There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

When I was a sophomore in high school, I hated my English class. My teacher was young and cool and didn't wear those sad black clogs that so many of the others did, but I still hated it. Each week we would have quizzes on different Latin roots, and very rarely was I valiant or victorious, and I certainly didn't greet those "beneficial" words with benevolence. And what's worse, we had to read Romeo and Juliet from old yellow textbooks that smelled of wilted cabbage and glue. It wasn't very romantic.

And then one day we got to the poetry section of our textbooks. And to be relevant to our class, my teacher made the astute observation that music is like poetry, and that for our first assignment, we were to take one of our favorite songs and analyze it for the class.

I had to do this once before in the eighth grade for my humanities class; it didn't go over well. "Seven Nation Army" by the White Stripes was apparently a bit inaccessible; all my teacher could say at the end was "Wow, that bass part is like a mantra." She was a lesbian and enjoyed eastern philosophy and fair trade coffee. No one else knew what that meant. But I also choreographed a dance to Pink Floyd's "Money," so I don't know why my classmates were so surprised at my musical selection.

Anyway, I wanted this one to be better. But, given my 15 year old status, my musical repertoire certainly was limited. I raced home and poured through my CD collection. The Beatles were too typical, Led Zeppelin were too sexy, and Green Day were too stupid. I tried to listen to the radio for help, but wasn't fond of anything there, either. It was all about "fucked" in all of its forms: getting, being (+ "up").

And then, for whatever reason, I picked up The Smiths. I'd never particularly cared for them; Morrissey always seemed a bit self-absorbed for my tastes. And anyway, he was just another annoying vegetarian. But then I started to listen to some of the lyrics, and things began to make sense.



It was my turn to go next. Katie had just finished presenting Shania Twain's simultaneously empowering and demeaning hit, "I Feel Like a Woman," and it went really well with the class. My teacher liked how Katie used poetic devices in her explanation of the song, but told her that just because Shania said she felt "like" a woman doesn't mean that it is a simile. But she clapped anyway and drew a red check plus next to her name. "Savannah," she said, "you're up."

My hands were shaking as I smoothed my pants and retied my pale yellow ribbon belt. I adjusted my pearls. "Hello," I said (why did I say that?), "I will be playing The Smiths' 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.'"

And I played all four minutes and five seconds of it. Images began to swirl about in my mind as Morrissey's voice entered my ears, and I remembered my first date when a boy, an older boy, came to my house in his car (and not just any car, but a yellow Xterra), and took me with him to see a comedy show. I remembered how I laughed at things I didn't think were funny, just because from the corner of my eye, I could see his teeth glittering like jewels as the comedian told jokes about penises. And it worked; after it was over he hugged my shoulder, the "C" his hand made fit my shoulder perfectly. He said it looked like I had a good time, we should do it again soon.

(We should do it again soon!)

And then on the next date, we went to eat and then to his older friend's house in his car, and I squinted my eyes so all of the street lights would become soft and fuzzy and round like when you look into a kaleidoscope. And I smiled brightly because I felt like I was in a dream. He was a boy who was smart and funny attractive and older than me and he liked me! Me, the girl who, after he came over to the house for the first time, had to blow dry the forest green pit stains out from her lime green shirt. And besides, he was playing Radiohead in the car. I felt like a woman.

"Driving in your car, I never never want to go home"

We got to the house before everyone else did, and all was dark in the car. We sat in an anxious silence; my heartbeat was faster than that of a jackhammer and I knew he had to hear it. But then he turned on "Farmhouse" by Phish. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, so I just breathed his scent. He smoked cloves and I thought that was exotic. And I looked at his eyes; they reminded me of the green traffic lights I saw when I squinted. And more than anything, I wanted to "Go!" but I couldn't.

"Oh God, my chance has come at last (but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask)"

The guitar solo was halfway finished; I knew I had to move soon. But all of a sudden, two headlights illuminated us, and they never went out. His friends were here. And I looked down to my hands in disappointment, and saw his resting nervously atop mine. I didn't feel their weight until now. Scared, and growing brighter and brighter by the minute, I withdrew them. "I guess we'd better go now," I said.

The song was over.

My classmates didn't notice that the song had finished. No one said anything. They didn't know the words, and they were completely bored. Paul began to play on his Nokia. And I was offended--they weren't disrespecting me, they were pissing on Morrissey and my memories. I couldn't stand it; my cheeks grew hot and pink with impatience and I thought about my sweaty and paralyzed hands, and how stupid I felt after I tried to get close to him at the Belle & Sebastian concert when they played "Dress Up In You." He thought they were weird; I thought they were delightfully absurd. I thought about how, even after being tossed aside, his eyes were still more vibrant and vivacious than a green light that would never never go out, no matter how badly I wanted them to turn ugly and red. I would always remember Phish, and cloves and the sparkle of his teeth as they danced in a smoky blue haze, and most importantly, for the first time (not necessarily because of him), I felt alive and sexy and free.

"There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out"

My teacher asked if I was OK. Luke was copying his neighbor's Algebra II homework, and Paul had begun to flirt with Julie. Clay asked for the bathroom pass. They all seemed OK. I shook my head.

"I may not know many things, but if after listening to this song and these words, you decide to keep playing 'Snake' on your phone, you're not human."

I stared at Paul. He wasn't listening to me; Julie was massaging his fat shoulders with her small hands. They reminded me of dung beetles feeding on elephant feces.

"You people are all going to be happy, and it's not fair."

Paul closed his simple brown eyes and rolled his head back onto Julie's desk. She kept eating his shit up.

I lost it.

"You don't care about anything; not words, not love, not poetry, so you don't deserve any of it. I'm not going to explain this song to you because you'll never understand."

I didn't receive a check plus.

I took the bathroom pass from Clay, and ran out of the room. Then I took off my pearls. I stopped listening to Radiohead, and started reading real poetry. I also promised myself I would never smoke again. Later that day, I listened to my copy of "Farmhouse" and cried, and then I threw it away. Tried to throw away my memories too, but I couldn't. But why would I want to, anyway?

"There is a light and it never goes out."

the end of ostrich syndrome

In the moment, I'm dancing and
my legs are burning and
my blood is pumping and
I can taste the wind as it enters and exits my mouth like
a soft pink ribbon.
It's slightly sweet and
it lingers for a few moments on my lips.

I'm making it, I cry!
I'm making the wind!

But then I turn with too much vigor and I fall violently to the floor, and I'm hammered with the cold, hardwood fact that I'm just some girl alone in a white bloodless room, dancing pathetically to songs she doesn't even like.
And my lips are stained red; the dry heat of the room made them chapped and raw.

I have no partner, and no rhythm, just thin clumsy feet that trip on my:
knobby knees and
bony ankles that
look like those of an ostrich.

And then I pick myself up off the floor and turn off the noise, just to
bury my head in the sand. And
I feel so fucking stupid for thinking I could ever really dance to begin with.
A tiny red globule falls from my lips and onto my pale and worthless feet, and
I hate them and feel so heavy and so bound.

The word "good bye" exits my body with almost too much ease and
the soft and bloody 'b' evaporates quickly into the ether, punctuated by the gentle click of the white door. It's a pretty sound, and
delicate and
almost
brightly hopeless

and that light final click is the start of a new, more honest song.

work in progress

She gets her thoughts on love from the worn appendix in the back of her chemistry book and her wisdom from a raw throated, frizzy haired woman banging away at minor seventh chords on a dusty piano. In the mornings and regardless of the weather, she wears her mother’s tattered navy moccasins (which are a size too big). They have old red and turquoise beads hanging from them that don’t go with anything in her closet. And each night, she dreams of sweet smelling plantations, shiny ringlets of honey colored hair, and finding her true love in the science fiction section of the local library. The girl should not be trusted.

