t help cause I know it’s just a recording; false voices stuck up against the same wall that separates my mind from the world at times.
So I turn on the radio, to remind me that there’s life out there. Not just beating hearts pumping blood encased in epidermis, but working minds that are thinking at this very moment and trying to do something—anything. Sell toothpaste, explain how Swiss cheese can explode, accepting callers for these pendant keychains; I don’t care. People thinking and talking right now, right as I am and ones who aren’t on autopilot. Who aren't so stuck in their own heads they forget that life is for living. Or at least ones who seem that way.
I like the concept of radio. I like NPR for what it can tell me about the rest of the world and I like music stations for the DJ’s laughing between songs and I like them all for how they help me to not feel so alone; how they break up the isolation that threatens to suffocate me--while at the same time keeping a safe distance.
Was it just yesterday that I lost me? No, it was months—years—ago, but I guess withdraw never really ends.
I’m tired of it. I’m so tired all the time but I can still be as explosive as anyone else. There are times when I am so tired I can feel the dark circles under my eyes; I can feel the way they’ve sunken deeper into my skull and if there wasn’t so much flammable substance inside me I could easily fall asleep, but something’s lit my fuse so rest isn’t an option at the moment. Even though my muscles are shaking visibly with exhaustion from the day while my fingers twitch, missing the keys as I type, I can’t stop. I can’t be still at times like these.
I’m stuck at the moment, though; stuck inside the dorms, otherwise I would go out walking.
And if it was just half an hour later, when hallmates' guests are gone and doors are shut, I might even run up and down the halls just because I feel like I need to.
But doors are open; laughter, music floating out to warn me of eyes to see and minds to wonder at my strange behavior.
Someone would ask, I'm sure. What are you doing, what the hell is wrong with you. And I don’t want to explain.
Because it was never supposed to mature like this. It's not even supposed to crawl out of my fingertips, into these pages.
It’s like a gremlin, or like that pet that looks so adorable and harmless so you bring it home even though you know deep down you can’t contain it forever.
It grows up quick and turns on you, baring its fangs, watching you all the time with its black-bead eyes and it drives you insane, this thing you brought home.
And you know it knows. You know it’s laughing at you inside; mocking you and all you want to do is get rid of it, but some nonsensical guilt keeps you feeding it table scraps right from your hand. Your fingers start to bleed from the bites, then scar, then bleed again.
The Thing grows fat while you starve and you know this mess is all your fault.
Knowledge of the problem does nothing to change the fact.
See? Look--it’s admitted; realized.
Now what do I do about it?
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
We the Scissorhands/Scarlet's Winter
There is a secret that we Scissorhands alone can decipher. We brave little artists can read the lines: the knitted rows that are red like heat, purple like cold, as if we carried so many thermometers in our pockets. Crisp, defined and textured; we love them. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and our pretty pictures are beholden to us only. The heat of summer mocks shy skin, but winter is a blessed breath; an invitation to wrap up, snug and away. Shameful pride, guilty pleasure; we wink at one another, because we know you will believe anything we say.
~*~
I worry for how
I welcome the winter;
All it’s shelter and
The layers,
The way no one expects
Exposure.
I shouldn't want
This freedom,
Brought by so much
To hide behind;
To hide such secret
Tapered lines.
To cease these
Mandatory excuses;
You know I hate to lie.
Though summer's gone,
Still be careful,
Little Scarlet;
Not too low, and
Not too high.
Lovely as this may be
To you,
Don’t forget:
It is a crime.
Don’t plan it,
Little Scarlet;
You know you’ve done
So much worse.
Just avoid the mess;
You should be proud—
You are so wise
Among liars now.
Darling, I know
It’s like coming home,
But someday you need
To be on your own.
~*~
I worry for how
I welcome the winter;
All it’s shelter and
The layers,
The way no one expects
Exposure.
I shouldn't want
This freedom,
Brought by so much
To hide behind;
To hide such secret
Tapered lines.
To cease these
Mandatory excuses;
You know I hate to lie.
Though summer's gone,
Still be careful,
Little Scarlet;
Not too low, and
Not too high.
Lovely as this may be
To you,
Don’t forget:
It is a crime.
Don’t plan it,
Little Scarlet;
You know you’ve done
So much worse.
Just avoid the mess;
You should be proud—
You are so wise
Among liars now.
Darling, I know
It’s like coming home,
But someday you need
To be on your own.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
A Personal Paradox
.
I don’t want to give in, but I do want to be overcome.
.
I don’t want to be defenseless, but I do want to be protected.
.
I don’t want to be particularly noticed, but I do want to leave my mark.
.
I don’t want to be handled carelessly, but I do want to be bruised by gestures so passionate they toe the line of violence.
.
I don’t want to give in, but I do want to be overcome.
.
I don’t want to be defenseless, but I do want to be protected.
.
I don’t want to be particularly noticed, but I do want to leave my mark.
.
I don’t want to be handled carelessly, but I do want to be bruised by gestures so passionate they toe the line of violence.
.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
If you'd like to hear three little pieces of me...
I haven't recorded any songs I've written in recent months, but if you'd like to listen to some rough versions of my older stuff, copy and paste this link:
http://www.myspace.com/elsonadorspirit
Disclaimer: the recordings aren't great quality at all, and my guitar desperately needed new strings. I sound a bit better live.
http://www.myspace.com/elsonadorspirit
Disclaimer: the recordings aren't great quality at all, and my guitar desperately needed new strings. I sound a bit better live.
Friday, October 15, 2010
A Brief Metaphoric Narrative
(I was a runner, once. Once upon a time, before my body grew weak, I had this strength and vitality. Remember me like that, ok?)
The day was bright already; bright and sharp like hope. In the chill of early morning, she waited on her mark for a gunshot to tell her she’d better run run run and reach the finish line.
All her life, she’d waited for this race. Every day, every minute, mental, physical, and emotional training for this—for these moments. Even as a child she knew she’d end up here, and strove to be ready.
She crouched, her heart nearly convulsing in her chest with anticipation. It wasn’t only the finish line that excited her. She loved the run, as well. Her muscles contracting and stretching, tendons tangled with bone so specifically to allow for those machine-like movements that made her feel like she had a purpose. Like there was something that she was born for. This. The track laid out before her in submission to the power of her legs and lungs and spirit; the hurdles like timber servants for no purpose but her sport.
No other runners, not even any spectators. Just her, competing against the clock.
Today was more than just sport, though. This race was the beginning of everything she’d been living for, and the end of the life she’d always known. A shiver passed through her when she realized this. Her eyes opened wider and her neck arched in resolution that was almost predatory as she trembled with pent-up energy.
Dust exploded behind her as she launched herself from the starting position, not a tenth of a second after the sound of the shot. Her feet relentlessly pounded the track as breaths came in harsh, satisfying whooshes in out in out in out of her lungs. It was as if she could feel every muscle fiber in her thighs as they pulled and pushed her knees in well-oiled circles while her calves bunched to send her feet out ahead to catch her weight and send her flying forth again.
Excitement rushed like electricity in her veins as her legs coiled to spring over the first hurdle. She cleared it easily, feeling like Artemis as she sailed over in perfect form. It seemed she was suspended indefinitely, as if time slowed down when her feet left the earth. But it sped back up again the moment she landed and with a crunching skid leapt back into her violent sprint.
One, two, three progressively higher hurdles she cleared with enough effort to feel pleased. Her heel clipped the fourth, but adrenaline destroyed any discouragement before it even began to grow, and so she only felt the thrill of the challenge.
True uncertainty only began to taint her thoughts as the fifth—the last—hurdle rushed upon her. It seemed so much taller than the last, as if the difference between the others had been doubled for this one. She was not expecting this.
The moment arrived—leap or give up now. No, giving up was not an option. In a split second she coiled and launched, determined to clear the pole. But doubt made her finely-tuned muscles waver; loosened the grip she had that controlled the balances of her raw power—balances so delicate that the slightest inconsistency could mean flight or fall.
The inconsistency was slight. So slight she didn’t feel it; didn’t realize it had occurred until the toe of her Nike brushed the wood. At that moment, she knew she would not land on her feet.
What began as a slight brush turned into a debilitating catch as she began to descend from her ambitious jump. She fell. Every shred of confidence and courage seemed to fly from her, completely out of her control just like her arms and legs and thoughts were now as the world rushed past her eyes.
A shocked exclamation bounced from her mouth, expelled with the whoosh of air driven from her lungs as she crashed shoulder-first into the asphalt. Momentum rolled her wildly some feet down the track. Pain bit into her upper arm, wrapping around and squeezing with suction-cupped arms like some mutant parasite. Other, smaller parasites sunk their teeth in all over as gravel shredded the surface of her skin and her cheek dragged harshly over the uneven ground.
To her, it seemed it took ages to get to her feet and start running again, but in reality the action was just like all the others—resolved and amazingly quick. Her boldness zipped back to her as if magnetized, and already in her mind she calculated how much time she’d lost.
She could see the finish line now, close enough to distinguish the little colored flags decorating it even though one eye was bleary and filled with dust and blood. The sight evaporated her pain. She was so close.
Her eyes flicked to the oversized neon clock that hung from the ‘Finish’ banner’s pole. She could still do this. Tilting her head like a stampeding horse, she charged forward with every reserve of strength she had.
Right before her foot crossed the line, she closed her eyes and just felt herself pass over every goal that she ever really thought she’d accomplish. Over the point on which her life divided, about which she thought ‘After that, things will really start to happen.’ ‘After that, I’ll be granted all my wishes.’ ‘After that, I’ll become fulfilled.’
Both feet crossed over and she opened her eyes. It was over. It was after. She’d done it. It wasn’t perfect and it still hurt, but she’d done it.
Joy swelled in her heart for a moment; bubbled over into laughter. But when she heard the sound of her laugh, she stopped it abruptly. It sounded flat, empty; fell dead at her feet. She looked around. No one was there. She was alone. She hadn’t expected anyone to be there, but now that she was here and there was no one, the stillness was oppressive. No breeze to make the bright flags dance; no clouds to form cheerful shapes.
Only her. Only exhaustion and throbbing, stinging pain.
Like walking into a clean glass door, it hit her: she was the only one who ever knew of this race. Her mind had formulated the goal; she had trained alone. She had even set up the finish line; hung up the clock to judge her performance. Why the hell had she thought things would change after this?
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour or more. She didn’t know; she didn’t care. The race was over. She was lost.
In shocked, baffled desperation, she spoke through the stale air to the emptiness:
“What do I do now?”
The emptiness stared back, indifferent.
The day was bright already; bright and sharp like hope. In the chill of early morning, she waited on her mark for a gunshot to tell her she’d better run run run and reach the finish line.
All her life, she’d waited for this race. Every day, every minute, mental, physical, and emotional training for this—for these moments. Even as a child she knew she’d end up here, and strove to be ready.
She crouched, her heart nearly convulsing in her chest with anticipation. It wasn’t only the finish line that excited her. She loved the run, as well. Her muscles contracting and stretching, tendons tangled with bone so specifically to allow for those machine-like movements that made her feel like she had a purpose. Like there was something that she was born for. This. The track laid out before her in submission to the power of her legs and lungs and spirit; the hurdles like timber servants for no purpose but her sport.
No other runners, not even any spectators. Just her, competing against the clock.
Today was more than just sport, though. This race was the beginning of everything she’d been living for, and the end of the life she’d always known. A shiver passed through her when she realized this. Her eyes opened wider and her neck arched in resolution that was almost predatory as she trembled with pent-up energy.
Dust exploded behind her as she launched herself from the starting position, not a tenth of a second after the sound of the shot. Her feet relentlessly pounded the track as breaths came in harsh, satisfying whooshes in out in out in out of her lungs. It was as if she could feel every muscle fiber in her thighs as they pulled and pushed her knees in well-oiled circles while her calves bunched to send her feet out ahead to catch her weight and send her flying forth again.
