The air outside was crisp. It's silly, but it was certainly refreshing, that is to say compared to the cave I make of my bedroom when I sleep. I went outside to smoke and to pet the puppy. There's a pomegranate tree that grows in my front yard and in the season it has become deteriorated. By birds eating it, rushing wind smacking it, a surprise cold smothering it and...well, neglect. It's still a pretty sight. The way it was, it was just nice. The weather must have been particularly like another time, tied to a sensory reflex triggering memory, otherwise I don't think I would have loved it as much as I did.
A woman was out for a walk and said "Hello." She was simple and I hardly looked at her, but I was glad she smiled and acknowledged my presence. I smiled back and said good morning and laughed at myself...I wonder if she wonders that in that moment, she struck me enough to come write in her regard. I just thought, there's so much to do. There's so much, but despite that overwhelming sense so many of us carry with ourselves there's...so...much...time. I mean, she's out for a nice afternoon walk. Where am I? I'm young. I'm here. I'm writing instead of studying. It doesn't matter. I have time.
I read a book once that struck me to my very core and shaped the very sense of me. I envied the life he took on and the way the importance of nothing played such a grand role. Instead, the importance of what was around him took on that grandeur meaning of what life in itself ought to be. I loved that he did it without care, despite the accusations and assumptions. I strive for that. I strive for that careless pursuit of just being. That in itself seems sufficient, but everything I think is not, is it not? Isn't that what history has taught us? Exactly what I want and where I go, is exactly what is not intended for me.
I read a book once that made me feel important. It took every idea I had and reaffirmed the fact that they are mine and therefore so utterly true. It told me how important I am. I envied the life he took on and how regardless of everything around him, what was truly important were the things he pursued for himself. The idea was just the beginning for him, the life was just the concept that bore him. All the other factors were so far from complex, they just fell into a vat of hot, steaming bullshit. He knew what he wanted and pursued it with such rigor that I can only try to understand. I try. Sometimes.
There's a lot of stories, and I want to know more. I'm stuck in this imposed battle I've afflicted upon myself. I get wrapped around the little things too often, wishing I could have done this or that or not have done that or this, but it's funny how motivating the concept of time is for me. It always wins the battle anyways...
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I have time."
Yeah, that always shuts them up.
10.07.2010
10.03.2010
The Wine
There was a man once who had a daughter with his wife. Before this happened, the man loved his wife. In fact, he loved life. He indulged in the simplest of pleasures. He wasn't an eccentric person, he was actually very much the same person you would expect to run into while ordering a coffee or picking up groceries. You'd never think of him as anything else except a piece of flesh acting as the filling to the life around you. But this man truly did appreciate the squishy texture beneath his feet in the grocery store, he truly did appreciate the busy souls bustling around him in the coffee shop.
He absorbed everything metaphorically, physically, literally and spiritually. The sense of him was overwhelming. You could know in an instant that he was happy. He adored his wife. He adored her humor, her humility and her depth. He was stimulated by her in every sense of the word and longed for her presence every time they were away. Life, it would seem was a wonder. They carried on their way and fulfilled themselves with what they wanted.
The wife was beautiful and timid, often speaking volumes in her notebooks, though most would never have the privilege. She worked a retail job, often mundane she would remember and scribble about in her notebooks, but she was humble and merely did what she was intended to do. She brought home a paycheck and smiled. Though their home creaked and the faucets leaked, it was theirs. They had one small television and couch in the living room, one small oven and fridge in the kitchen, one small bed and clock radio in the bedroom and one small Chevy in their garage. It was enough and they loved it because of this amazing fact: it was theirs.
The wife’s paycheck covered just enough of their expenses, and for this the man worked almost as a sport, playing bartender two nights of the week. This was their play money, the kind of things like movies or dinners got paid for. The rest of the week, the man did many things that he only thought most men should. He was very creative and very smart, so he spent his time sharing with the world. He played his songs, he painted his pictures, he wrote his words, he spoke with strangers, he spoke with friends, he bettered himself- in the classes he took, in the runs he'd run, in the conversations he'd have and in the sermons he listened to.