She never feels quite at home in her house. Her mother likes to use expressions like “Well idn’t that the pits” when she sees something sad on the local evening news, like on Tuesday, when a man choked on an acrylic fingernail in his burger basket, and on Wednesday, when there was a five car pileup on the highway. The girl never knows what the “pit” is, or for that matter, how there could be more than one. Her father, well, he likes to sit in his pea green recliner and read his newspaper and he likes to drink gin and tonics while doing so. He is almost always reading the newspaper. For a while she wondered if he even had a face anymore, for it is always hidden by newsprint and the occasional colored advertisement about discount pantsuits or clearance lampshades. Her brother, Neil, has a girlfriend and wears school jackets with letters on them and smelled like cigarettes and Aqua Velva. Neil is never around. Her dad calls Neil a “cut up” and when he comes home late with red eyes and a dizzy stride, her mom shakes her head disapprovingly and says, “Now, you don’t see that from a galloping horse.” The girl never understood what a horse, let alone a galloping one, had to do with her brother getting home past curfew.

So, the girl spends most of her time in her room. Her room is covered in hand drawn posters of weird, scientific things, like the Krebs cycle, the Periodic Table, the Loch Ness Monster, and then, staring down to her bed, there is a poster of Clark Gable from “Gone With the Wind.” She loves his moustache and the tip of his nose because it reminds her of a happy little mushroom her class studied once in Biology. Her mom always jokes to her friends about the fact that her sixteen-year-old daughter has a poster of Clark Gable hanging above her bed. She says that she doesn’t know why, but he makes her daughter “as happy as a pig in slop.” Her mother prefers Jimmy Smits. The girl doesn’t like being called a pig, and she thinks that Clark is much too classy to ever be referred to as “slop.” She sighs whenever her mother does this. At least she looks at a man who will look at back at her, the girl thinks. That’s more than her mother can say.

In addition to the posters, her room is a veritable jungle of plastic plants that occasionally gather dust if she does not care for them. But they do not die, even if they happen to grow a thick grayish film around every leaf. To the girl, this is excellent news. When she was little she had a traumatic experience with her rose garden: one day, for no apparent reason, they just wilted and shriveled and fell pathetically to the ground. The petals reminded her of dehydrated cat tongues. Since then, all plants have been plastic, and whenever Alvy, her cat, meows, she has to look away.

Each night, while her parents eat dinner on their TV trays, watching the local news and talking about The Pits and The Stocks, the girl takes her plate upstairs to her room and studies chemistry. Textbooks cover her bed, and eventually her hand begins to cramp because she’s been balancing equations for almost an hour. And then she smells her food and is disgusted by the hardened gravy on her mashed potatoes. They look like hardened plaster and are the color of her lab gloves after an experiment involving iodine. Alvy starts licking at the plate with his tongue and she gets upset and throws the plate to the floor, getting gravy gunk on her equations. And then she gets frustrated, because now her homework will smell like her lousy dinner and she can’t stop thinking about her dead rose garden. But then she looks up to Clark, smiling as handsome as can be, and decides to continue adding protons to her potassium atom.

The truth is that she understands most everything about science and mathematics. She can do logarithmic functions, and she can determine the velocity of X given its time T, and she can balance equations, and she can identify every part of the human heart. But, after sixteen years of daily study, she just doesn’t understand the force that attracts her mother and father together, and how covalent bonds can exist among humans, and she doesn’t know what acted as a catalyst to make Neil turn his potential feelings for a girl into kinetic ones, and she doesn’t understand how neither of these things have set times T and set velocities X. That is what she wants to know most. And that, the girl has decided, is the next problem she is going to solve.

In the meantime, she has finished balancing her final equation. She takes the now dull pencil from her thin fingers, sharpens it, and gingerly, purposefully, scribes her name at the top of the page in cursive: Grace.




The next morning as Grace rode the bus to school, she thought more about love, and why she had never experienced it. She started by thinking about Scarlett O’Hara, and how even though she could have had it with Rhett, she was hopelessly stuck on Ashley. Grace never understood that. She could only surmise that Scarlett only ever wanted what she couldn’t have. That didn’t help Grace, because she wanted no one, and no one wanted her. Then she thought about her brother, and his girlfriend, Rachel. Rachel was very pretty and thin, and had strawberry blonde hair that smelled like pineapple. When Rachel twirled her hair, she liked to bite her lip and giggle into her hand, and Grace found that very sexy. So did Neil. Sometimes Grace would try to emulate it in the mirror, but she would always end up licking her hair on accident and coughing.

And then she would look into the mirror and feel like a failure. It wasn’t that Grace was ugly, she had shiny medium brown hair that fell to her waist, and pale skin with bright green eyes, but she just felt plain. All the time. Grace never wore makeup; she tried to use an eyelash curler of her mother’s once but pressed so hard that for a week her eyelashes looked like crispy uppercase L’s.

Sometimes, when she got out of the shower, she would stare at her body in the mirror. She saw scrawny little legs that, even when her ankles were together, a quarter could fit easily between her thighs. And she saw ribs that looked like the gills of a fish, and on top of that, two small breasts that reminded her of the Hostess Snowballs that her mother liked to eat in secret. She didn’t see anything special, and she didn’t know why men bothered to buy magazines to see something so plain. Grace would think about the popular girls at school, with their grapefruit chests and rounded butts and how they would wear tight clothes that looked like they were spray-painted on, and how their glittery belt buckles would say “baby” or “angel.” Grace thought it was silly for them to have a belt anyway, as if that light stretch denim would ever fall short of their hip bones.


And then she hit her head on the dirty vinyl seat back in front of her. The bus came to a screeching halt as an old black Oldsmobile skidded past them on the right. From her seat, Grace could see the plate “GLMRUS” fade into the distance. It was only 7:47 and she already had a headache.

details

An obnoxious and overperfumed brunette with a tacky flower barrette pushes past me at the book store. she barely squeezes into a faded black sweater and there is mauve lipstick that slowly seeps into the paperthin lines above her lips like an hourglass in reverse. Some is beginning to stick to her front teeth, which are slightly yellow due to years of smoking virginia slims, or so we must presume. Someone recommends aldous huxley. She chews her gum, lightly spraying "brave new world" with berry mint flavored spittle. She drops the book. thoroughly disenchanted. She looks to the clerk, chewing her gum like a bullfrog does as it relishes its fly. "so where is the romance section?"

and then she is gone, whisked away to exotic Cyprus, where her tan Greek lover doesn't care about the deep red lines that her l'eggs pantyhose with control top leaves on her slightly flabby stomach, and he doesn't ask about the man who she loved when her stomach was flat and her teeth were white, and he certainly doesn't ask about the man who left her while she slept, leaving nothing but an old barrette between the sheets of their bed with a long blonde hair hanging from it like a stubborn loose tooth (she found it the next week when waking; it molded itself overnight to her side as a cold, brittle truth). Her lover only cares about her, and her now, and he loves her crafty flower barrettes and he lives for her berry mint and menthol flavored kisses. And she is happy and safe and loved and warm when she leaves; she feels like that's what good books should do for people. Who is Allen Huxby, anyway, and what does he know about being brave?

...who am i trying to channel?