Excitement rushed like electricity in her veins as her legs coiled to spring over the first hurdle. She cleared it easily, feeling like Artemis as she sailed over in perfect form. It seemed she was suspended indefinitely, as if time slowed down when her feet left the earth. But it sped back up again the moment she landed and with a crunching skid leapt back into her violent sprint.
One, two, three progressively higher hurdles she cleared with enough effort to feel pleased. Her heel clipped the fourth, but adrenaline destroyed any discouragement before it even began to grow, and so she only felt the thrill of the challenge.
True uncertainty only began to taint her thoughts as the fifth—the last—hurdle rushed upon her. It seemed so much taller than the last, as if the difference between the others had been doubled for this one. She was not expecting this.
The moment arrived—leap or give up now. No, giving up was not an option. In a split second she coiled and launched, determined to clear the pole. But doubt made her finely-tuned muscles waver; loosened the grip she had that controlled the balances of her raw power—balances so delicate that the slightest inconsistency could mean flight or fall.
The inconsistency was slight. So slight she didn’t feel it; didn’t realize it had occurred until the toe of her Nike brushed the wood. At that moment, she knew she would not land on her feet.
What began as a slight brush turned into a debilitating catch as she began to descend from her ambitious jump. She fell. Every shred of confidence and courage seemed to fly from her, completely out of her control just like her arms and legs and thoughts were now as the world rushed past her eyes.
A shocked exclamation bounced from her mouth, expelled with the whoosh of air driven from her lungs as she crashed shoulder-first into the asphalt. Momentum rolled her wildly some feet down the track. Pain bit into her upper arm, wrapping around and squeezing with suction-cupped arms like some mutant parasite. Other, smaller parasites sunk their teeth in all over as gravel shredded the surface of her skin and her cheek dragged harshly over the uneven ground.
To her, it seemed it took ages to get to her feet and start running again, but in reality the action was just like all the others—resolved and amazingly quick. Her boldness zipped back to her as if magnetized, and already in her mind she calculated how much time she’d lost.
She could see the finish line now, close enough to distinguish the little colored flags decorating it even though one eye was bleary and filled with dust and blood. The sight evaporated her pain. She was so close.
Her eyes flicked to the oversized neon clock that hung from the ‘Finish’ banner’s pole. She could still do this. Tilting her head like a stampeding horse, she charged forward with every reserve of strength she had.
Right before her foot crossed the line, she closed her eyes and just felt herself pass over every goal that she ever really thought she’d accomplish. Over the point on which her life divided, about which she thought ‘After that, things will really start to happen.’ ‘After that, I’ll be granted all my wishes.’ ‘After that, I’ll become fulfilled.’
Both feet crossed over and she opened her eyes. It was over. It was after. She’d done it. It wasn’t perfect and it still hurt, but she’d done it.
Joy swelled in her heart for a moment; bubbled over into laughter. But when she heard the sound of her laugh, she stopped it abruptly. It sounded flat, empty; fell dead at her feet. She looked around. No one was there. She was alone. She hadn’t expected anyone to be there, but now that she was here and there was no one, the stillness was oppressive. No breeze to make the bright flags dance; no clouds to form cheerful shapes.
Only her. Only exhaustion and throbbing, stinging pain.
Like walking into a clean glass door, it hit her: she was the only one who ever knew of this race. Her mind had formulated the goal; she had trained alone. She had even set up the finish line; hung up the clock to judge her performance. Why the hell had she thought things would change after this?
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour or more. She didn’t know; she didn’t care. The race was over. She was lost.
In shocked, baffled desperation, she spoke through the stale air to the emptiness:
“What do I do now?”
The emptiness stared back, indifferent.
The Truth Is(n't)
(Wrote this song over the summer, but I just recently finished the chords. Maybe someday I'll record it.)
.
I love how easily
You don't give me chills.
And how you made
My favorite color green
With chords; the ebb and swell.
I love how you
Made me brave;
I don't fear a fire or flood.
Even God knows
That I don't care if a year,
Or three or five or ten
Go by and I still write songs for you.
I love how these flames will rise
And I'll say, "Who cares?
We've lost it all.
Lost it long before the blaze,
So why did you even call?"
Sirens scream
Through the streets,
"Please pity, pity my fate."
Ash rain, consuming flames;
Sure, that's why I'm afraid,
Not because I'm on my knees too late.
I won't give voluntarily,
But you can have
What you can take.
And find your thrills for cheap or free,
Cause I can't say,
"Screw these mistakes."
I love the way
You make this far too easy for me to say:
That I love the way
You suffocate;
No, I can't sing today.
Not 'till you
Turn the other way.
I love how easy it is
For me to lie to you,
And I love
How that's the only thing
I've said to you that's true.
.
.
I love how easily
You don't give me chills.
And how you made
My favorite color green
With chords; the ebb and swell.
I love how you
Made me brave;
I don't fear a fire or flood.
Even God knows
That I don't care if a year,
Or three or five or ten
Go by and I still write songs for you.
I love how these flames will rise
And I'll say, "Who cares?
We've lost it all.
Lost it long before the blaze,
So why did you even call?"
Sirens scream
Through the streets,
"Please pity, pity my fate."
Ash rain, consuming flames;
Sure, that's why I'm afraid,
Not because I'm on my knees too late.
I won't give voluntarily,
But you can have
What you can take.
And find your thrills for cheap or free,
Cause I can't say,
"Screw these mistakes."
I love the way
You make this far too easy for me to say:
That I love the way
You suffocate;
No, I can't sing today.
Not 'till you
Turn the other way.
I love how easy it is
For me to lie to you,
And I love
How that's the only thing
I've said to you that's true.
.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Some Things One Can't Deny (are as follows)...
When I was seven, I thought that by the time I was thirteen I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark anymore. When I was thirteen, I thought, “Well, maybe by the time I’m twenty.” Wrong again, but surely by twenty-five...
I don't understand why I worry so much.
I just do, and what used to matter doesn't anymore. Not as much; not with this rush rush rush and all the running I have been doing.
And talking; so much talking. Saying so much to say nothing. Saying so much to change nothing; to change everything.
Can we pretend I am mute? I am so primitive when I speak aloud—tongue-tied and stumbling—but when I write it is so much easier to say what I want to.
Please, oh please can we just pass notes across the table?
I’m realizing my stories are empty anyway; what do I have to tell? I have no justification for these words that keep pouring from me, so maybe it’s for the best that I feel I am running out.
That I want to say no; wait—just wait a second, or a year. Let me remember a few things—let me stop and breathe and remember what its like to be alone—and I’ll be ok again.
I’m so tired in this rush but I can’t stop, or my kite will catch up to me and I’ll be once more dragged down by the dead weight of summer.
My kite’s name is Despondency. Over the summer I sat still and it hovered over me constantly. Now autumn has come and I run ahead to play in the leaves, to revel in all a change has to offer, but Despondency is only behind me until I am still again; until I’m too tired to run anymore and have to rest. Then it catches up, hovering above so its shadow tucks me in too tight, like an obsessive-compulsive mother.
So to escape it I keep moving. Sometimes I can run and dance laugh with people, but when I can’t do that anymore I still am intent upon fleeing my kite, whose string seems to be tied tightly around my wrist. Too tightly—it cuts off the circulation and with every step I feel a numb tug on my hand, confirming the continual presence of my follower. I’ll stagger and limp and stumble and even occasionally crawl and thoroughly exhaust myself far beyond what I should, because when I stop for too long it settles on me, like a strange and loyal bird whose parroted phrases I am sick of hearing.
Its enough to make me think about going crazy. Not consider doing so, but just think about what it would be like; how it might progress and how I might end up. Sometimes I think it might be kind of nice to be a little crazy, just enough for people to shrug it off when you do something odd. Then I wonder, why don’t I just do those things—those odd things I want to do but don’t because of people? Then I remember that it’s all well and good to cling to cliches like, “dance like no one is watching and sing as if no one is listening”, but it’s a very rare person who is really able to do that. And that I try so hard just to engage in the basics of life that I don’t have it in me, the effort it takes to not care.
So I figure that if I was a little off my rocker, it wouldn’t be so hard—not to care, that is—and I think about what I’d do, if I was a crazy person. If I just did what sounded nice.
I would spend a lot of time in airports, probably. I don’t know why I like them so much. I know what I like about them, but not why I like those things.
I know that I like the hurried people all embarking on journeys so many miles long; I know I like the high ceilings and echoes, the gift shops full of cheap paperbacks and a Starbucks not ten feet away in every direction.
I like the presence of so many people in uniforms, standing everywhere talking into loud speakers, and the extremity of their competent authority makes me feel safe, like a child. Like if I get lost its ok, because all I’d need to do is tug on one of those starched white sleeves and they’d help me get home again.
I like that there is so much happening all around me, like there’s a storm blowing around me and I am in the midst of it, yet I am the only thing not spinning. Like others are off on these big adventures and soon I will dive in and ride the thrilling currents along with them, but until then I can just sit back and marvel; just observe and breathe, reveling in the anticipation of promised excitement.
I like to feel small, like I’m just one in billions and the world out there holds so much more than I could ever hope to understand; so much bigger than I could ever begin to imagine. Airports make me feel that way.
But there’s a bad kind of crazy too; one I don’t like to dwell on, and so of course I worry about it, too.
What if I have kids someday, and have postpartum depression and kill them? If someone can’t control their sanity, how can we not live in fear of turning into the monsters we see on TV, the ones that shock us so much? Something short-circuits in the brain and that’s it—you can’t stop yourself from killing your kids or bombing a bus or screwing a goat or a corpse. I know I’m being morbid, but that only proves my point that normal people don’t do those things. Normal people are shocked and repulsed by those things. Only crazy people do those things, and people don’t choose to go crazy. Those same people can't choose to return to sanity.
So what happens then? What happens when it’s me? When it’s you? You think it’s right, whatever it is. You don’t know the difference, and all that’s left to make you human is that God still loves you. And that, somehow, the fact remains that you’re made in His image.
How does that sound, to think that Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy Jr. and Charles Manson and Edward Gein still had the breath of God in them? How does it feel, to know that you’re the same as them in so many ways? That we’re all the same?
Keep an eye on the chemicals in your brain; make sure to regulate the function of your neuroreceptors. Too much, too little, a tiny little glitch and maybe then…
Is it your fault, if you’re off balance? Where’s the line between responsibility and an insanity plea?
What do you do, when your baby’s dying and the water’s running hot hot why is it so hot and fingers find their way to your throat and when you realize they’re yours somehow it makes perfect sense in the mind of this animal that is you?
Maybe that’s something you don’t want to think about. I didn’t particularly want to think about it either, but majoring in psychology/criminal justice sometimes brings rotten thoughts to the stoop of your mind and leaves them there for you to dispose of on your own. Sometimes you have to touch them to make them go away.
And that’s all I’m doing, note after note, post after post of empty entries and writing—disposing of notions left to fester by inconsiderate circumstance; just my irrelevant shells of whatever. And I dump it on to paper, on to you and on to You, so that this waste—these apple cores and orange peels, coffee grounds and words—don’t hem me in the way everything else seems to grow to eventually do.
I don't understand why I worry so much.
I just do, and what used to matter doesn't anymore. Not as much; not with this rush rush rush and all the running I have been doing.
And talking; so much talking. Saying so much to say nothing. Saying so much to change nothing; to change everything.
Can we pretend I am mute? I am so primitive when I speak aloud—tongue-tied and stumbling—but when I write it is so much easier to say what I want to.
Please, oh please can we just pass notes across the table?
I’m realizing my stories are empty anyway; what do I have to tell? I have no justification for these words that keep pouring from me, so maybe it’s for the best that I feel I am running out.