Then, it struck them like lightning. Their evening of passionate love for each other had a desperate consequence...the woman became impregnated. It was too soon, but they decided that was not their decision and embraced the consequence and took on their new responsibilities. Oh and how easily they adapted to this new life. Nothing mattered but their love for one another and their love for all the things around them. Naturally, the man did more than just bartend two nights a week and the woman picked up several more shifts at work, but this was just what had become.
One day, the man's father came to visit. He was very much the father of the man with a kick in his step and a sparkle in each eye. Because the woman was so close to giving birth, he wanted to give his celebratory gift. Oh and what a gift it was. It was not just one bottle of Rothschild red wine circa 1890, but two. The man was a connoisseur of course and was deeply humbled by such a precious gift. His father, however, asked he save it for the most important day of his child's life. This was no question and no discussion followed, for it made such perfect sense to the man and the wife to hold it for such a momentous occasion.
Time passed and they had their beautiful daughter. They bought her several videos for the small television, kept the fridge well stocked, put a small bed in the spare bedroom and traded in their Chevy for a Volvo. They adored her so. Everything they ever were told about children or about the wonders of having them were so very true. They lived comfortably the three of them for so long, until about the time she turned sixteen.
The daughter, was not really like the man or the woman. She was a brat desensitized by the world around her, bitter and full of angst. She despised people. She did not seek improvement or fulfillment in any way and rarely smiled. In fact, the only way she was similar at all to either the man or the woman was because she liked to write-but she wrote trite and awful poetry, often regarding trite and awful topics. The man and the woman encouraged her in her endeavors, always offering bright solace for their troubled daughter, but their attempts were ill guided and futile.
It wasn't long that the bright and charming man and woman became pale and withered from exhaustion and defeat. But what were they to do? They loved her so. They gave and gave and gave, it literally was as if they gave their heart and soul because the expressions on their face and the demeanor they carried had no such characteristic. Then one day she did the one thing the man and woman hoped she would not.
She took her life. Selfishly, after a trite and awful fight she had with her trite and awful boyfriend, she drove out onto the wrong side of a busy highway. It wasn't until the man and woman saw it on a local news report that they found out; they just assumed she was out late again without calling to check in. They were devastated. They sobbed uncontrollably and the woman locked herself away from the man for hours. In his frustration and rage, the man searched for comfort in the liquor cabinet, and came upon the red wine. He took the bottle, uncorked it and drank nearly its entirety in one swig.
He wiped his lip clean and called out to the woman and heard no response. In a sort of stupor, he unplugged the television from his living room and threw it atop a chest in his bedroom. He closed the blinds, crawled into bed and the glow of daytime soaps, game shows and court shows illuminated the bedroom. Shortly, the woman stumbled in with the second bottle nearly empty in hand, wiping mascara away with her other hand. She crawled into bed next to him and lay still beneath the covers. They sipped their wine. That's where they stayed.
He absorbed everything metaphorically, physically, literally and spiritually. The sense of him was overwhelming. You could know in an instant that he was happy. He adored his wife. He adored her humor, her humility and her depth. He was stimulated by her in every sense of the word and longed for her presence every time they were away. Life, it would seem was a wonder. They carried on their way and fulfilled themselves with what they wanted.
The wife was beautiful and timid, often speaking volumes in her notebooks, though most would never have the privilege. She worked a retail job, often mundane she would remember and scribble about in her notebooks, but she was humble and merely did what she was intended to do. She brought home a paycheck and smiled. Though their home creaked and the faucets leaked, it was theirs. They had one small television and couch in the living room, one small oven and fridge in the kitchen, one small bed and clock radio in the bedroom and one small Chevy in their garage. It was enough and they loved it because of this amazing fact: it was theirs.