My mouth wreaks of novocaine. The numbing solution the dentist gave me earlier was a deep shade of pink; it reminded me of a sliver of a large intestine being served to my teeth on a cotton quilted platter. I wanted to gag. The man behind the mask shook his head at me. "Your cavity is pretty deep," he said. For whatever reason, I was offended. How dare he tell me how deep my cavity was, and surely he had seen worse in his illustrious career as a family dentist. Almost immediately I despised him. And I hated that sterile white room in which I was stuck and that dowdy hygienist humming off key to that depressing jingle of a discount furniture retailer. And I loathed the fact that his fat latexed fingers were poking and prodding at my cavity and I wanted to scream but I couldn't. It was my dark pit and my deep decay, and it was something that I had done well enough to conceal for some time now. I remember having a strange and primal instinct to bite his fingers, to pierce through the plastic and into his skin to make him stop, but I couldn't; I simply couldn't feel anything.

It was the strangest sensation when I left. Half of my face had no feeling, and the other was perfectly emotive. I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see how puffy and jowly the left side of my face was; it reminded me of a partially deflated balloon. Prelude to adulthood, perhaps? I tried to force a smile onto my face, but only one corner of my mouth agreed to curl, and my "smile" looked like a "j" knocked helplessly on its side. I then imagined myself as a recovering stroke victim. Would my husband still love me with my partially frozen face? Would my family still recognize me? I thought of all of the people I knew who had suffered from strokes, and how generally after the fact, their outward expressions tend to mirror their frozen facial features. I suppose it is easier to give up than it is to try; and besides, having half a feeling is worse than having no feeling at all. All I know is that I certainly didn't feel like the girl who, while resting quietly on her bed, would later be told how "pretty she looked today" by a boy sitting rather close to her chest.

(This stupid little girl was immediately self conscious because of her makeup, her clothing, and even her own heartbeat. She felt like they distracted from who she really was, and painted a portrait of someone who she was not. Unable to speak, this little girl tossed a pillow into his face and rolled to her side. And then he fucked her, and she didn't feel pretty at all. She didn't feel anything. All she could see were gloved fingers, sanitary solution, and large intestines as he grunted. She looked to the ceiling for relief, but the pocks rearranged themselves to form molars and bicuspids and incisors. Ninety seconds passed, and he pathetically whispered "Oh, shit. Wow." She was hoping the novocaine would find its way into his mouth, sparing both of them from saying things they did not mean. "That was, great," he panted. She was covered in pools of his sweat. They reminded her of oil slicks that race cars leave after a drag race. His breath smelled like an ash tray. She smiled faintly, like a pale crescent moon does before it dissolves quietly into the sky, and kissed him. Thank god she couldn't feel that either.)

Later that day I went to my grandmother's. As I was waiting for her to answer the door, I couldn't help but notice how similar my hands were to her old oak tree: dry and spindly and made stiffer and weaker by time. She greeted me with open arms, "Well, don't you look pretty," she said. I wanted to cry.

She ushered me inside. We discussed Christmas, presents, and her meals until she finally showed me what she wanted to discuss. She pulled out a flyer from some womens magazine. It was some concoction that was supposed to boost your immune system, tastes like berries! Keeps you healthy! I eyed it listlessly as it fell slowly atop her crossword puzzles and prescriptions. I've grown annoyed of this. My mother pushes iron supplements and protein on me. She thinks I am either anemic, have mono, or am dieting. She notices that I have "pain pills" in my purse, but gets sore with me when I sigh and say that it is just aspirin. She doesn't believe me. They are a new variety, I say. My mother shakes her head and I recall the time she burst into my room when I was in high school, demanding that I give her my drugs. I wasn't on any at the time; she scoured and scoured and didn't find any and then finally apologized, and asked if I was just sad. I hate the word "sad." She doesn't like that I wear the color black and am tired often. She hates the fact that I don't indulge in mayonnaise based spreads, and don't eat peanut butter cookies. She asks me if I am sad, if I am trying to lose weight, if I want to order a pizza, and if I need to see a doctor. To all of these I say "No." I always want to add "...but what kind?" but I don't. My mother also enjoys talking to the television about charming men in cinema while licking artichoke dip off of her fingertips. Occasionally she gets some stuck between her teeth but she doesn't notice. I don't say anything, either. I nod my head to this, and smile blankly back at the cold screen. A stupid little girl is about to get fucked by a hawk nosed man in a suit.

I then look at my own fingertips, and am surprised to see a lone, longish nail. I almost never see the whites of them; I always bite them off before they have the chance to grow. But I do regularly see the color white on them. I always thought those little white specks on the pinks of my nails were just bruises (when I was younger I likened them to my very own stars), but as my mother quickly pointed out, it is a sign of nutrient deficiency. The nail reminds me of a white marble tombstone in a crooked cemetery. Instinctively, I bite the nail off and let it linger a bit on the tip of my tongue as some sort of ivory prize, but I still can't feel it. Or maybe I can, I don't know. Besides, that prize has no weight, no texture, no color, no taste, no odor, and no sound. I wonder to myself, sometimes, is there a difference between paralysis and weightlessness? And then I think about those sad stroke victims. I get frustrated with myself, because maybe they aren't really sad, maybe they don't even realize they're numb at all, maybe they never really loved their spouses and family before the stroke, and maybe they were bloodless all along. I hope I am not smiling while I think of these things, but how will I ever know?

I sometimes worry that I am beginning to grow accustomed to this lack of taste in my mouth.

Steinbeck's "Chrysanthemums"

"Oh, I don't have any time for that!" said Iris. She was about to plant her Spring perennials.

"But it's his birthday."

Impatiently, she dropped her trowel on the table. "Look," she said matter-of-factly, "my hands are already dirty, and by the time I clean everything up I'll already be an hour late. Besides, he doesn't want to see me anyway. You go, I'll stay here with my flowers." She kissed her daughter on the cheek. It was returned with a dry sigh.

"Fine."

Iris very well could have gone if she wanted; her daughter knew that too. But she just preferred her garden. It was always so quiet and beautiful and it was all up to her. She had been gardening for years now; she loved the reciprocity of it all. If she put the work into a pot of peonies, the pot of peonies would give her beautiful blooms. It wasn't like, say, investing emotions into a relationship with a man who would fuck her and then leave, and it certainly was more pleasant than a sour-mouthed daughter who blamed her for her lack of relationship with her father. What was there not to understand about a flower? Plant it with care, water it, and voila: a pink beauty.

She'd made a routine of it, actually. Each morning, Iris would rise with the sun, work in the garden for a few hours, fix lunch (which was usually a salad), watch the soaps, water the garden, make dinner (which also was usually a salad), go to sleep. This pattern continued for years, and she was quite content with it. Life was much more simple this way. The wind would bring about the occasional visitor, but when the dust finally settled, it was Iris and her flowers. It was always Iris and her flowers.

Her daughter left. Iris sighed as the wind from the door's slamming reached her face and slowly raised her pepper colored bangs. She could taste its life. She imagined the wind to be crisp and light, like iceberg lettuce. So, Iris went outside and began digging deep into the earth. Soil was always one of her favorite smells; she loved how her fingers would get dirty and rough and wet as she worked. In her garden, she was independent Iris, a woman of the earth. Sometimes her fingers hurt, but thankfully the pain and visible flaws could be washed away as if they never happened.

The bulbs Iris had ordered for Spring were expensive. They were yellow calendulas, something she had never dealt with prior to this year. She tended to them like she never had before, occasionally sacrificing her routine for them. But it was worth it; she knew. After all, the more work she put into them, the more beautiful they would be.