That I want to say no; wait—just wait a second, or a year. Let me remember a few things—let me stop and breathe and remember what its like to be alone—and I’ll be ok again.
I’m so tired in this rush but I can’t stop, or my kite will catch up to me and I’ll be once more dragged down by the dead weight of summer.
My kite’s name is Despondency. Over the summer I sat still and it hovered over me constantly. Now autumn has come and I run ahead to play in the leaves, to revel in all a change has to offer, but Despondency is only behind me until I am still again; until I’m too tired to run anymore and have to rest. Then it catches up, hovering above so its shadow tucks me in too tight, like an obsessive-compulsive mother.
So to escape it I keep moving. Sometimes I can run and dance laugh with people, but when I can’t do that anymore I still am intent upon fleeing my kite, whose string seems to be tied tightly around my wrist. Too tightly—it cuts off the circulation and with every step I feel a numb tug on my hand, confirming the continual presence of my follower. I’ll stagger and limp and stumble and even occasionally crawl and thoroughly exhaust myself far beyond what I should, because when I stop for too long it settles on me, like a strange and loyal bird whose parroted phrases I am sick of hearing.
Its enough to make me think about going crazy. Not consider doing so, but just think about what it would be like; how it might progress and how I might end up. Sometimes I think it might be kind of nice to be a little crazy, just enough for people to shrug it off when you do something odd. Then I wonder, why don’t I just do those things—those odd things I want to do but don’t because of people? Then I remember that it’s all well and good to cling to cliches like, “dance like no one is watching and sing as if no one is listening”, but it’s a very rare person who is really able to do that. And that I try so hard just to engage in the basics of life that I don’t have it in me, the effort it takes to not care.
So I figure that if I was a little off my rocker, it wouldn’t be so hard—not to care, that is—and I think about what I’d do, if I was a crazy person. If I just did what sounded nice.
I would spend a lot of time in airports, probably. I don’t know why I like them so much. I know what I like about them, but not why I like those things.
I know that I like the hurried people all embarking on journeys so many miles long; I know I like the high ceilings and echoes, the gift shops full of cheap paperbacks and a Starbucks not ten feet away in every direction.
I like the presence of so many people in uniforms, standing everywhere talking into loud speakers, and the extremity of their competent authority makes me feel safe, like a child. Like if I get lost its ok, because all I’d need to do is tug on one of those starched white sleeves and they’d help me get home again.
I like that there is so much happening all around me, like there’s a storm blowing around me and I am in the midst of it, yet I am the only thing not spinning. Like others are off on these big adventures and soon I will dive in and ride the thrilling currents along with them, but until then I can just sit back and marvel; just observe and breathe, reveling in the anticipation of promised excitement.
I like to feel small, like I’m just one in billions and the world out there holds so much more than I could ever hope to understand; so much bigger than I could ever begin to imagine. Airports make me feel that way.
But there’s a bad kind of crazy too; one I don’t like to dwell on, and so of course I worry about it, too.
What if I have kids someday, and have postpartum depression and kill them? If someone can’t control their sanity, how can we not live in fear of turning into the monsters we see on TV, the ones that shock us so much? Something short-circuits in the brain and that’s it—you can’t stop yourself from killing your kids or bombing a bus or screwing a goat or a corpse. I know I’m being morbid, but that only proves my point that normal people don’t do those things. Normal people are shocked and repulsed by those things. Only crazy people do those things, and people don’t choose to go crazy. Those same people can't choose to return to sanity.
So what happens then? What happens when it’s me? When it’s you? You think it’s right, whatever it is. You don’t know the difference, and all that’s left to make you human is that God still loves you. And that, somehow, the fact remains that you’re made in His image.
How does that sound, to think that Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy Jr. and Charles Manson and Edward Gein still had the breath of God in them? How does it feel, to know that you’re the same as them in so many ways? That we’re all the same?
Keep an eye on the chemicals in your brain; make sure to regulate the function of your neuroreceptors. Too much, too little, a tiny little glitch and maybe then…
Is it your fault, if you’re off balance? Where’s the line between responsibility and an insanity plea?
What do you do, when your baby’s dying and the water’s running hot hot why is it so hot and fingers find their way to your throat and when you realize they’re yours somehow it makes perfect sense in the mind of this animal that is you?
Maybe that’s something you don’t want to think about. I didn’t particularly want to think about it either, but majoring in psychology/criminal justice sometimes brings rotten thoughts to the stoop of your mind and leaves them there for you to dispose of on your own. Sometimes you have to touch them to make them go away.
And that’s all I’m doing, note after note, post after post of empty entries and writing—disposing of notions left to fester by inconsiderate circumstance; just my irrelevant shells of whatever. And I dump it on to paper, on to you and on to You, so that this waste—these apple cores and orange peels, coffee grounds and words—don’t hem me in the way everything else seems to grow to eventually do.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
I'll Say it Until I Believe it
.
Every little thing—
When I’m too loud,
When I’m so awkward,
When I’m anti-social
And uncaring;
Every word I say—
The stupid ones,
The dull,
Say too little,
Say too much;
Every little shame—
That tasteless dress,
That shouted secret,
Inexplicable pride
In some self-destruction…
Should I dispel regret
For all those somethings past?
After all,
These days were fashioned
For me.
.
Every little thing—
When I’m too loud,
When I’m so awkward,
When I’m anti-social
And uncaring;
Every word I say—
The stupid ones,
The dull,
Say too little,
Say too much;
Every little shame—
That tasteless dress,
That shouted secret,
Inexplicable pride
In some self-destruction…
Should I dispel regret
For all those somethings past?
After all,
These days were fashioned
For me.
.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A Eulogy, A Dream
I’m in love, you know. I’m in love with this idea I’ve been playing with, warming up in my mind and molding like play-dough when I’m bored, and it’s taken a long time but now it’s this perfect sculpture in my head.
It’s all these things, all these general senses I’ve picked up over time from people and movies and songs and books, and then combined with some stuff I made up myself. It’s abstract, too, so I feel sophisticated. Or you could say that it’s disorganized so I feel like a spoiled child, demanding everything my way.
Doesn’t matter—the point is I’ve got something to think about, even if the faces are pixilated cause I don’t know yet who will fill the roles. Even mine is blurred a bit. I don’t know how I’ll change as time goes on so I want to keep the image vague—to avoid being set on something I’ll never reach. Or something I’ll never be again.
It’s a feeling I’m in love with, one I’ve only ever dreamed about—a feeling of reckless abandon and the gamble and who cares, I’ll figure it out later because I have this one thing and if I lose everything else—but keep this—I don’t care.
The fuel gauge in my car always says “full”, even when it’s running on fumes. But someday, when I’m going somewhere with you I’ll pretend I forgot so we’ll break down together on the side of a road somewhere and who cares if anyone ever finds us?
Whoever you are, my pixilated paramour.
Missed appointments, speeding tickets and lost keys that doom us to sleeping out in the hall; let’s just laugh it off and chalk it all up to stories to tell later. Because we know we’re going to be ok, no matter what. Even when the pendulum it at its nadir we can run off and do something stupid, ‘cause we know it’ll be on the vault eventually. Let’s just enjoy the ride, you and I, swing unpredictably back and forth like flaming dice hanging from the rearview mirror of a 16-year-old’s first car.
That’s it; that’s the feeling. We’re already free-falling and collision is inevitable, so let’s just let the awesome rush of a thrill take us over; worry about the crash on impact cause we can’t stop it coming anyway.
I have the potential for this feeling. I’m great at denial and that’s a little bit what it is, and I think a little bit is a good thing in situations one can’t change. But usually I just come off as irresponsible so I go ahead and worry, hoping everyone’s right and that will actually help anything.
Well, people say not to worry, just to let it go, but no one actually lives that advice. And when they see someone who’s trying they think they just don’t care. So I worry for them, because I do care—about those things, about what they think of me. Maybe too much.
But I’ll survive how I can and how can anyone tell me I’m not doing it right? No one is. Living the right way, I mean. Everyone needs to change something. Some things. I’m failing in ways and so are you, so let’s make a deal: I won’t judge you, you don’t judge me. I have my reasons, and I know you have yours. Let’s be aware of our faults and do what we can to fix them, but the blame has to stop. It has to stop or I will stop; I will stop speaking and eating and leaving my room because I can’t do anything without turning someone against me.
That’s when I take out the sculpture I’m in love with; that sunny play-dough dream...even though I know it dies a bit each time I touch it.
Cause there are some times when it’s enough just to pretend that this is the fantasy—one of those misadventure games I’d play as a child in which I starred as the oppressed heroine, downtrodden but determined through unfair misfortune. So dramatic—push it over the edge and it becomes a bad novel. But one you can’t put down.
Sometimes, even if I don’t forget the things themselves, it is enough just to forget that this stuff is real.
Real, like gravel in your knees real; real like 3am in the dark when the infomercials come out with their big bright grins and their dead flat eyes, like vultures to prey on the numb souls still wakeful at this hour—we insomniacs who have so many more hours to feel the weariness that cuts down so dramatically on our hours of freedom and energy.
You stare over the top of some classic book you told yourself you’d read, stare through the screen and past the fat ladies screaming at each other, volume low and the combination of sight and sound is ironic but that irony is wasted on you, because you aren’t paying attention. You’re barely thinking at all.
Sluggish, bloated thoughts peer into your mind with bloodshot eyes, slip in a grimy claw...wait for you to turn around...and when you do they scuttle off and as they run like delinquent adolescents you hear their voices fading, “come and get me; catch me if you can, bet you can’t”.
Sometimes it makes me curious, where they go and why they won’t stay cause I really would like to get a good look at them, but I am so tired; my Ambien is finally kicking in and I doubt the chase is worth the sleep I’ll lose over it.
The fat ladies are crying now.
Time to close my eyes.
It’s all these things, all these general senses I’ve picked up over time from people and movies and songs and books, and then combined with some stuff I made up myself. It’s abstract, too, so I feel sophisticated. Or you could say that it’s disorganized so I feel like a spoiled child, demanding everything my way.
Doesn’t matter—the point is I’ve got something to think about, even if the faces are pixilated cause I don’t know yet who will fill the roles. Even mine is blurred a bit. I don’t know how I’ll change as time goes on so I want to keep the image vague—to avoid being set on something I’ll never reach. Or something I’ll never be again.
It’s a feeling I’m in love with, one I’ve only ever dreamed about—a feeling of reckless abandon and the gamble and who cares, I’ll figure it out later because I have this one thing and if I lose everything else—but keep this—I don’t care.
The fuel gauge in my car always says “full”, even when it’s running on fumes. But someday, when I’m going somewhere with you I’ll pretend I forgot so we’ll break down together on the side of a road somewhere and who cares if anyone ever finds us?
Whoever you are, my pixilated paramour.
Missed appointments, speeding tickets and lost keys that doom us to sleeping out in the hall; let’s just laugh it off and chalk it all up to stories to tell later. Because we know we’re going to be ok, no matter what. Even when the pendulum it at its nadir we can run off and do something stupid, ‘cause we know it’ll be on the vault eventually. Let’s just enjoy the ride, you and I, swing unpredictably back and forth like flaming dice hanging from the rearview mirror of a 16-year-old’s first car.
That’s it; that’s the feeling. We’re already free-falling and collision is inevitable, so let’s just let the awesome rush of a thrill take us over; worry about the crash on impact cause we can’t stop it coming anyway.
I have the potential for this feeling. I’m great at denial and that’s a little bit what it is, and I think a little bit is a good thing in situations one can’t change. But usually I just come off as irresponsible so I go ahead and worry, hoping everyone’s right and that will actually help anything.
Well, people say not to worry, just to let it go, but no one actually lives that advice. And when they see someone who’s trying they think they just don’t care. So I worry for them, because I do care—about those things, about what they think of me. Maybe too much.