The wife’s paycheck covered just enough of their expenses, and for this the man worked almost as a sport, playing bartender two nights of the week. This was their play money, the kind of things like movies or dinners got paid for. The rest of the week, the man did many things that he only thought most men should. He was very creative and very smart, so he spent his time sharing with the world. He played his songs, he painted his pictures, he wrote his words, he spoke with strangers, he spoke with friends, he bettered himself- in the classes he took, in the runs he'd run, in the conversations he'd have and in the sermons he listened to.
Then, it struck them like lightning. Their evening of passionate love for each other had a desperate consequence...the woman became impregnated. It was too soon, but they decided that was not their decision and embraced the consequence and took on their new responsibilities. Oh and how easily they adapted to this new life. Nothing mattered but their love for one another and their love for all the things around them. Naturally, the man did more than just bartend two nights a week and the woman picked up several more shifts at work, but this was just what had become.
One day, the man's father came to visit. He was very much the father of the man with a kick in his step and a sparkle in each eye. Because the woman was so close to giving birth, he wanted to give his celebratory gift. Oh and what a gift it was. It was not just one bottle of Rothschild red wine circa 1890, but two. The man was a connoisseur of course and was deeply humbled by such a precious gift. His father, however, asked he save it for the most important day of his child's life. This was no question and no discussion followed, for it made such perfect sense to the man and the wife to hold it for such a momentous occasion.
Time passed and they had their beautiful daughter. They bought her several videos for the small television, kept the fridge well stocked, put a small bed in the spare bedroom and traded in their Chevy for a Volvo. They adored her so. Everything they ever were told about children or about the wonders of having them were so very true. They lived comfortably the three of them for so long, until about the time she turned sixteen.
The daughter, was not really like the man or the woman. She was a brat desensitized by the world around her, bitter and full of angst. She despised people. She did not seek improvement or fulfillment in any way and rarely smiled. In fact, the only way she was similar at all to either the man or the woman was because she liked to write-but she wrote trite and awful poetry, often regarding trite and awful topics. The man and the woman encouraged her in her endeavors, always offering bright solace for their troubled daughter, but their attempts were ill guided and futile.
It wasn't long that the bright and charming man and woman became pale and withered from exhaustion and defeat. But what were they to do? They loved her so. They gave and gave and gave, it literally was as if they gave their heart and soul because the expressions on their face and the demeanor they carried had no such characteristic. Then one day she did the one thing the man and woman hoped she would not.
She took her life. Selfishly, after a trite and awful fight she had with her trite and awful boyfriend, she drove out onto the wrong side of a busy highway. It wasn't until the man and woman saw it on a local news report that they found out; they just assumed she was out late again without calling to check in. They were devastated. They sobbed uncontrollably and the woman locked herself away from the man for hours. In his frustration and rage, the man searched for comfort in the liquor cabinet, and came upon the red wine. He took the bottle, uncorked it and drank nearly its entirety in one swig.
He wiped his lip clean and called out to the woman and heard no response. In a sort of stupor, he unplugged the television from his living room and threw it atop a chest in his bedroom. He closed the blinds, crawled into bed and the glow of daytime soaps, game shows and court shows illuminated the bedroom. Shortly, the woman stumbled in with the second bottle nearly empty in hand, wiping mascara away with her other hand. She crawled into bed next to him and lay still beneath the covers. They sipped their wine. That's where they stayed.
That Time We
So, fuck. There is this intense euphoria gripping me by the throat, screaming incoherent bullshit. Its words drip like sewage waste from its steaming hot mouth. I can only emulate a sense of it, nothing past its tight pus filled boils and stubbly chin. The rest, very much a deep fog glowing a faint green, blue and orange. And still, I stare at it, scanning its black slit eyes, and I make a conscious decision: fear it or embrace it. The answer seems clear as my stomach knots and my palms sweat. Tears swell in my eyes and I begin to speak, but I stop. Evan smiles, pulls me near and overwhelms me with the truth…
His eyes are black saucers outlined by amber yellow and his wavy hair he tucked behind each ear. I feel a calm ensue as his lips curve into a slight smile,
“It’s more than what we thought, but I’m ninety percent sure I know what’s happening. We need to seriously consider getting the fuck out of here. Drink this.”