Spring came, and so did her calendulas. In eager anticipation, Iris would look out of her kitchen window each morning as she was steaming her tea. The way the light hit the garden, the way the birds were chirping, the pleasant briskness of the morning wind causing a fluttering of the ivy; it was auspicious. She opened the door.

Iris went to the garden. In it, there were her bulbs, and from the bulbs she could see her long, slender stems. And from the stems she saw her bright green buds. And all of a sudden, the sun reached down with its long golden arms and the buds began to bloom. Iris watched carefully as the green separated, eyes focused on the emerging blossom, hoping to see a bright yellow calendula. But something terrible happened; they were grey. All of them. Each flower bloomed, revealing not a charming calendula, but a shriveled and withering plant, neck snapped and hanging limply like a dirty mop. One by one and faster and faster the dead flowers punctured through the earth like bullets, and now some blossoms resembled hard skeletal fists. Their petals resembled razorblades, and others looked like bruised fingernails on a cadaver. And they kept reaching and clawing and growing and snapping their grey-petaled teeth at the lone Iris. And it didn't stop, and soon all Iris could see for miles and miles was grey. This couldn't be, she thought. I did everything right, everything. In her disbelief, she cupped her hands to her mouth. She smelled the soil entrenched deep within her fingernails. It smelled like shit. But maybe it always did. And then Iris wilted and fell to the ground, defeated. Crumpled and withered among her garden of dead flowers, she cried:

"But I did everything right,
but I did everything right."

And the wind would bring about the occasional visitor, but when the dust finally settled, it was Iris and her flowers. It was always Iris and her flowers.

Chrysanthemums

I swore I could feel the weight of your chin on my shoulder this morning but it was just a decorative pillow. I was bombarded with chrysanthemums and dahlias and reds and yellows and it fucking hurt. I threw you off of my bed and rolled over, but I still couldn't sleep.

Twin beds can only conceal so much.
You're fucking stuffed and I'm never hungry and
I don't know how to do anything anymore.
I can't even sleep

I don't even miss you is the thing.
A pillow can always be replaced
I just miss the weight and indentations
in my sad white sheets.

Thank you so much.

“When you consider that so much institutional wisdom is erected atop this foundation of sand, I guess what I’m thinkin’ is, it doesn’t matter whether the Greatest Generation, the Boomers, the X’ers or the Millenials are calling the shots—we can’t seem to hoist ourselves from the tar pits of sacred legends long enough to try something that might actually work. We get incredible glimpses of hope every now and then. 1989 was one of them. You’re one of them. Your mom loves to talk about how the Banana River dolphins swung over to greet her the day before you were born. I’ve long thought that that would make a wonderful place to begin again.

Love, OST (Old Strange Thing)

11/13/09”

Dear Logan,

You turn thirteen in two days, and I'm worried about you. Your panic attacks have not improved, and your fascination with death and dying has only gotten worse with age. I'm concerned, especially after tonight.

"Logan," your mother jokingly asked you, "what would you like for your birthday?"

I expected to hear "cell phone," but you said this:

"Well, Mom, I would like my old house back, but I can't have that. I hope more closet space was worth ruining my childhood."

The look in your eyes was something I'd only seen from someone your age once before; I'd seen them in myself on one of those nights I would stare at my body in the mirror searching for and counting the number of protruding ribs I had. Your eyes were so dark and cold and so so distant. Your mother looked as if she had been punched in the chest, and what's worse, after you said that you gingerly picked up your fork and began twirling your spaghetti, acting as if nothing had happened. You didn't speak for the rest of the evening, and when the waiter took away your bowl, I noticed your food had barely been touched.

Logan, you are not your brother. He wears an auburn crown on his head, he can dance, and he can throw a ball. You are Logan; you are named after the small town in West Virginia that sits atop a mountain and looks out over the Guyandotte River, the place where your great-grandfather, a much admired sheriff, was born. You are also named after the town where he, on the day of his own parade, clutched his chest tightly and fell silently onto the cold leather seat of his old Crown Vic. You are Logan; you read poetry, you write stories, and when your cat Jessie died, you shaved off one of your eyebrows because you knew (you knew!) that that is what the Egyptians did when honoring one of their deceased feline friends.

You are a remarkable individual with an extraordinary mind, but those terribly dark eyes do not belong to such a young boy.

Speak

He was late. All was dark in their home, and he fumbled in like a drunken stranger. He could hear the floors as they slept; they gently sighed as his heavy feet made their way from the front door to the kitchen. He lackadaisically thrust his briefcase onto his armchair; it separated and splayed its leathery legs with almost too much ease, and he watched lazily as a few papers fell languidly to the floor.

And then there was a hum. She was waiting. In the fluorescent lights he saw her: her greyish eyes, hollow cheeks, and the sad white outline of her cotton underwear grazing against her tattered college sweatpants. He saw her hands, spotted and dry, and her feet that had widened substantially after their first child. And her toenail polish: indigo. It reminded him of those geysers they saw on their family vacation to Yellowstone. And all of a sudden, everything was sulfuric; he winced and covered his mouth, averting his eyes to the roar of the fluorescent lights.

She saw a single thread hanging from the cuff of his shirt like a loose tooth. A button had once been there. She stared at his feet. The tongue of his shoe lay lazily over his laces, speaking and saying more than either of those two had done in quite some time. His black pants that she had ironed that morning had dog hair on them. The cat's tail was teasing her left calve; she pushed it away. The zipper of his fly was sticking out, taunting her. It reminded her of an unruly bicuspid she had to remove that morning. The buttons of his shirt were one off. She got to his face; the whites of his eyes were sallow in the light, covered in what seemed to be a blood-saliva mixture. Something she had also seen that morning. He had been drinking, she knew. Sweat began to pool in his temples, and at the very top, she could see the beginnings of a receding hairline.

He looked at her, and immediately looked away. Drunken curiosity made him look back one more time. He didn't recognize her; her lips, once plump and soft like an overstuffed pillow now resembled the thin black line that appears when one lays on a bed for several hours. Her eyes, soft and doe like, now resembled the dark and cold lochs he encountered while on business in Scotland.

She scanned his eyes, but they kept hiding behind their thin, flesh colored veils so rapidly and erratically that they appeared to be some kind of Morse code. The cat began to sniff at his ankles. He shooed it away. Then, it hopped to the counter, its eyes set on the now cold hotplate she had set aside for him.

Both of their eyes followed the cat. He watched her while she stared resignedly at the animal; small and silent tears streamed from her eyes, filled the hollows of her cheeks, and made their way into the cracked tributaries of her lips. He reached his sweaty hand to her fleshy shoulder. She trembled.

She took the plate from the cat who had begun to lick its lips, and began scrubbing away at the food caked on it. His hands were throbbing at the same tempo of the droning howls of the lights. And the faucet spewed cold truth onto the dirty plate while she hacked away at the hardened mashed potatoes with her metal fork. She would occasionally scrape the china. He winced. The cat jumped from the counter, awaking the floor. It groaned. And the faucet kept crying, and the lights kept howling, and they both kept staring.

Then, the little boy in baby blue footed pajamas tottered silently into the kitchen. He was afraid of the Bedtime Monster. But he saw Mommy and Daddy standing together quietly by the sink in the bright light, and everything was OK. He turned on his padded toe and retreated quietly into the dark, smiling all the way to the pillow.

palindromes

It's all cyclical. It's happening now; it has happened; it happened; but what if it hadn't; it still happens. Tenses may change, but ultimately we must return to the present.