But I’ll survive how I can and how can anyone tell me I’m not doing it right? No one is. Living the right way, I mean. Everyone needs to change something. Some things. I’m failing in ways and so are you, so let’s make a deal: I won’t judge you, you don’t judge me. I have my reasons, and I know you have yours. Let’s be aware of our faults and do what we can to fix them, but the blame has to stop. It has to stop or I will stop; I will stop speaking and eating and leaving my room because I can’t do anything without turning someone against me.
That’s when I take out the sculpture I’m in love with; that sunny play-dough dream...even though I know it dies a bit each time I touch it.
Cause there are some times when it’s enough just to pretend that this is the fantasy—one of those misadventure games I’d play as a child in which I starred as the oppressed heroine, downtrodden but determined through unfair misfortune. So dramatic—push it over the edge and it becomes a bad novel. But one you can’t put down.
Sometimes, even if I don’t forget the things themselves, it is enough just to forget that this stuff is real.
Real, like gravel in your knees real; real like 3am in the dark when the infomercials come out with their big bright grins and their dead flat eyes, like vultures to prey on the numb souls still wakeful at this hour—we insomniacs who have so many more hours to feel the weariness that cuts down so dramatically on our hours of freedom and energy.
You stare over the top of some classic book you told yourself you’d read, stare through the screen and past the fat ladies screaming at each other, volume low and the combination of sight and sound is ironic but that irony is wasted on you, because you aren’t paying attention. You’re barely thinking at all.
Sluggish, bloated thoughts peer into your mind with bloodshot eyes, slip in a grimy claw...wait for you to turn around...and when you do they scuttle off and as they run like delinquent adolescents you hear their voices fading, “come and get me; catch me if you can, bet you can’t”.
Sometimes it makes me curious, where they go and why they won’t stay cause I really would like to get a good look at them, but I am so tired; my Ambien is finally kicking in and I doubt the chase is worth the sleep I’ll lose over it.
The fat ladies are crying now.
Time to close my eyes.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Withdrawal Prayer
.
Would You please...................be
.
The arms now empty
.
Of me?
.
There aren't any others
.
Near by.
.
Would You replace...................my
.
Every vice; be my
.
Addiction?
.
Please, be my
.
Obsession; be the fix
.
For which I sell.......................everything.
.
Would You please...................be
.
The arms now empty
.
Of me?
.
There aren't any others
.
Near by.
.
Would You replace...................my
.
Every vice; be my
.
Addiction?
.
Please, be my
.
Obsession; be the fix
.
For which I sell.......................everything.
.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
It had Something to do with the Rain.
I think I am slowly coming back from the horrible limbo that is to be neither living nor dying. The race with no finish line, rest with no relief; a zombie with a soul still awake to mourn the functioning decay of a corpse whose spasmodic rigor mortis just happens to look like walking.
Do you know what it’s like to be resurrected? Do you know what it’s like to feel the way it happens; the way forgotten vitality begins to trickle back into your bones and seep into and out of your pours so you aren’t stagnant anymore?
Maybe it had something to do with the rain, that storm last time I was home.
The trees shook their bowed heads in violent pleas for mercy from the wind that propelled the clashing of titanic clouds above. Fickle gusts caused the clouds to churn like a lumbering vortex, so alien and determined that I felt uneasy in my place on the hammock directly beneath the steely spiral. The clouds around that vortex were constantly moving; every three seconds they became something else. Shape-shifters, fighting a slow-motion battle in the sky, and soon raindrops began to fall; blood dripping from the edges of their gaping wind-wounds.
Thundering repercussions of the evanescent war finally reached the earth and I felt so, so small. The hammock cradled me, rocking in the wind and I knew I wasn't safe from lightning. I was stiff and afraid, but I made myself stay. The crashes were so enraged, it seemed like the storm was threatening me personally; making me feel as if I was damned for some reason I didn’t know, but also somehow understood.
My opportunities for excitement and unnecessary risk are rare, so when I saw the first flash of lightning I couldn’t help but think of it as a challenge. They were taunting me, the flashes and the crashes and the granite cloud-creatures, flaunting the storm’s power to strike me down. So I stood and walked out into the field, exposed to the heavy raindrops and vulnerable to the tempest’s whim. Grass clippings clung to my bare feet and in less than a minute I was thoroughly soaked, forced to remove my glasses. I jumped at a sudden thunderclap and had to keep myself from rushing inside. My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands. I hovered in the garden, feeling safer amongst the foliage.
I think everyone knows that colors are brighter when it rains. There’s less light, and sight is obstructed with the raindrops like static, but somehow the colors are brighter than usual. Pink stands out, I think, the most arresting. In my mother’s garden, I can see every shade and combination of hues in vibrant spatters. They are all rich, like God has spilled His supernatural paint, but it’s the pink ones that really glow--like neon signs in the fog.
They make me miss city rain. Wet streets in the dark, wavering street lamp reflections in gritty gutters and hotels feel like home; neon signs flickering through the slanting drops that soak my hair make me want to be on my own, living in a crappy apartment in Chicago or maybe Portland.
I know I’d be a little afraid of going there, though. Afraid of the thunder, of being alone, of bad people in the dark.
I am a little—or a lot—afraid of everything I want in life. I used to think it was the fear I wanted, before I realized the difference between thrill and fear. Thrill comes when you know the possible consequences, yet you proceed of your own will—not need or coercion, but pure personal choice—because to you the experience is worth the risk. Fear comes when there is no choice—not really.
I count, when I’m afraid. 96, 92, 88, 84, 80; I count backwards from one-hundred by fours. I’ve never been the best at any kind of math, but I tend to be afraid more than I should so I get to know that pattern too well. So sometimes I try it by sixes, and maybe back from some more random number, like 127.
Focusing on the numbers, I can talk myself down so that I don't dwell on the fears so much; spend all my time dreading them. So that I don't let them pool in my hands and stare at them, studying every detail, wondering why, and trying to find ways to avoid more.
But how can you dodge raindrops in a storm? Bad things can’t be avoided, so it’s useless to wallow in their puddles.
Maybe preoccupation is like thick socks to me, so that lately I don't know I'm wet at all until I'm drenched and waterlogged. Because of that, I'm not sure if I'm getting better from heartsickness, or if I'm just learning to ignore it. Most of the time I am alright, but sometimes I still feel like a hunted thing. I'm not even always sure why. I know everyone feels it. Empty, as if there’s nothing else to say; nothing left to do but feel the heaviness and sigh, pondering in post-tears peace all these pieces of yourself as you lay them to rest and mourn.
There's a name for it, the psychological attachment to something that has to be severed.
God knows we all have this horrible disease, the one that causes us to need these kinds of amputations. We contracted it ourselves, by eating after a snake. Apparently no one told Eve that they carry diseases and now we have a horrible, hereditary epidemic that rots us from the inside out, making the whole earth this vast leper colony. This place where we all walk hunched over, trying to turn inside-out so we can lick the festering wounds on our souls.
I know you have them, too; I see how they make you limp. I know I'm not the only one who has been slowed down.
I'm not the only one who misses highway speeds.
I’m moving again though, at least, and that feels good. I’m nervous, because I can’t see very far ahead and there’s an awful lot of traffic. It's going both ways and it’s disorienting. But far better than staying still. Headlights, taillights, whatever; I can’t really tell where I’m going, but I’m going to make damn sure it’s different from where I’ve been.
And so far, I think I like the horizon line.
Do you know what it’s like to be resurrected? Do you know what it’s like to feel the way it happens; the way forgotten vitality begins to trickle back into your bones and seep into and out of your pours so you aren’t stagnant anymore?
Maybe it had something to do with the rain, that storm last time I was home.
The trees shook their bowed heads in violent pleas for mercy from the wind that propelled the clashing of titanic clouds above. Fickle gusts caused the clouds to churn like a lumbering vortex, so alien and determined that I felt uneasy in my place on the hammock directly beneath the steely spiral. The clouds around that vortex were constantly moving; every three seconds they became something else. Shape-shifters, fighting a slow-motion battle in the sky, and soon raindrops began to fall; blood dripping from the edges of their gaping wind-wounds.
Thundering repercussions of the evanescent war finally reached the earth and I felt so, so small. The hammock cradled me, rocking in the wind and I knew I wasn't safe from lightning. I was stiff and afraid, but I made myself stay. The crashes were so enraged, it seemed like the storm was threatening me personally; making me feel as if I was damned for some reason I didn’t know, but also somehow understood.
My opportunities for excitement and unnecessary risk are rare, so when I saw the first flash of lightning I couldn’t help but think of it as a challenge. They were taunting me, the flashes and the crashes and the granite cloud-creatures, flaunting the storm’s power to strike me down. So I stood and walked out into the field, exposed to the heavy raindrops and vulnerable to the tempest’s whim. Grass clippings clung to my bare feet and in less than a minute I was thoroughly soaked, forced to remove my glasses. I jumped at a sudden thunderclap and had to keep myself from rushing inside. My fingernails bit into the palms of my hands. I hovered in the garden, feeling safer amongst the foliage.
I think everyone knows that colors are brighter when it rains. There’s less light, and sight is obstructed with the raindrops like static, but somehow the colors are brighter than usual. Pink stands out, I think, the most arresting. In my mother’s garden, I can see every shade and combination of hues in vibrant spatters. They are all rich, like God has spilled His supernatural paint, but it’s the pink ones that really glow--like neon signs in the fog.
They make me miss city rain. Wet streets in the dark, wavering street lamp reflections in gritty gutters and hotels feel like home; neon signs flickering through the slanting drops that soak my hair make me want to be on my own, living in a crappy apartment in Chicago or maybe Portland.
I know I’d be a little afraid of going there, though. Afraid of the thunder, of being alone, of bad people in the dark.
I am a little—or a lot—afraid of everything I want in life. I used to think it was the fear I wanted, before I realized the difference between thrill and fear. Thrill comes when you know the possible consequences, yet you proceed of your own will—not need or coercion, but pure personal choice—because to you the experience is worth the risk. Fear comes when there is no choice—not really.
I count, when I’m afraid. 96, 92, 88, 84, 80; I count backwards from one-hundred by fours. I’ve never been the best at any kind of math, but I tend to be afraid more than I should so I get to know that pattern too well. So sometimes I try it by sixes, and maybe back from some more random number, like 127.
Focusing on the numbers, I can talk myself down so that I don't dwell on the fears so much; spend all my time dreading them. So that I don't let them pool in my hands and stare at them, studying every detail, wondering why, and trying to find ways to avoid more.
But how can you dodge raindrops in a storm? Bad things can’t be avoided, so it’s useless to wallow in their puddles.
Maybe preoccupation is like thick socks to me, so that lately I don't know I'm wet at all until I'm drenched and waterlogged. Because of that, I'm not sure if I'm getting better from heartsickness, or if I'm just learning to ignore it. Most of the time I am alright, but sometimes I still feel like a hunted thing. I'm not even always sure why. I know everyone feels it. Empty, as if there’s nothing else to say; nothing left to do but feel the heaviness and sigh, pondering in post-tears peace all these pieces of yourself as you lay them to rest and mourn.
There's a name for it, the psychological attachment to something that has to be severed.
God knows we all have this horrible disease, the one that causes us to need these kinds of amputations. We contracted it ourselves, by eating after a snake. Apparently no one told Eve that they carry diseases and now we have a horrible, hereditary epidemic that rots us from the inside out, making the whole earth this vast leper colony. This place where we all walk hunched over, trying to turn inside-out so we can lick the festering wounds on our souls.
I know you have them, too; I see how they make you limp. I know I'm not the only one who has been slowed down.
I'm not the only one who misses highway speeds.