I sip on the gallon container of Refreshe water and with unprecedented urgency start to gather our things. Its tingle I feel first in my fingertips, then just below my brow and in between the gaps of all twenty-eight teeth. The tingle grows thick and the throb in my temple pulses harder. Then the surge of tiny needles begin in my neon painted toes, pursuing my thighs, spine and shoulder blades.
I feel engulfed? I feel conquered? I feel frightened? No…I feel…gross. I start a shower I so sorely desired and begin to undress. As I wait for the water to heat up, I grip the sides of the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are saucers like Evan’s, but with a brown outline. As I examine the blue bags beneath my eyes, the mirror turns convex. I blink, and it turns concave. I try to steady my vision, but the mirror and my reflection begin to rumble.
Is it hot, yet? The water slips like grease in between my pale fingers. It seems fine. Upon closure of the bathroom door, confinement instills a breathy panic. The water is sputtering, and still far too cold. I hate it and stand aside, waiting for warmth. In my patience, I fix my eyes to the shower floor. The bat bat bat of each drop is like a hundred Hiroshimas, spreading their vengeance all across the bathroom floor- the same floor in which I stood.
It’s too much, my breath is quick and short, but I need to clean myself. I brace for impact, the god damn bat bat bat. I take a dime sized amount of shampoo and a bar of soap. I still stand in the furthest, driest corner lathering myself. I stall rinsing for minutes, running the bar along my belly and armpits. But the truth becomes clear: I’m far too soapy.
It’s too much; I furiously wipe the suds away, returning consistently to the dry corner. In a courageous act, I stand directly beneath the stream, scratching the shampoo out. It’s too much; I’ve flooded my face and am gasping for a breath. Blinking through one eye, I turn the dial clockwise and end the brutal siege.
I throw my towel on and flee with great conviction, trying to find Evan. He’s pacing the living room and dining room floor. Jake is on the other end of the phone; Evan had him pressed against his ear. His understanding at such an early hour is shot, but he gives Evan what he needs: someone to be on the other end of the phone. I hear them echo among the high ceilings as I stand in the empty room, dripping a cold puddle beneath my feet.
The puddle was sucking me in slowly, but I placed my eyes on the dancing colors that lit up the blinds in the room across from mine, almost as an attempt at leverage. I let focus shift from one moving blob to the next, the cracks in the blinds made them so, sucking them in and spitting them out. Moving, like my chest with each breath in and out. Then, I see from the corner of my eye, a black marble fall silently from the kitchen’s faucet. I lose it, but become engaged by the rave like light emanating from the lime green party cup on the table and Cleo, the gold fish from Pinocchio, swims in it. I lose that, but play Tetris with the geometrical design of the tissue box just right next to it. Then I lose that, but again am entranced by more blobs getting sucked in and spit out.
My eyes flutter wildly like that for a few minutes and Evan finds me deep in my puddle. He wonders if I’ll get dressed.
I wonder, days later after the initial shock had ebbed, if that was just a little bit, what's one hit?
His eyes are black saucers outlined by amber yellow and his wavy hair he tucked behind each ear. I feel a calm ensue as his lips curve into a slight smile,
“It’s more than what we thought, but I’m ninety percent sure I know what’s happening. We need to seriously consider getting the fuck out of here. Drink this.”
I sip on the gallon container of Refreshe water and with unprecedented urgency start to gather our things. Its tingle I feel first in my fingertips, then just below my brow and in between the gaps of all twenty-eight teeth. The tingle grows thick and the throb in my temple pulses harder. Then the surge of tiny needles begin in my neon painted toes, pursuing my thighs, spine and shoulder blades.
I feel engulfed? I feel conquered? I feel frightened? No…I feel…gross. I start a shower I so sorely desired and begin to undress. As I wait for the water to heat up, I grip the sides of the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are saucers like Evan’s, but with a brown outline. As I examine the blue bags beneath my eyes, the mirror turns convex. I blink, and it turns concave. I try to steady my vision, but the mirror and my reflection begin to rumble.