We read the newspapers, wonder what happened; could it be prevented? What if she went to the laundromat before? What if she stopped for a snack? Still, would it happen? It has happened; it did. And then we close the thin sheets riddled with words of the past and present, and open our eyes to the future. Where does the past go? Where do the words go and where do the people go when they meet the sharp silver lips of the shredder? Are they still with us; had they lived the life they desired; what if they didn't--how would they know? Oh Jesus, what do any of us know?

Accidents have happened, and I wonder if I close the paper I can predict what the future will present.

P.P.C.P.P
(present, past ((perfect)), conditional, past, present)

"On the Road"

Nothing ever changes, but we are constantly changing. That is something, for me at least, that is extremely difficult to wrap my mind around. Baby blue blankets and caskets, little girls quoting big books, fizzy giggling and dark eyes behind closed doors, and waiting hours in traffic for, well, nothing. What a life we live.

I've spent a lot of time driving lately. Today, I drove to the wake of my friend Mark's father. Before today, I had never seen a corpse; my family is all about ashes, I suppose. The concept seems foreign to me, and I felt like an outlet without a plug. That is, until I saw everyone's eyes.

I'd seen that kind of eye only once before, at my grandfather's funeral. I was playing Edelweiss on the violin, and my trembling fingers forgot that I was to play in G-major. I added a C sharp, and my fingers writhed in agony as the thin white instrument hit the soft metal string. I dropped the bow, and everything was silent. Family members were pulling out new handkerchiefs, but my grandmother was motionless. Her eyes were glossy and still like marbles. Keep playing, my mother mouthed. But I couldn't; the bow had fallen and dirt was covering the white hair. And I couldn't stop staring at my grandmother's eyes, and how far off they seemed; they reminded me of planets then. I didn't finish the song.

Nothing changed at this place. Eyes were plutonian, and directed toward the casket on the altar. And I was struck, dumbfounded even, at what befell me. Mark's dad had suffered through brain cancer and a coma, and therefore he had not a single hair on his entire body. The body was bloated and his skin was waxen, resembling in color the lazy sunlight that seeped through the stain glass windows.

What was most remarkable was the color of his casket: baby blue. It was inappropriate to say at the time, and maybe even now, but when I looked to the middle of the church, I didn't see a middle aged corpse; I saw a sleeping baby. And I saw the eyes of my grandmother, and wondered if she didn't see her husband, but something else.

And as I was leaving, I looked through the naked branches of the sky. It was baby blue. It was the body, and the baby, and the blanket, and the casket. I understood everything and nothing at the same time.

***

I went driving again the other night, this time to a party. It was at the home of a girl a year younger than me: a costume party. I thought to myself that this was a bit redundant, college freshmen wear masks daily. But I had no room to talk, I was the one wearing sunglasses at night.

I had a paper bag filled with a bottle of cheap champagne in my hand. And dark words with whispers appeared. "Oh my God, dude, is that alcohol?" it said, sound aiming toward my bag. "Shit, it is! I'm getting schwasted tonight." I smiled politely, then shut the door behind me.

I made my way to the living room, silently sipping from a solo cup, watching quietly as I saw flashes of 10.0 megapixel silhouettes from the kitchen. Some girls wore pigtails and flowery dresses without panties, some girls looked at boys and then hid their pupils with their eyelashes, and some girls quoted Jack Kerouac. "Have you read On the Road?" I said no. And then they spoke of mad men, and roman candles. My cheeks began to flush.

I went into the next room. The girl hosting the party was worried that certain promiscuous guests were having sex in her parents' bedroom. I put the cup down and went upstairs to investigate. I heard soft and muffled noises beyond the white door. I knocked, and opened the door.

A drunk girl with raccoon eyes was lying supine beneath the sheets, limbs hanging aimlessly like a marionette. The boy looked at me, cheeks flushed, and with sweat collecting on his temples. Her eyes were far away, like my Grandmother's. "What?" the boy said.

I furrowed my brows. "You know what," I said. "Have some class and don't fuck someone at a party." Again, I smiled politely, and shut the door behind me. Was I really only a year older than them? What had that girl seen to have eyes like my grandmother? It perplexed me; it was sweet and pathetic and beautiful and so so lonely, and God, I felt so old.

***

The next night, I attended another party, and ran into someone who I once loved immensely. Maybe I still do, I don't know. And I was amazed; when I met his eyes, I did not respond with passion, wanting, or even hatred. Just nothing. And to be honest, it really fucking scared me. I thought of eggs, and how they start out white with the potential of something feathery and great, and how one of three things happens:

-they hatch, and eventually die naturally
-their shell is shattered and cooked by others
-they do not hatch at all, and just rot

The result is the same no matter what. I looked into his eyes, and then I later looked at mine. I even looked at the happy costumed couples, and I saw the same thing: egg whites and black yolks. All the same.

***

I drove back from the wake today with a friend, discussing death, the future, and plans. As I was admiring the robin's egg sky and its red breasted foliage, I was interrupted by abrasive orange brake lights in front of me. Damn it, I thought. The jam was long--it seemed unending. Must have been something major, a multi-vehicle accident, heavy construction, something important.

My friend and I talked about the seasons. I prefer them, I said. I lived 12 years of my life without them, and sometimes I think we need Winter to kick us in the ass and remind us of how small we really are. I told him, essentially, I wanted to live somewhere with dynamic seasons.

Finally, the orange stream of traffic was met by a single orange sign: "Right Lane Closed." I was baffled. You mean to tell me, I said, that we waited so long for this, and this is it? This stupid orange sign? What a miserable color. What a miserable fucking life.

***

And I'm sitting here now, pen and paper, trying to figure it all out. I look to the sky and know nothing, only life and death and the interconnectedness of it all. I look to myself and know nothing, my eyes are only yolk and whites, and so are everyone else's. And I guess we'll never really know anything, but maybe it's better that way.

Happy Friday, y'all!

wax museums

no matter how bright the flame, the wax always dries hard and cold.
when i was little i thought that they looked like little tear drops as the wick came closer and closer to its imminent metal end
but i was always curious;
were those little orange faces crying or just sweating?
a dark and cathartic realization of their finite existence, or just, well,
the physiological by-products of their existence?
i want to be more than wax

I've thought about this for awhile, and decided that this is necessary to write about. It's more for my own benefit, and it's nothing I wish to receive "attention" for. I have a real connection with conveying this through the pages, mainly because I control entirely what they say. All I really want is to be happy, and I feel that writing this out and being open about this is a great first step. There's nothing cryptic about it; it is what it is.

The right of pursuing one's happiness is one of our very basic rights, yet I feel like it's one of the most difficult rights to obtain, mainly because it is all dependent on definition. That is where the problem does lay, and that is where so many people (myself included) fuck things up, and that is why most people never achieve it. What I am about to say is my own story of failed and stupid attempts at a vain definition of "happiness," and something to which everyone (at least abstractly) can relate. I'm going to write this once, and with each tap of my fingers I have no clue what will come out next.

Here we go.


Essentially, everything that has been said by everyone who I've hurt is right. I am cold, I am lonely, and I don't really know how to love. When I was a child, I would never kiss any of my parents or relatives, and I was physically incapable of telling people that I loved them. My parents' marriage didn't work out, but that's not an excuse; it's just one of the first places people look when they try to understand why someone is sad. Puttylike minds can be shaped by even the most crooked of hands, I suppose. But ultimately, it's still my choice. Each night, I could have said "I love you" after "Goodnight," but I didn't. The concept of the word seemed foreign and awkward to me.