I’m moving again though, at least, and that feels good. I’m nervous, because I can’t see very far ahead and there’s an awful lot of traffic. It's going both ways and it’s disorienting. But far better than staying still. Headlights, taillights, whatever; I can’t really tell where I’m going, but I’m going to make damn sure it’s different from where I’ve been.
And so far, I think I like the horizon line.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Hurry Up and Fulfill My Unrealistic Expectations, Please.
(This isn't directed at anyone in particular; just some things my inner brat has been wanting to pout about lately).
I’m so tired of giving answers;
Why can’t you just read my mind?
Or watch these last five years in pictures
Rolling there behind my eyes?
Maybe you could read a stanza
Or two to learn how I got by,
Instead of asking all these questions
That take up so much precious time.
Maybe you don’t like that picture,
Or this new corner that I’ve turned.
And you’ve probably decided
That I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
Maybe you forget I’m right here;
Forget that I am close at hand.
You’re so easily distracted.
Whatever; I don’t understand.
I’m so tired of giving answers;
Why can’t you just read my mind?
Or watch these last five years in pictures
Rolling there behind my eyes?
Maybe you could read a stanza
Or two to learn how I got by,
Instead of asking all these questions
That take up so much precious time.
Maybe you don’t like that picture,
Or this new corner that I’ve turned.
And you’ve probably decided
That I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
Maybe you forget I’m right here;
Forget that I am close at hand.
You’re so easily distracted.
Whatever; I don’t understand.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Blistering of Sunburns
I am glad summer is over; it was long and the heat did nothing but burn the edges of my mind's open wounds. Autumn so far has been like a salve for them--cool on those spots rubbed raw from many things--after their midsummer rupture in June when my dog Chance died.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so searing if summer had been kinder in general; I don’t know.
His heart was swollen, the vet said. It was crowding his lungs and stomach. He could barely breathe, he couldn't eat. We had to put him down. He was in a horse stall, something we insisted on because we knew how he hated small spaces, like the tiny metal kennels they used there. Mom, Dad and I entered the stall and he ran to greet us, enthusiastic even in his sickly state. I'd already been crying for a while when I sat down on the dirty floor .He crammed himself onto my lap, his tail wagging and my arms were tight around him. I sniffed loudly and he turned to look at me, as if wondering what the matter was. He licked my cheek, then went back to wagging his tail and looking from face to face, so happy to get so much attention all at once. I rested my head on his silky black fur. He leaped off my lap when the doctor entered, excited to see a new person. He was still cheerful, unsure yet trusting, when the vet began injecting his leg. I held his face in my hands as he lay down.
And suddenly I wished he would bite me, so that it wasn’t just this loving, happy, trusting dog being poisoned before my eyes. My Chance. My sweet puppy for eleven years and I am holding him in my arms as he dies. My head is bowed, resting on his, and I whisper to him though sobs that I love him; that I’m sorry for ever yelling at him; that he was a good dog and I love him and I don’t want him to leave me and I love him. I am on the floor with him, my face buried by his ear and I haven’t cried so hard since I was a child. I feel his fur, wet and spiky from my tears, as my face presses into the warmth and I sob. His head is growing limp and heavy on my arm and I’ve lost circulation in it but I don’t care I don’t care I just want to hold him and I don’t want him to go. Please don’t go. At some point, his heart stops beating and he is dead, but I am not quite sure when that point is and I keep holding my Chance and crying long after it is past.
Three days later. It was a white paper bag, the kind usually containing Blue Chip cookies when Dad brings them home, left over from his accounts at the hospitals. I wanted a cookie. The bag crinkled stiffly as I pulled it open, revealing an envelope and a large, rectangular white box. The box was heavy. I removed the envelope, hoping it contained a clue regarding why the cookies were in a box, and whether I could eat one. There was something written on it. I turned it right-side up.
CHANCE JOHNSON.
I didn’t freeze or anything as the realization hit me; I just slipped the envelope back into the bag with the box containing Chance’s ashes. I sat back down on the sofa and pretended the burned remains of my sweet puppy weren’t sitting on the counter top in my kitchen. I knew Dad would be bringing them eventually. It was me who told the vet that, yes, we would like to have the ashes. And I did want them. I wanted to scatter them in the shade by the chimney where he liked to sleep, by the tree where I carved his name, in the tall grass he loved to run in.
I had been reading, but I couldn’t any more. I didn't want to leave the box there, on the cold counter top, left like any random mail.
The weight of his ashes as I climbed the stairs... I didn’t know where to put him. I didn’t want to leave him all alone, up on the dresser, but bringing him over to my nightstand seemed too close for me...I looked at his pictures strewn across my room. I got up. I pulled the box of ashes from the paper sack. I sat on my bed, read the tag attached: “Our deepest sympathies for the loss of your beloved pet. Pet Cremation Services.” I looked at my pictures again, then back at the box. At Chance. I curled up around him and cry and cry and cry, falling asleep with his ashes in my arms.
The next day, I couldn’t just sit and go through pictures like I had been the past few afternoons. This death of my one and only Chance was the awful last straw in a collection of trials that had been piling, piling, piling, and I was just too tired so finally I began to buckle under the weight of it all.
For weeks I’d been writhing inside; needing to run or scream or both or crack or shave my head. I had long dreadlocks at that time, and they seemed to mock me as I looked in the mirror--a physical representation of my heart’s knotted state. Other things were in them too; bad things, caught up in the tangles: memories, feelings, conversations, regrets. They whispered in my ear when I turned my head, reminding me; they were heavy and everywhere.
I found a pair of scissors, started some music. At first I was careful, making sure to cut only what I needed to. But soon my cuts grew faster, choppy and approximate. Seven Swans, snip snip, Come on, Feel the Illinoise, snip, Castaways and Cutouts, snip snip snip; then working ripping teasing out the tangles singing Oh, the Hazards of Love.
I lost myself in the music, keeping time with that sssclk sound that the scissors make, slicing through my hair. Ssssclk, sssclk, ssssssssclk....it was soothing; it was hypnotizing. I thought of nothing. There was only ssssssssclk and the music, and then the fft fft fft of the comb and the occasional snap of a hair breaking as I worked the remainder of the dreads apart.
I don’t know how many numb, methodic hours passed. Enough to play through eight full albums: two Sufjan Stevens, four Decemberists, two Iron and Wine. I think the sun set about halfway through Castaways and Cutouts. But finally, my hair was short again, the dreadlocks combed out. My head throbbed, balanced on neck muscles so tired they could barely hold it up anymore. The muscles in my back were burning, too, and my hands twitched, cramping painfully. Three fingernails were broken. My thumb bleed from a scissor-wound. The dark circles under my red-rimmed eyes were deep. My hair stuck out unevenly in all directions, its texture a strange combination of smooth and frizzy.
I looked how I felt: tired, wrung-out, bitter, and slightly manic.
I looked like Raggedy Ann with a harrowing meth addiction--complete with flat, plastic eyes.
I stared at my reflection, indifferent, then curled up on the floor and fell asleep.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so searing if summer had been kinder in general; I don’t know.
His heart was swollen, the vet said. It was crowding his lungs and stomach. He could barely breathe, he couldn't eat. We had to put him down. He was in a horse stall, something we insisted on because we knew how he hated small spaces, like the tiny metal kennels they used there. Mom, Dad and I entered the stall and he ran to greet us, enthusiastic even in his sickly state. I'd already been crying for a while when I sat down on the dirty floor .He crammed himself onto my lap, his tail wagging and my arms were tight around him. I sniffed loudly and he turned to look at me, as if wondering what the matter was. He licked my cheek, then went back to wagging his tail and looking from face to face, so happy to get so much attention all at once. I rested my head on his silky black fur. He leaped off my lap when the doctor entered, excited to see a new person. He was still cheerful, unsure yet trusting, when the vet began injecting his leg. I held his face in my hands as he lay down.
And suddenly I wished he would bite me, so that it wasn’t just this loving, happy, trusting dog being poisoned before my eyes. My Chance. My sweet puppy for eleven years and I am holding him in my arms as he dies. My head is bowed, resting on his, and I whisper to him though sobs that I love him; that I’m sorry for ever yelling at him; that he was a good dog and I love him and I don’t want him to leave me and I love him. I am on the floor with him, my face buried by his ear and I haven’t cried so hard since I was a child. I feel his fur, wet and spiky from my tears, as my face presses into the warmth and I sob. His head is growing limp and heavy on my arm and I’ve lost circulation in it but I don’t care I don’t care I just want to hold him and I don’t want him to go. Please don’t go. At some point, his heart stops beating and he is dead, but I am not quite sure when that point is and I keep holding my Chance and crying long after it is past.
Three days later. It was a white paper bag, the kind usually containing Blue Chip cookies when Dad brings them home, left over from his accounts at the hospitals. I wanted a cookie. The bag crinkled stiffly as I pulled it open, revealing an envelope and a large, rectangular white box. The box was heavy. I removed the envelope, hoping it contained a clue regarding why the cookies were in a box, and whether I could eat one. There was something written on it. I turned it right-side up.
CHANCE JOHNSON.
I didn’t freeze or anything as the realization hit me; I just slipped the envelope back into the bag with the box containing Chance’s ashes. I sat back down on the sofa and pretended the burned remains of my sweet puppy weren’t sitting on the counter top in my kitchen. I knew Dad would be bringing them eventually. It was me who told the vet that, yes, we would like to have the ashes. And I did want them. I wanted to scatter them in the shade by the chimney where he liked to sleep, by the tree where I carved his name, in the tall grass he loved to run in.
I had been reading, but I couldn’t any more. I didn't want to leave the box there, on the cold counter top, left like any random mail.
The weight of his ashes as I climbed the stairs... I didn’t know where to put him. I didn’t want to leave him all alone, up on the dresser, but bringing him over to my nightstand seemed too close for me...I looked at his pictures strewn across my room. I got up. I pulled the box of ashes from the paper sack. I sat on my bed, read the tag attached: “Our deepest sympathies for the loss of your beloved pet. Pet Cremation Services.” I looked at my pictures again, then back at the box. At Chance. I curled up around him and cry and cry and cry, falling asleep with his ashes in my arms.
The next day, I couldn’t just sit and go through pictures like I had been the past few afternoons. This death of my one and only Chance was the awful last straw in a collection of trials that had been piling, piling, piling, and I was just too tired so finally I began to buckle under the weight of it all.
For weeks I’d been writhing inside; needing to run or scream or both or crack or shave my head. I had long dreadlocks at that time, and they seemed to mock me as I looked in the mirror--a physical representation of my heart’s knotted state. Other things were in them too; bad things, caught up in the tangles: memories, feelings, conversations, regrets. They whispered in my ear when I turned my head, reminding me; they were heavy and everywhere.
I found a pair of scissors, started some music. At first I was careful, making sure to cut only what I needed to. But soon my cuts grew faster, choppy and approximate. Seven Swans, snip snip, Come on, Feel the Illinoise, snip, Castaways and Cutouts, snip snip snip; then working ripping teasing out the tangles singing Oh, the Hazards of Love.
I lost myself in the music, keeping time with that sssclk sound that the scissors make, slicing through my hair. Ssssclk, sssclk, ssssssssclk....it was soothing; it was hypnotizing. I thought of nothing. There was only ssssssssclk and the music, and then the fft fft fft of the comb and the occasional snap of a hair breaking as I worked the remainder of the dreads apart.
I don’t know how many numb, methodic hours passed. Enough to play through eight full albums: two Sufjan Stevens, four Decemberists, two Iron and Wine. I think the sun set about halfway through Castaways and Cutouts. But finally, my hair was short again, the dreadlocks combed out. My head throbbed, balanced on neck muscles so tired they could barely hold it up anymore. The muscles in my back were burning, too, and my hands twitched, cramping painfully. Three fingernails were broken. My thumb bleed from a scissor-wound. The dark circles under my red-rimmed eyes were deep. My hair stuck out unevenly in all directions, its texture a strange combination of smooth and frizzy.