Is it hot, yet? The water slips like grease in between my pale fingers. It seems fine. Upon closure of the bathroom door, confinement instills a breathy panic. The water is sputtering, and still far too cold. I hate it and stand aside, waiting for warmth. In my patience, I fix my eyes to the shower floor. The bat bat bat of each drop is like a hundred Hiroshimas, spreading their vengeance all across the bathroom floor- the same floor in which I stood.
It’s too much, my breath is quick and short, but I need to clean myself. I brace for impact, the god damn bat bat bat. I take a dime sized amount of shampoo and a bar of soap. I still stand in the furthest, driest corner lathering myself. I stall rinsing for minutes, running the bar along my belly and armpits. But the truth becomes clear: I’m far too soapy.
It’s too much; I furiously wipe the suds away, returning consistently to the dry corner. In a courageous act, I stand directly beneath the stream, scratching the shampoo out. It’s too much; I’ve flooded my face and am gasping for a breath. Blinking through one eye, I turn the dial clockwise and end the brutal siege.
I throw my towel on and flee with great conviction, trying to find Evan. He’s pacing the living room and dining room floor. Jake is on the other end of the phone; Evan had him pressed against his ear. His understanding at such an early hour is shot, but he gives Evan what he needs: someone to be on the other end of the phone. I hear them echo among the high ceilings as I stand in the empty room, dripping a cold puddle beneath my feet.
The puddle was sucking me in slowly, but I placed my eyes on the dancing colors that lit up the blinds in the room across from mine, almost as an attempt at leverage. I let focus shift from one moving blob to the next, the cracks in the blinds made them so, sucking them in and spitting them out. Moving, like my chest with each breath in and out. Then, I see from the corner of my eye, a black marble fall silently from the kitchen’s faucet. I lose it, but become engaged by the rave like light emanating from the lime green party cup on the table and Cleo, the gold fish from Pinocchio, swims in it. I lose that, but play Tetris with the geometrical design of the tissue box just right next to it. Then I lose that, but again am entranced by more blobs getting sucked in and spit out.
My eyes flutter wildly like that for a few minutes and Evan finds me deep in my puddle. He wonders if I’ll get dressed.
I wonder, days later after the initial shock had ebbed, if that was just a little bit, what's one hit?
I Just Want So Badly To...
Brows furrowed, head throbbed and words and breaths formed short. The wonder of what was, is and could be become entangled in a thought bubble that floats above a tussled mess of vanity. The stillness is overwhelming and walls around and around her go up and up. It’s too much of something sending thoughts spiraling into a deep. Senselessly making sense of things that ought to have been thought of on several different accounts, but all in question delve deeper still. Among it there were warm and inviting sensations, but no single one had been able to distinguish any other entity from any sort of anything else. It was an endless mess of ideas toppling over one another that drove her into this deep, clinging to the indentations of stone all around, but slipping and losing fingernails as they rose further up. Driving deeper still, it seemed pointless. It’s inexplicable, and yet even more so is the acceptance of such a belonging. For even in every moment of exacerbation, the ensuing grief was tirelessly pursued. Around and around and up and up, searching and hoping for the release. A sort of relief was in itself an entity, not a feeling or an idea, but something sought after…something to believe in. It made sense, but it was the only thing. Its sheer existence proved a worth-while and purpose. Therein was her meaning. It had to be the only thing worth understanding and thusly the only thing worth pursuing. And even still, mottled with rage, she would let the deep take her in. It was only so often, the thought of what was drove her. Clarity begat energy and understanding, but it was never enough before she sat even lower than before in the deep, sprawled in dirt and disgusted by her failure. Relentlessly still, after seeping in the defeat, it was understood what would come next only because it was the only thing left to understand. She climbed and climbed and kept climbing, seeking her something to believe in.
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