And it's not like I haven't had the opportunity and experiences to alter that part of myself. I've had plenty of people who offered their love to me, who wanted me to be happy, but again, through my actions and inactions I've forced them out. And really, they should be out anyway.

Tonight someone told me what they like most about me is that I don't care about image, and that deep down I understand life, what matters most, etc, to an extent that most others do not. And I wanted to vomit. That flattery is completely undeserved and completely false.

I've always been obsessed with appearances, facades, and nuances, because they can mimic feelings almost seamlessly. I remember when I was eight years old, lonely at my first stay away camp (I didn't participate in any activities; I sat with the handicapped and overweight kids), I didn't like the fact that I didn't make any friends. I looked to the mirror, and wondered what was wrong with me. So, at dinner, I stared at my plate in silence.

And then in middle school, I saw all of the pretty popular girls with straight hair and puka shell necklaces laughing and getting boys to call them on the phone. I never got too close to anyone (even though that's what I wanted most), because I was scared of attaching myself and then having something taken away. So, flawed logic told me that to be happy, I had to be skinny. So I looked at my plate again, and began to hide my food.

And when I was 13, I discovered my grandmother's medicine cabinet. Stupidly, I started to read the bold words "dietary supplement." Oh my God! It had the word "diet" in it! I could be skinny! And happy! So I took it. I remember crying in her bedroom after swallowing it and writing a message in a bottle to be opened after my death; I knew what I was doing was stupid, and I just KNEW that I would die by ODing on "diet pills."

I noticed no difference in this, so I started doing my research. Still curbed my foods, exercised every night for hours at a time, and began taking my grandfather's laxatives and diuretics (one at a time so he wouldn't notice). I always sucked in my stomach, but it was never hollow enough. I remember crying one night in the mirror because I thought my thighs were close to touching each other, and that meant that I could never be happy. I knew it was so goddamn dumb, but I kept pinching anyway. My eighth grade health teacher called me an ectomorph the next day. And that made me happy.

Freshman year of high school came around, and people would look at me in the halls and point at my bony frame. My grandmother told me one day that she didn't recognize me because of how thin I had become. It's all the ballet, Nezzie! I told her. My mom took my hand one day after my grandfather's death and asked me if I was OK--I was, she said, "so thin." Kids in my geometry class whispered the word anorexic as it was my turn to find the area of an arc on the board. And I was fucking flattered.

But at night, I would still cry because I was still alone and my thighs were too big, and because my grandfather who read me "Caps For Sale" died and because my Dad was so far away, and because I felt like a failure because I couldn't even make myself throw up with a toothbrush. But mainly because I was masking my real unhappiness with something vain and pathetic.

And then junior year, I got the attention of a few boys, and I forgot (temporarily) about my loneliness. And I lost my virginity, and things were great! High school! And for prom, I saw a beautiful champagne colored dress, but had to buy a size-4. And then, I saw a picture of myself in jeans, and my thighs touched. Soon enough, I went back to those familiar aisles of the pharmacy, and proceeded to the self check-out.

Same time next year: same boy (cheated on me), same dress designer, different size: size-0. Thanks, mono. Something really fucking disgusting? I was excited when I found out I had mono and not strep. No appetite! Thin!

And then things were OK for awhile, but soon enough I found out my father had cancer, and how lonely both of us were. And then to cope, I shut everyone else out of my life again, went back to the pharmacy, and threw my regulars plus some extra shit into my basket. And I knew it was stupid, and ridiculous, but I liked it. I LOVED that I was "fucked up." And obviously, if I knew I was "fucked up," and trying to be "fucked up," then I wasn't really "fucked up." Stupid girl. But whatever, I liked the results.

And now, I am hypercritical and sensitive, and I'm pretty sure I'm lonelier now than I ever have been before. Sometimes I take rainbow pills, and sometimes I drink on an empty stomach because it hits me faster that way. The worst part is knowing what I'm doing, have done, and will do each step of the way. And I mean, I'm sad. But being sad is something I think you can know and be simultaneously.

But really, I'm sad because no matter what size I am, I know in my heart that it doesn't matter, and I know I really don't care about any of that bullshit anyway, but I've grown up with it and have had a really difficult time letting it go! I'm sad because I've figured out how formulaic and average what my real problems are in a matter of minutes, but it's taken years on my body to get to this point. Here it is:

1. Mom and Dad split up at age 4.
Effect: concept of love is fucked (my choice)
2. I live with my mother, see my father on the weekends
Effect: men are absent, and I don't really see hetero "love"
Potential future effect: my affinity toward gay men?
3. I move somewhere new, feel lonely.
Effect: excessive desire to fit in, to be wanted, to be loved
4. See pretty popular girls holding hands with boys
Effect: boys make girls happy, and wanted and loved, but only the pretty ones
5. Still lonely, grandfather dies
Effect: even more absence of XY chromosome, more desire to be "loved"
Effect: I fill the "void" with promises of happiness (defined then as thinness)
Effect: develop a nasty habit in pursuit of happiness
Final effect: push others away because ultimately my partner of 11 years is my "problem," and the only thing I can dedicate myself to 100%.


Reversing all of this takes a lot of time and effort, but it's something I think I can accomplish, albeit slowly. Deep down, I know I have what it takes, and I deserve to be happy.

It's a work in progress, but it's progress. And that's all that really counts, isn't it?

Sometimes, I worry to myself that I'll never really know the man whose blood flows through mine, and that he'll fade quietly into the night, alone in his peninsula. And I worry even more not about how I will respond, but how I just may not. I don't really know my father, and I feel like I don't really know myself, and any of my subsequent actions or inactions are just some ruse to cover the ugly holes in the floor of my heart. I would think I'm numb, but that would require a little less feeling and a lot less tears. I'm not asking for pity. There's really no colorful language I can use to describe it, to pretty it up a bit and make myself seem more polished and fucking pristine. I hate talking about it because I refuse to make myself vulnerable and will never ever let anyone see me cry. I am cold, and it breaks my tight fisted heart that I know more about my father's ailments than I do his life. And I worry that I can never know myself, because I don't know who and what is inside of me. I wish this would stop, I really do, but how do you fill something that has no end? I don't know to whom I am speaking, and why I give two shits about where I place my prepositions right now, and why this seems to have manifested itself so quickly and abruptly. Fuck, I don't even know what "it" or "this" is. That's the scariest part.

King Glenn's Word

Once upon a time there was a white haired king named Glenn Beck who lived atop a hill made of white sand. His voice was loud and shrill, and when he barked and stomped his scepter the entire city could hear it. It wasn't a question of being able to hear it, but being able to avoid it. Even the fishermen working miles away at the wharf were susceptible to this mad king's rants.

One day, King Glenn heard of a neighboring village's new efforts at spreading a sense of community, responsibility, and charity. Glenn hated this, because to him, ideas (especially benevolent ones) spread like disease, and he did not, under any circumstances, desire that the lowly peons in his town would help each other. Secretly, it was because Glenn was worried that once there was a united village, they might see past his ivory locks and may not be so intimidated by his ethereal castle made of sand. Striking his scepter violently on his marble floor, he spat and shouted:

IT'S PROPAGANDA, IT IS ALL PROPAGANDA! ALL OF THE GOD-LOVING CITIZENS OF MY KINGDOM SHALL NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, VOLUNTEER! WE SHALL NOT HELP OTHERS, IT IS THE DEVIL'S WORK AND WE SHALL NOT HAVE ANY PART OF IT.