I looked how I felt: tired, wrung-out, bitter, and slightly manic.
I looked like Raggedy Ann with a harrowing meth addiction--complete with flat, plastic eyes.
I stared at my reflection, indifferent, then curled up on the floor and fell asleep.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A Note from Mind to Body
Look at what you've done;
Just watch our hands shake--
I think you revel in the way
This weakness shames me.
Our clumsy feet trip because
You shuffle like a corpse;
Dead weight, nothing more.
You hold hostage
My thoughts from our tongue;
You just love to taunt me,
Don't you?
Everything I try to do,
You drag me down;
Why won't you cooperate?
You parasite--
You crippled foreigner--
I can hear you laughing.
I hate the way
You tell me "sit" and "stay",
Knowing I have no choice
But to consent,
And be disgusted
By my own submission.
I wish I could punish you--
Oh, to exact revenge--
But, as everything I do to you
I also do to me,
I'm expected to treat you well;
Because apparently I am God's
And not my own.
I guess He likes to collect
Broken things.
Just watch our hands shake--
I think you revel in the way
This weakness shames me.
Our clumsy feet trip because
You shuffle like a corpse;
Dead weight, nothing more.
You hold hostage
My thoughts from our tongue;
You just love to taunt me,
Don't you?
Everything I try to do,
You drag me down;
Why won't you cooperate?
You parasite--
You crippled foreigner--
I can hear you laughing.
I hate the way
You tell me "sit" and "stay",
Knowing I have no choice
But to consent,
And be disgusted
By my own submission.
I wish I could punish you--
Oh, to exact revenge--
But, as everything I do to you
I also do to me,
I'm expected to treat you well;
Because apparently I am God's
And not my own.
I guess He likes to collect
Broken things.
Monday, August 23, 2010
For all the Starving Eyes to See
I can't think straight lately. I've been losing my shoes and taking my dog for walks and cutting my hair with Mom's scrap-booking scissors, and I've been doing other things, too; I just don't remember what they are. I try to write things down, but words seem so insufficient.
They only catch so much, and so many real feelings and concepts fall through the cracks undefined that how can we know anything about ourselves, let alone each other? Give something a name and it is real, solid. But the inexplicable is dismissed just because there are no words to anchor it and so it floats away.
Balloons.
No, at least balloons are something; have some substance.
Warm air, maybe. Puffs of warm wind. Brief, invisible, insubstantial but you still feel it and for a moment it engulfs you completely. Then it is gone, as if it had never been. Language is so limiting.
I'm tired, and I think I'm over-thinking, putting so many words—or trying to—to whatever is in me that I lose it; lose what it really is until I don't know anything anymore.
Can't anything just be what it is? Why does everything seem to require such analysis and subsequent documentation?
Like the meteor shower the other night; the annual fiery Tears of St.Lawrence, hurled across the sky by Perseus. I saw twenty-seven of them, those brightly-broken chunks of Swift-Tuttle. It was surreal, almost cartoon-like,the way a point of light would sail straight across a section of sky. A few left burning trails across the black, but the lines behind some of the smaller ones were so faint that I can't be completely sure I didn't imagine them.
Sometimes the intervals between meteors were long, and my eyes grew tired and sore in all my probing amongst the stars. They went still and unfocused as my mind wandered, and vaguely I forgot why I couldn't just close my eyes and rest.
But then, No. Swiftly, like a sudden convulsion, I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. No, I can't forget what I'm looking for. Not now...and not ever.
I might be weary and stiff; sore and losing focus and even starting to lose hope that I might ever see another streak of light, but until my ragged consciousness can no longer cling to wakefulness...I can't forget what I'm looking for.
And besides, there was beauty to be seen between meteors; infinite glittering, suspended stars and Venus in the south-eastern sky.
And I talked to God some, feebly tossing my tired voice into the atmosphere, where it mingled with the distant sounds of coyotes' primitive songs in strange harmony with the arrogant barks of farmers' dogs.
I told Him that I think I spend too much time looking at little things, at simple things like TV when two steps out my door there is a vast scope for intrigue and beauty.
I said, I think I do that because I know I can't grasp the full grandeur of the starry sky or silk-square pastures or thick-thatched woods full of little creatures, and so I'm afraid to even try to see them.
I comprehend them just enough to know that they are wonderfully complex and majestic and pull from me some primitive feeling of reverence and ceremony; and I comprehend them just enough to know that they are far more beautiful and far more grand than I could ever understand.
And that if I did, I would fall weeping in the dirt in sheer wonder, run through the fields and swim in the lake and climb the trees; jump off the edge of the Grand Canyon or or drown myself in the ocean just to be enveloped. Just to be submerged in the heartbreaking loveliness of it all.
I look at the TV instead, because I'm ashamed to gaze in what awe I may when I know that if I only understood, I would see and it would change my life completely. But I don't understand and it makes me so sad, to know something's missing in me.
I look at the cheap instead of the priceless; I look at me instead of You.
And I'm so, so sorry.
Two of the larger meteors I saw came at perfect times, punctuating certain thoughts, as if in tangible answer. I won't write them, those thoughts; they're just for me. Not because they were at all scandalous—really they were very mundane—but because I need to keep some things sacred and secret, whether or not they are of that nature.
Maybe it was coincidence, the way the meteors fell when they did, but I need to believe it was my God. I do believe it.
It may be stereotypical—everyone in the world has been stirred by the stars—but the tears felt good in my eyes as I smiled.
I counted the little lights as they fell and for once tried to revel in the simplicity of what is, now. Nothing had changed in my life; no problems were solved, nothing was magically "better". But, how could I not be happy when it is raining stars?
Besides, it was now and I was here and so was the grass and the sky and gravity, and I figured that had to count for something—even if my mind could not wrap itself around the reality.
For a moment I thought maybe having someone there to share it with would help make it real; make it true, prove to myself that this isn't a dream and that it really is. But, no, I don't think another human wouldn't have helped. I think nothing can reinforce things like this. My words can't; I've just been writing and writing and still this is just another star-story penned by just another hopeless romantic. But oh, it felt like so much more.
I think that these moments—these sights—are not meant to be held over or saved. Paint a picture of this, try to describe, and it is cheapened some. Like fireflies, put them in a jar and soon they'll dry up.
But as a child, that didn't stop me from catching as many fireflies as I could. And as a young adult, it won't keep me from desperately grasping to capture these things in words. And failing.
Except maybe to say that I thought, I want to be here until I die; until I am dust and no longer have any eyes at all to see these things.
They only catch so much, and so many real feelings and concepts fall through the cracks undefined that how can we know anything about ourselves, let alone each other? Give something a name and it is real, solid. But the inexplicable is dismissed just because there are no words to anchor it and so it floats away.
Balloons.
No, at least balloons are something; have some substance.
Warm air, maybe. Puffs of warm wind. Brief, invisible, insubstantial but you still feel it and for a moment it engulfs you completely. Then it is gone, as if it had never been. Language is so limiting.
I'm tired, and I think I'm over-thinking, putting so many words—or trying to—to whatever is in me that I lose it; lose what it really is until I don't know anything anymore.
Can't anything just be what it is? Why does everything seem to require such analysis and subsequent documentation?
Like the meteor shower the other night; the annual fiery Tears of St.Lawrence, hurled across the sky by Perseus. I saw twenty-seven of them, those brightly-broken chunks of Swift-Tuttle. It was surreal, almost cartoon-like,the way a point of light would sail straight across a section of sky. A few left burning trails across the black, but the lines behind some of the smaller ones were so faint that I can't be completely sure I didn't imagine them.
Sometimes the intervals between meteors were long, and my eyes grew tired and sore in all my probing amongst the stars. They went still and unfocused as my mind wandered, and vaguely I forgot why I couldn't just close my eyes and rest.
But then, No. Swiftly, like a sudden convulsion, I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. No, I can't forget what I'm looking for. Not now...and not ever.
I might be weary and stiff; sore and losing focus and even starting to lose hope that I might ever see another streak of light, but until my ragged consciousness can no longer cling to wakefulness...I can't forget what I'm looking for.
And besides, there was beauty to be seen between meteors; infinite glittering, suspended stars and Venus in the south-eastern sky.
And I talked to God some, feebly tossing my tired voice into the atmosphere, where it mingled with the distant sounds of coyotes' primitive songs in strange harmony with the arrogant barks of farmers' dogs.
I told Him that I think I spend too much time looking at little things, at simple things like TV when two steps out my door there is a vast scope for intrigue and beauty.
I said, I think I do that because I know I can't grasp the full grandeur of the starry sky or silk-square pastures or thick-thatched woods full of little creatures, and so I'm afraid to even try to see them.
I comprehend them just enough to know that they are wonderfully complex and majestic and pull from me some primitive feeling of reverence and ceremony; and I comprehend them just enough to know that they are far more beautiful and far more grand than I could ever understand.
And that if I did, I would fall weeping in the dirt in sheer wonder, run through the fields and swim in the lake and climb the trees; jump off the edge of the Grand Canyon or or drown myself in the ocean just to be enveloped. Just to be submerged in the heartbreaking loveliness of it all.
I look at the TV instead, because I'm ashamed to gaze in what awe I may when I know that if I only understood, I would see and it would change my life completely. But I don't understand and it makes me so sad, to know something's missing in me.
I look at the cheap instead of the priceless; I look at me instead of You.
And I'm so, so sorry.
Two of the larger meteors I saw came at perfect times, punctuating certain thoughts, as if in tangible answer. I won't write them, those thoughts; they're just for me. Not because they were at all scandalous—really they were very mundane—but because I need to keep some things sacred and secret, whether or not they are of that nature.
Maybe it was coincidence, the way the meteors fell when they did, but I need to believe it was my God. I do believe it.
It may be stereotypical—everyone in the world has been stirred by the stars—but the tears felt good in my eyes as I smiled.
I counted the little lights as they fell and for once tried to revel in the simplicity of what is, now. Nothing had changed in my life; no problems were solved, nothing was magically "better". But, how could I not be happy when it is raining stars?
Besides, it was now and I was here and so was the grass and the sky and gravity, and I figured that had to count for something—even if my mind could not wrap itself around the reality.
For a moment I thought maybe having someone there to share it with would help make it real; make it true, prove to myself that this isn't a dream and that it really is. But, no, I don't think another human wouldn't have helped. I think nothing can reinforce things like this. My words can't; I've just been writing and writing and still this is just another star-story penned by just another hopeless romantic. But oh, it felt like so much more.
I think that these moments—these sights—are not meant to be held over or saved. Paint a picture of this, try to describe, and it is cheapened some. Like fireflies, put them in a jar and soon they'll dry up.
But as a child, that didn't stop me from catching as many fireflies as I could. And as a young adult, it won't keep me from desperately grasping to capture these things in words. And failing.
Except maybe to say that I thought, I want to be here until I die; until I am dust and no longer have any eyes at all to see these things.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
INSIDE VOICES (rough draft)
INSIDE VOICES (rough draft. Feedback would be appreciated; I've never written a script-type-thing before)
Scene opens with Margaret seated on her bed, irritably scribbling in her sketchbook. The Beatles’ “I’m So Tired” plays as camera pans around her room, showing her artwork, her stuffed tiger, her dog.
COLIN: Calling from downstairs Margie? Margie, where are you? Margaret, come on; you know I know you’re in here.
Colin enters Margaret’s room to find her sitting on the bed, facing the door and glaring at him.
MARGARET: Welcome back, jackwad.
COLIN: What’s wrong with you?
MARGARET: Aren’t you going to apologize for the other night?
COLIN: Why? What’d I do?
MARGARET: …You didn’t have to bring her here.
COLIN: You said I could always come here.
MARGARET: I said YOU could always come here, not your friends.
COLIN: She wasn—
MARGARET: Or your girlfriend, or whatever.
COLIN: She wasn’t my friend or my girlfriend. I was really drunk—
MARGARET: You’re drunk right now.
COLIN: I’m not drunk, I’m hung over. There’s a big difference. Anyway, Trent ditched me to chase tail. A barista gave me a lift.
MARGARET: A lift and a—
COLIN: Yeah, she came in. I know. I was drunk. I’m sorry, ok? It’ll never happen again.
MARGARET: No, it won’t. Give me back my apartment key.
COLIN: Margie, come on; you don’t really want it. Besides, you know I really need a place to stay tonight and I shouldn’t be driving. And just because you’re a prude doesn’t mean everyone else should be.
MARGARET: I am not a prude. Having some kind of moral standard doesn’t make me a prude.
COLIN: Of course it’s easy for you. You’re not any better than me; you just don’t have the opportunity to do stuff. No life, no temptation. It’s pretty simple to maintain standards when you’re locked up here alone in your room all day, day after day after day after day—
MARGARET: Stop it, Colin! Agoraphobia is a real and debilitating psychological condition. Which you’d know if you even cracked the cover of that book I gave you.
COLIN: I didn’t have to read it. “Psychological condition”; you know that means it’s all in your head, right?
MARGARET: Yes, but it doesn’t mean I can control it.
COLIN: Maybe you could, if you weren’t too proud for therapy. Or is it just because you’re too scared to leave your house? Sorry, I get confused trying to figure out what’s just a personality flaw and what’s some weird tick in your brain.
MARGARET: I’m too proud to go to therapy? Have you ever been to an AA meeting?
COLIN: Of course not. I’m not an alcoholic.
MARGARET: Pause. You really think you’re not an alcoholic?
COLIN: You really think I am?
MARGARET: What?! I haven’t seen you completely sober almost two years! And for the past six months you’ve been hanging around here all the time. When was the last time you held onto a job for more than three days? You drank yourself broke, got evicted from your apartment, and now I have to tuck you into my guest bed almost every night. Why do you think I stopped keeping booze around? I didn’t want to enable you.
COLIN: “Enable me”? Fine, I’ll stop cleaning your dog’s crap out of the lawn. Maybe once I quit enabling you, you’ll get evicted too.
MARGARET: …You clean up after Casper?
COLIN: Yeah; why do you think you haven’t heard from your landlord?
MARGARET: Why didn’t you tell me before?
COLIN: Cause you never threw a fit about me crashing here before.
MARGARET: Oh. Well. Thanks. Sorry.
COLIN: Whatever. I’m keeping the key.
MARGARET: Yeah, ok.
Silence. Colin sits on the edge of Margaret’s bed.
COLIN: You really should try to get over that agora-thing.
MARGARET: Phobia.
COLIN: Whatever. You should try to get it fixed; you’re missing a lot of life, festering in here 24/7.
MARGARET: I’m not festering.
COLIN: Studies Margaret for a moment, his face grimly contemplative. Ok…I’m going to walk down to Casey’s…do you need anything?
MARGARET: I’m not an invalid.
COLIN: Rolls eyes. I know, that’s not—Sighs Bye, Margie.
MARGARET: Bye. Then, a little too late, Thanks.
*When Colin returns*:
MARGARET: Very distressed. Casper ran away.
COLIN: What? How?
MARGARET: I let him outside just like always but he saw another dog and ran off after it. I tried to go after him but…it smelled like exhaust and I couldn’t make myself go so I just called and called but he didn’t come back…
COLIN: How long ago?
MARGARET: Ah hour and twelve minutes.
COLIN: I’ll go find him.
MARGARET: Are you sure? I could call someone—
COLIN: No, chill. I’ll go and be back asap. He couldn’t have gotten that far.
MARGARET: Thank you.
COLIN: Sure. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later. Bye.
MARGARET: Bye…
Three hours pass, phone rings.
MARGARET: Anything?
COLIN: No. I’m sorry, Margie. I’ve looked everywhere…
MARGARET: It’s not your fault. Go flirt with a waitress; I’ll look into putting an ad in the paper.
COLIN: Dry chuckle You know me well. See ya.
“Something Vague” (Bright Eyes) fades in
MARGARET: Yeah, see ya. And thank you. Very much.
COLIN: Pause Sure.
Colin goes to the liquor store and gets smashed sitting on the floor outside Margaret’s apartment.
*Later that night*:
MARGARET: Humming. Gazing out a window at the city lights, sitting Indian-style by Colin, who is passed out.
COLIN: Groans and shifts.
“Naked as a Window” (Josh Ritter) plays
MARGARET: What if this is it?
COLIN: Hmm? What?
MARGARET: What if this is all there is for us?
COLIN: It might be.
MARGARET: That would suck.
COLIN: It would.
MARGARET: Thanks.
COLIN: Hmm? For what?
MARGARET: For not trying to convince me that things will get better. I hate that; people pretending there are guarantees that don’t exist and making predictions they know nothing about. I mean, no one can make promises like that. Why do they keep saying it?
COLIN: I dunno; I’ve always thought that was just a band-aid myself...Rolls over onto his back, looking up at Margaret. You’re pretty.
MARGARET: What?
COLIN: Reaches up to touch her collarbone. Margaret flinches; Colin doesn’t notice. His fingers wind into the sleeve of her blouse. You heard me. You’re pretty. I like you. You’re a pretty girl. Like…a picture. Haha, pretty as a picture...You know what?
MARGARET:…What…?
COLIN: I want to kiss you, Picture Girl.
MARGARET: Blushing and awkward. …Colin…um, you’re drunk…
COLIN: Ugh! Drops arm. Stop saying that! I’m trying to tell you something here and you won’t shut up about—
MARGARET: No, no; that’s not what I meant. It’s just…you don’t know what you’re saying and if you even remember you’ll wish you hadn’t said it. I’ll pretend you didn’t, but it’ll still be all weird cause we’ll both know that you did…you should just go back to sleep.
COLIN: Grabs Margaret’s wrist. No. No, Margie. You blew me off like that last year, so I waited to see if time would make you think any more, but I’m done waiting for you to take me seriously.
MARGARET: Colin, stop—
COLIN: No, listen. Just cause I’m drunk doesn’t mean it isn’t true, and you know it. You’re always hiding from things. You’re hiding from the entire world outside and you’re hiding from me—
MARGARET: You’re hurting me.
COLIN: No I’m not; I can’t. You won’t let me close enough to hurt—
MARGARET: Tries to pry his hand from her wrist. Ow! No, Colin, you’re hurting me. Colin, let go!
COLIN: Sits up, horrified. Margie! Margie I’m so sorry! Reaches for her arm. I didn’t mean to—
MARGARET: Instinctively pulls her arm away. It’s ok; it’s fine.
COLIN: pulls his hand back and sits in shameful silence for a moment, his hands folded in his lap. Did it—I mean—did I—
MARGARET: Looks at him and softens. No, it’s fine, really. See? Holds her arm out to him.
COLIN: Takes Margaret’s arm extremely gently, traces reddening finger-marks. Shit. Oh, shit…
MARGARET: Colin, it’s ok.
COLIN: I can’t believe I did that—
MARGARET: Leans in so that her face is close to his. Shut up already. I said it’s ok; stop being so dramatic.
Pause
COLIN: I think…
“Of Angels and Angles” (The Decemberists) plays
MARGARET: What?
COLIN: Slowly cradles Margaret’s chin in his hand; kisses her on one cheek, looks into her eyes, then kisses the other.
MARGARET: Whispering, looking down shyly. I think so, too.
Goes dark, fades in again; Margaret is asleep on Colin’s lap. Colin is stroking her hair. She wakes up and smiles groggily at him.
COLIN: We’re fragile beings, you and I. Please, let’s try not to break each other.
MARGARET: How can we not? Neither of us can stand the way the other lives.
COLIN: That doesn’t change how much I want to hold you.
MARGARET: Sits up. And if you get to? What then? Feelings come and go, but we both know our vices are home to us.
COLIN: We couldn’t relocate? For this? For…us?
MARGARET: Colin…there is no “us”. You know it doesn’t work that way.
COLIN: Fine, but maybe it doesn’t have to. Our shit controls so much of our lives; does it have to control this, too?
MARGARET: What do you think? What do you think will happen when I never let you see me in the sunlight, or you get drunk and screw some random bar skank? Do you think we’ll be able to look at each other and say it doesn’t matter?
COLIN: I wouldn’t cheat on you—
“Haligh, Haligh, a Lie” (Bright Eyes) fades in
MARGARET: Don’t be naïve, Colin. You get drunk. You do stupid things you regret.
COLIN: Maybe if you’d come with me—
MARGARET: Stands up, exasperated. No! See? That might never happen so it’s stupid to just cross our fingers and hope things will magically work out! Neither of us can conquer our--
COLIN: Margie! Margie, you think this stuff is so big and it’s not. So I drink too much. So you stay inside. Don’t blow it out of proportion. It’s this simple: If you would just come out—no, Margie, listen—Its all in your head. The fear, it’s all in your head. If you would just come out with me—
MARGARET: getting worked up It isn’t that easy.
COLIN: You don’t think it’s that easy, but it is. The only thing keeping you in this apartment is you—
MARGARET: Indignant What? How could you think that? What the hell makes you think that’s all there is to it? If this stuff were that easy to fix, why the hell are we like this? How come—
COLIN: Violent shout Because you won’t let me help you!
Pause
MARGARET: I won’t let you…give me my key.
COLIN: Margie I—
MARGARET: Give me the damn key!
COLIN: Stares at Margaret for a moment, tosses her the key, and leaves the apartment.
Door slams; Margaret sits down on the floor and cries.
Something plays during a montage of Margaret standing at her door clutching a Lost Dog poster, and Colin staying sober on a three-day search for Casper. Song ends and Colin, with Casper on a makeshift leash, walks up to Margaret’s apartment building, which is burning and surrounded by a crowd of people, fire trucks, and ambulances. Colin drops Casper’s leash and runs toward the building. Firemen stop him, insisting that he get back. Someone is sitting on the curb; Colin approaches him.
COLIN: Do you know what happened?
MAN: No.
COLIN: Is everyone alright?
MAN: No.
COLIN: How do you know?
MAN: I’m the landlord. I was running up and down the halls on the last two floors that weren’t already crumbling, banging on doors to make sure people got out. When I got to room number 246b, she followed right behind me. When we got to the building’s exit, she just stood there, like she was scared to leave. Then she said she forgot something and ran back toward her room. I tried to go after her, but the smoke was so thick by then I couldn’t see or breathe so I panicked and ran back outside…the fireman said they’d go in after her…she was already gone by the time they brought her out. I can’t believe I let her go running off like that…I wish I could remember her name…Maybe it was Mary.
COLIN: hoarse whisper Margaret.
MAN: Oh, yeah, I remember now. Margaret. I thought she had a dog, but I didn’t see him anywhere…
Colin has already walked away by the time the man is finished speaking. He walks, sits on a bench and cries some, then walks into a dingy bar.
BARTENDER: No dogs.
COLIN: I’ll just be a minute—
BARTENDER: I said no dogs. Get him out of here.
COLIN: Can—
BARTENDER: Now, damn it!
Colin walks Casper to a clump of trees in the lawn of a business next to the bar. He ties Casper to a tree.
COLIN: Petting Casper Stay here, boy. I’ll be back in a little while.
Casper whimpers as Colin walks away.
THE END
Scene opens with Margaret seated on her bed, irritably scribbling in her sketchbook. The Beatles’ “I’m So Tired” plays as camera pans around her room, showing her artwork, her stuffed tiger, her dog.
COLIN: Calling from downstairs Margie? Margie, where are you? Margaret, come on; you know I know you’re in here.
Colin enters Margaret’s room to find her sitting on the bed, facing the door and glaring at him.