Citizens stopped what they were doing at once: the bakers stopped baking, the fishermen stopped fishing, and the teachers stopped teaching. They were all startled. A young boy who was helping an old woman with her groceries dropped the bag at once, frowned, and ran away. What is volunteerism, the townspeople wondered? Isn't everything we do for one another some form of it? Out of fear of King Glenn, the villagers retreated into their homes and lived in silence, only attentive to the King's daily shouts and decries against humanity. Soon enough, the entire kingdom was in disarray.

Upon hearing of the kingdom's weakening bloodline, many other neighboring kingdoms became interested in pursuing it, and claiming it as their own. One day, as King Beck was staring out the window of his castle, he saw an army from a neighboring village appear in the horizon. The black line seemed as though it would never end. King Glenn, alone in his castle made of sand, began to worry. He looked down to his kingdom; no one was wandering the streets, all doors to homes and buildings were closed. He violently struck his staff once more and said:

CITIZENS, AN ARMY FROM THE NEIGHBORING VILLAGE HAS ENTERED OUR BORDERS. I REQUIRE YOU AT ONCE TO VACATE YOUR HOMES, AND HELP DEFEND OUR BELOVED KINGDOM!

Surely, thought Beck, they would listen. He licked the white spittle from the sides of his cracked lips, and watched out the window with anticipation. In his mind, he saw townspeople, men, women, children, the elderly, all pouring out of their houses like his little and mindful ants (as he so desired them to be) with weapons, fighting the King's war.

But no one came, and the lights in the houses remained shut. The army drew closer. He struck his staff again.

CITIZENS, IF YOU LOVE GOD, YOU WILL COME OUT THIS INSTANT AND SAVE OUR KINGDOM.

He struck his staff the hardest he ever did, and all of a sudden, things started to shake. King Glenn looked up, and he saw his chandelier start to rattle. And then, he saw his saucers tremble. And before he knew it, his sand castle began to crumble.

From their window, the townspeople gasped as the immaculate castle fell to pieces, and watched in terror as the king (or so they thought, it was hard to discern him from the sand), struggled and choked in the mass avalanche, crying (from what they could hear, that is, it was rather muffled): Help me! Help me!

A little boy tried to run up to the top of the once-hill, but his mother stopped him. Son, she said, we are not to help others. It is the order of the King.

The little boy stopped, sighed, and went back to his playthings.

The army continued to march, however no blood had to be shed. After all, the king died by his own hand.

A few months later, as new rule had been established, the late King's thoughts had come true: the idea of volunteerism did spread, and citizens raked up the sand together from the fallen castle and transplanted it to the beaches. One person raised question, saying they should not just toss away this sand; it was special, he said.

"Don't be daft," said the next, "sand is sand. Anyone can build a castle from it, but it will never last. Now here, help me with this shovel."

And the other man did, and soon enough, King Beck's marvels, both his word and his palace, were but tiny white granules of nothingness, soon to be forgotten by all.

Darwin, Baby.

I can't believe that 60% of Americans don't believe in evolution, but those 60% believe in capitalism.

Isn't it all survival of the fittest?

Actually, scratch that. I don't believe in evolution OR capitalism because we're all just a bunch of stupid apes with too many things.

"Can I get back my lonely life?"

Drugs were good for these guys, fame was not.
But maybe they are the same thing, one is just more expensive.
I suppose it's all a matter of definition?
I'm beginning to redefine things, and I'm scared.

"Kings, you have no clothes!"

how precious.

Current Addictions:

• two small blue pills that take away what I don't like
• two small blue pills that make me feel what I don't like
• two yellow capsules that promise Results!
• one orange pill to make me feel Alright
• one white pill to eat away at my insecurities
• major sevenths (they just can't quite make it, can they?)
• covering, concealing, masking, and hiding what I don't like
• counting, pinching, and frowning (usually in that order)
• being jealous as couples kiss in the street, but secretly smiling: only one person can fit in a coffin
• books and books and books to flood my mind and clean my thoughts
• laughing at myself, because in the end none of my rainbow pills matter, and that obnoxious lip locked couple doesn't matter, and that my body doesn't matter, and that ultimately nothing matters
• simultaneously loathing myself for being so fucking melodramatic and "collegiate."

I don't understand why this shit is supposed to be kept under wraps, anyway. "Oh, so-and-so isn't well, be kind." OK. I'm personally curious as to what kind of fucked up individual doesn't think about this. I would ask for whatever he's having, but black is a more flattering color.

Speaking of, what's the big deal with death? If I say I'm relieved that we grow sour, yellow, and eventually expire like milk (yes, even skim), does that make me demented? Twisted? Tragic, or worse--depressed? Thank god this body I happen to inhabit will eventually tell my spirit to go fuck itself, and then break down. And thank god I don't know when that is. And thank god it's not up to me. If that's not the most real thing, then I don't know what is.

But I will say this: if I could live through the page and not through the picture, I would; a picture is far less forgiving, and far less fun.

Ideas for a "happy" life:

• don't look in the mirror
• don't read ayn rand
• avoid trans fats
• accept others, but not their bullshit
• don't watch tv
• find someone who loves you and who you love for the RIGHT reasons, and hold on to them and grow fat and wrinkly and grey together and complain about your mutual rheumatoid arthritis and incontinence together. beauty fades.
• Addendum: don't have a kid if it's just to save a marriage; you'll be miserable, it'll be miserable, and well, you have to see the kid every day and deal with the fact that you are both an ass and a failure.

the trainer

Every evening (and there had been several), since his retirement, Henry liked to sit by the fireplace in the front room of his home, sipping red wine. He would rest his feet close to the hearth; he had bad circulation, and toward the end of the day, his feet would go numb, especially now since it was winter. Sipping on his Nebiollo (his doctor said it was good for his heart), Henry would often look out through his bay window and onto the neighborhood. His house stood atop a steep hill, and as an old and rather porcine man, his visits and ventures outside of his home were few. And anyway, he preferred to watch, not interact. After a few moments of inactivity, Henry said "Must be a quiet night," drew in the dark green curtains, and hobbled back to his armchair.

The dusty floor sighed as he made his way to the chair, but ultimately there was silence. There were a few cracks from the fireplace here and there, but other than that, nothing. Henry had lived by himself a while now, so he was used to it. He wriggled his toes gingerly. "Fire's nice, though."

It was only a matter of time before Henry's eyes made their way to the mantle. This was also part of the evening ritual. His eyes widened as he gazed from left to right: every inch (spare the small gap toward the right) was covered, not in pictures or portraits, but in golden trophies. Each time he looked at them, Henry would lick his thin lips like a lion does before ripping into his prey. Then, once his lips were properly moistened, he would read their engravings aloud. But most of all, he loved how they glowed by the fire. And how, by comparison, he glowed. When he read his trophies, Henry would admire his own reflection staring back, bronzed and glowing like an idol.

"1992," Henry read, "Best In Show." He paused and cleared his throat. "Toy Breed." Pride warmed his body, and he licked his lips once more, sipping the wine. Some of it spilled from the glass and down his jowls like candlewax. He paid no mind. "Ah," Henry said finally, "that was a good year. Such a good dog."

That year, Henry trained a bischon frise named Beverly Bisou. He loved the toy breeds, especially the bischon. She was small, easy to train, and rarely barked. Henry was a rigorous and demanding trainer (that's why he was so highly acclaimed), and did not necessarily follow the most orthodox training techniques. However, with Beverly, he didn't have to resort to those. She was perfect: petite, pure, and with adorable beady black eyes and a puffy white tail. She charmed everyone she encountered, and easily won Henry First Prize.