MARGARET: Welcome back, jackwad.
COLIN: What’s wrong with you?
MARGARET: Aren’t you going to apologize for the other night?
COLIN: Why? What’d I do?
MARGARET: …You didn’t have to bring her here.
COLIN: You said I could always come here.
MARGARET: I said YOU could always come here, not your friends.
COLIN: She wasn—
MARGARET: Or your girlfriend, or whatever.
COLIN: She wasn’t my friend or my girlfriend. I was really drunk—
MARGARET: You’re drunk right now.
COLIN: I’m not drunk, I’m hung over. There’s a big difference. Anyway, Trent ditched me to chase tail. A barista gave me a lift.
MARGARET: A lift and a—
COLIN: Yeah, she came in. I know. I was drunk. I’m sorry, ok? It’ll never happen again.
MARGARET: No, it won’t. Give me back my apartment key.
COLIN: Margie, come on; you don’t really want it. Besides, you know I really need a place to stay tonight and I shouldn’t be driving. And just because you’re a prude doesn’t mean everyone else should be.
MARGARET: I am not a prude. Having some kind of moral standard doesn’t make me a prude.
COLIN: Of course it’s easy for you. You’re not any better than me; you just don’t have the opportunity to do stuff. No life, no temptation. It’s pretty simple to maintain standards when you’re locked up here alone in your room all day, day after day after day after day—
MARGARET: Stop it, Colin! Agoraphobia is a real and debilitating psychological condition. Which you’d know if you even cracked the cover of that book I gave you.
COLIN: I didn’t have to read it. “Psychological condition”; you know that means it’s all in your head, right?
MARGARET: Yes, but it doesn’t mean I can control it.
COLIN: Maybe you could, if you weren’t too proud for therapy. Or is it just because you’re too scared to leave your house? Sorry, I get confused trying to figure out what’s just a personality flaw and what’s some weird tick in your brain.
MARGARET: I’m too proud to go to therapy? Have you ever been to an AA meeting?
COLIN: Of course not. I’m not an alcoholic.
MARGARET: Pause. You really think you’re not an alcoholic?
COLIN: You really think I am?
MARGARET: What?! I haven’t seen you completely sober almost two years! And for the past six months you’ve been hanging around here all the time. When was the last time you held onto a job for more than three days? You drank yourself broke, got evicted from your apartment, and now I have to tuck you into my guest bed almost every night. Why do you think I stopped keeping booze around? I didn’t want to enable you.
COLIN: “Enable me”? Fine, I’ll stop cleaning your dog’s crap out of the lawn. Maybe once I quit enabling you, you’ll get evicted too.
MARGARET: …You clean up after Casper?
COLIN: Yeah; why do you think you haven’t heard from your landlord?
MARGARET: Why didn’t you tell me before?
COLIN: Cause you never threw a fit about me crashing here before.
MARGARET: Oh. Well. Thanks. Sorry.
COLIN: Whatever. I’m keeping the key.
MARGARET: Yeah, ok.
Silence. Colin sits on the edge of Margaret’s bed.
COLIN: You really should try to get over that agora-thing.
MARGARET: Phobia.
COLIN: Whatever. You should try to get it fixed; you’re missing a lot of life, festering in here 24/7.
MARGARET: I’m not festering.
COLIN: Studies Margaret for a moment, his face grimly contemplative. Ok…I’m going to walk down to Casey’s…do you need anything?
MARGARET: I’m not an invalid.
COLIN: Rolls eyes. I know, that’s not—Sighs Bye, Margie.
MARGARET: Bye. Then, a little too late, Thanks.
*When Colin returns*:
MARGARET: Very distressed. Casper ran away.
COLIN: What? How?
MARGARET: I let him outside just like always but he saw another dog and ran off after it. I tried to go after him but…it smelled like exhaust and I couldn’t make myself go so I just called and called but he didn’t come back…
COLIN: How long ago?
MARGARET: Ah hour and twelve minutes.
COLIN: I’ll go find him.
MARGARET: Are you sure? I could call someone—
COLIN: No, chill. I’ll go and be back asap. He couldn’t have gotten that far.
MARGARET: Thank you.
COLIN: Sure. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later. Bye.
MARGARET: Bye…
Three hours pass, phone rings.
MARGARET: Anything?
COLIN: No. I’m sorry, Margie. I’ve looked everywhere…
MARGARET: It’s not your fault. Go flirt with a waitress; I’ll look into putting an ad in the paper.
COLIN: Dry chuckle You know me well. See ya.
“Something Vague” (Bright Eyes) fades in
MARGARET: Yeah, see ya. And thank you. Very much.
COLIN: Pause Sure.
Colin goes to the liquor store and gets smashed sitting on the floor outside Margaret’s apartment.
*Later that night*:
MARGARET: Humming. Gazing out a window at the city lights, sitting Indian-style by Colin, who is passed out.
COLIN: Groans and shifts.
“Naked as a Window” (Josh Ritter) plays
MARGARET: What if this is it?
COLIN: Hmm? What?
MARGARET: What if this is all there is for us?
COLIN: It might be.
MARGARET: That would suck.
COLIN: It would.
MARGARET: Thanks.
COLIN: Hmm? For what?
MARGARET: For not trying to convince me that things will get better. I hate that; people pretending there are guarantees that don’t exist and making predictions they know nothing about. I mean, no one can make promises like that. Why do they keep saying it?
COLIN: I dunno; I’ve always thought that was just a band-aid myself...Rolls over onto his back, looking up at Margaret. You’re pretty.
MARGARET: What?
COLIN: Reaches up to touch her collarbone. Margaret flinches; Colin doesn’t notice. His fingers wind into the sleeve of her blouse. You heard me. You’re pretty. I like you. You’re a pretty girl. Like…a picture. Haha, pretty as a picture...You know what?
MARGARET:…What…?
COLIN: I want to kiss you, Picture Girl.
MARGARET: Blushing and awkward. …Colin…um, you’re drunk…
COLIN: Ugh! Drops arm. Stop saying that! I’m trying to tell you something here and you won’t shut up about—
MARGARET: No, no; that’s not what I meant. It’s just…you don’t know what you’re saying and if you even remember you’ll wish you hadn’t said it. I’ll pretend you didn’t, but it’ll still be all weird cause we’ll both know that you did…you should just go back to sleep.
COLIN: Grabs Margaret’s wrist. No. No, Margie. You blew me off like that last year, so I waited to see if time would make you think any more, but I’m done waiting for you to take me seriously.
MARGARET: Colin, stop—
COLIN: No, listen. Just cause I’m drunk doesn’t mean it isn’t true, and you know it. You’re always hiding from things. You’re hiding from the entire world outside and you’re hiding from me—
MARGARET: You’re hurting me.
COLIN: No I’m not; I can’t. You won’t let me close enough to hurt—
MARGARET: Tries to pry his hand from her wrist. Ow! No, Colin, you’re hurting me. Colin, let go!
COLIN: Sits up, horrified. Margie! Margie I’m so sorry! Reaches for her arm. I didn’t mean to—
MARGARET: Instinctively pulls her arm away. It’s ok; it’s fine.
COLIN: pulls his hand back and sits in shameful silence for a moment, his hands folded in his lap. Did it—I mean—did I—
MARGARET: Looks at him and softens. No, it’s fine, really. See? Holds her arm out to him.
COLIN: Takes Margaret’s arm extremely gently, traces reddening finger-marks. Shit. Oh, shit…
MARGARET: Colin, it’s ok.
COLIN: I can’t believe I did that—
MARGARET: Leans in so that her face is close to his. Shut up already. I said it’s ok; stop being so dramatic.
Pause
COLIN: I think…
“Of Angels and Angles” (The Decemberists) plays
MARGARET: What?
COLIN: Slowly cradles Margaret’s chin in his hand; kisses her on one cheek, looks into her eyes, then kisses the other.
MARGARET: Whispering, looking down shyly. I think so, too.
Goes dark, fades in again; Margaret is asleep on Colin’s lap. Colin is stroking her hair. She wakes up and smiles groggily at him.
COLIN: We’re fragile beings, you and I. Please, let’s try not to break each other.
MARGARET: How can we not? Neither of us can stand the way the other lives.
COLIN: That doesn’t change how much I want to hold you.
MARGARET: Sits up. And if you get to? What then? Feelings come and go, but we both know our vices are home to us.
COLIN: We couldn’t relocate? For this? For…us?
MARGARET: Colin…there is no “us”. You know it doesn’t work that way.
COLIN: Fine, but maybe it doesn’t have to. Our shit controls so much of our lives; does it have to control this, too?
MARGARET: What do you think? What do you think will happen when I never let you see me in the sunlight, or you get drunk and screw some random bar skank? Do you think we’ll be able to look at each other and say it doesn’t matter?
COLIN: I wouldn’t cheat on you—
“Haligh, Haligh, a Lie” (Bright Eyes) fades in
MARGARET: Don’t be naïve, Colin. You get drunk. You do stupid things you regret.
COLIN: Maybe if you’d come with me—
MARGARET: Stands up, exasperated. No! See? That might never happen so it’s stupid to just cross our fingers and hope things will magically work out! Neither of us can conquer our--
COLIN: Margie! Margie, you think this stuff is so big and it’s not. So I drink too much. So you stay inside. Don’t blow it out of proportion. It’s this simple: If you would just come out—no, Margie, listen—Its all in your head. The fear, it’s all in your head. If you would just come out with me—
MARGARET: getting worked up It isn’t that easy.
COLIN: You don’t think it’s that easy, but it is. The only thing keeping you in this apartment is you—
MARGARET: Indignant What? How could you think that? What the hell makes you think that’s all there is to it? If this stuff were that easy to fix, why the hell are we like this? How come—
COLIN: Violent shout Because you won’t let me help you!
Pause
MARGARET: I won’t let you…give me my key.
COLIN: Margie I—
MARGARET: Give me the damn key!
COLIN: Stares at Margaret for a moment, tosses her the key, and leaves the apartment.
Door slams; Margaret sits down on the floor and cries.
Something plays during a montage of Margaret standing at her door clutching a Lost Dog poster, and Colin staying sober on a three-day search for Casper. Song ends and Colin, with Casper on a makeshift leash, walks up to Margaret’s apartment building, which is burning and surrounded by a crowd of people, fire trucks, and ambulances. Colin drops Casper’s leash and runs toward the building. Firemen stop him, insisting that he get back. Someone is sitting on the curb; Colin approaches him.
COLIN: Do you know what happened?
MAN: No.
COLIN: Is everyone alright?
MAN: No.
COLIN: How do you know?
MAN: I’m the landlord. I was running up and down the halls on the last two floors that weren’t already crumbling, banging on doors to make sure people got out. When I got to room number 246b, she followed right behind me. When we got to the building’s exit, she just stood there, like she was scared to leave. Then she said she forgot something and ran back toward her room. I tried to go after her, but the smoke was so thick by then I couldn’t see or breathe so I panicked and ran back outside…the fireman said they’d go in after her…she was already gone by the time they brought her out. I can’t believe I let her go running off like that…I wish I could remember her name…Maybe it was Mary.
COLIN: hoarse whisper Margaret.
MAN: Oh, yeah, I remember now. Margaret. I thought she had a dog, but I didn’t see him anywhere…
Colin has already walked away by the time the man is finished speaking. He walks, sits on a bench and cries some, then walks into a dingy bar.
BARTENDER: No dogs.
COLIN: I’ll just be a minute—
BARTENDER: I said no dogs. Get him out of here.
COLIN: Can—
BARTENDER: Now, damn it!
Colin walks Casper to a clump of trees in the lawn of a business next to the bar. He ties Casper to a tree.
COLIN: Petting Casper Stay here, boy. I’ll be back in a little while.
Casper whimpers as Colin walks away.
THE END
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