Henry's eyes moved toward the next trophy. He licked his lips, then read "1993. First Prize: non-sporting group." He shook his head, took two sips of wine. "Not as easy of a win as old Bev, that one."

In 1993, Henry trained and showed a french bulldog named Stella. Stella was smart, that was certain, and because of that, she was stubborn. And she was dark, darker than his Beverly. Sometimes, no matter how Henry tried, she refused to train. Even when Henry took his newspaper to her nose, she refused. Inevitably, Stella gained some weight, exceeding the 28 pound limit. This angered Henry the most. "You fat bitch," he would say while jerking her leash, "I'm not going to feed you anymore, and I'll beat you 'til you're black and blue 'slong as you don't listen to me." So he continued to beat his dog, and she continued to be fat.

One day, he'd had enough. It was summertime, and the show was a week away. Stella was still overweight and stubborn. A relentless competitor, Henry refused to throw in the towel. He grabbed Stella by her pointy ears, and threw her outside into the summer swelter, without food or water, for days. "That'll show her," he said, watching as the dog wheezed and emitted long streams of saliva, "that'll make her mind."

And on the fourth day, when he began to see ribs peeking out from her tan coat, he slowly opened the door, allowing a now silent and servile Stella to enter. Henry placed his bloated fingers onto his gut and rubbed it. "Well, Stell," he began, "we'll get you washed and groomed, and you might be able to pass as a Frenchie. Maybe even win me a prize. Whaddaya say, Stel?" She was gone, but he heard a crunching sound come from the kitchen. Starved, Stella was eating cracker bits that Henry had left on the floor. "Stop that!" he yelled, kicking her emaciated frame from he food. "You always were a fattie," he sneered.

Henry's eyes moved to the next trophy. "1994," he read, "First Prize: terrier group."

This one's name was Lola, and she was a norfolk terrier. Henry liked her enough; she wasn't fat and stubborn like Stella. But that bark. Lola liked to talk, and Henry had little time for that. She would bark in the morning, bark while being groomed, bark while training, and even at night when Henry was trying to rest.

One evening, while Henry was enjoying his TV dinner, Lola began to bark at his feet. She barked for five consecutive minutes. Henry's heart was acting up that day, and he had no more patience for that insouciant yap. "You obnoxious rat," he shouted while moving his tray off of his belly, "you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep this shit up!"

He clutched his heart with his left hand, the newspaper with his right. Henry beat Lo so hard and for so long that when he let go of the newspaper, there were ink stains all over his right palm. He looked to the corner and saw Lola: she was trembling, her head tucked in between her legs. Henry sneered. "For your sake, you better not open your damned mouth again." He made his way to the sink. "Oh, and this ink better wash off. I don't want to have a dirty hand in the competition." Thankfully, he ink rinsed off, and Henry won First Prize.

Now, Henry's eyes rested heavily on the gap. He shook his head, and gripped the stem of his wine glass harder.

The year was 1995. Feeling confident of his training skills and propensity to win, Henry decided he would take on a group unlike anything he'd ever trained before: the hound group. In particular, the irish wolfhound. He was always fascinated by this breed; they were massive creatures, and he loved the lines their legs would make when running. Unfortunately, they were not the most sound investment for training. While they were beautiful, they came laden with health problems. But, Henry was determined that his foray into the hound group would be a strong one, and he would settle for nothing less than a wolfhound.

Her name was Luiath (Lou for short), and she was magnificent. Lou had a shiny dark coat that reminded Henry of a storm, and she came up to the top of his belly. And when she ran, she resembled a stallion. Her personality, which most captivated Henry, was bold, resilient, and strong. Lou was unlike anything Henry had seen before.

At first, he was transfixed by her strange beauty. He loved watching her run, and sometimes he'd run with her, laughing, breathing, and forgetting about his condition completely. Other days, he would not even train her, but rather watch her sleep. He loved that, watching her ribs slowly rise and then fall, and the deep and cavernous sound her body made as she breathed in and out. Sometimes, Lou would kick in her sleep, and he would wonder what she was dreaming about. Each evening, Henry would sit in silence with her (she slept by the fire), listening to her breathe.

The show came sooner than he remembered, and Henry came to the disconsolate conclusion that he hadn't trained Lou at all, and that she was nowhere near being ready for the show. Begrudgingly, Henry pulled out the familiar collars and leashes. Henry had to train her hard, and it began to hurt his heart watching her run. For soon, Lou developed a bit of a limp, and no longer resembled a stallion, but rather a mule.

But Henry could not lose. He kept training, hoping that Lou would grow accustomed to the pain and just endure for a bit longer, just so he could win First Prize. "I promise, Lou," he said as he was doing the drills, "after all this is over, we can stay by the fireplace all the time."

So the competition came, and Henry thought Lou was ready. She was striking, and people could not help but stop and stare at this commanding black dog entering the room. Word generated about her, and what a strange choice it was for Henry to pick her. He was proud of Lou, though. And, as no surprise, Lou won First Prize in the hound group. And, because her scores were so high, the two were eligible for Best In Show, something Henry had not won since Beverly.

It was the night before the final evaluation, and Henry was doing last minute training when he saw it: Lou's limp had returned. The black dog turned toward Henry as he whistled, and began to whimper. "C'mon, Lou," he said, "do it for me." She stopped. "OK," Henry said, "we'll rest."

The next day, it was time for the judge to come round for final examinations. She made her way to Lou. "I pray to God," he thought, "I hope she doesn't reach for Lou's leg." The judge began feeling around. Ears: good. Eyes: great. Snout: great. Coat: excellent. Front legs. Right hind.

The judge didn't even have a chance to reach for the left before Lou leapt from her pedestal and tackled the judge to the floor. Unaware of her own strength, it took two men to pull the 150 pound storm off of the mauled judge. "Damn it, Lou," Henry cried, clutching his chest. They took Lou away.

After a while, the competition's veterinarian came to Henry. "Sir," he said, "your dog has attacked the judge, and it goes without saying that she's disqualified."

Henry nodded.

"Additionally," added the vet, "when we were checking the dog for any injuries on her part, we found out that she has a rare but serious heart condition. It's called dilated cardiomyop--"

Henry clutched his own heart. "So what are you saying?"

"Well," the vet said, "she appears to be in a lot of pain. That outburst she had today put a lot of stress on her heart."

"And?"

"Well, we think it's best for her sake if she's put down."

All Henry could hear was the sound of her breathing.

"I know it's sad, sir, but you've gotta know that comes with the territory with this breed. And anyway, you're a trainer, you can't get too attached as it is. You think about it, and whenever you're ready, let us know."

"Can I at least see her before I make up my mind?"

"Of course," said the vet. "Right this way."

He took Henry into a small white room where Lou lay. Her eyes were sad and grey, her head lay heavily on the floor. "Oh Lou," he sobbed, "I'm so sorry. I killed you, I killed you and I'm so sorry." The dog lay still, and he could barely hear her shaky breaths go in and out. He kissed the top of her black head. "OK," Henry said, "you can take her now."

The shiny needle went into Lou's side, and Henry watched in despair as his beautiful thunderstorm disappaited into nothing but a faint cloud.

When Henry left the vet the day, he retired and hadn't stepped out of the house since.


Henry's eyes finally left the gap and lowered themselves to the fire. It was dwindling now, small blue flames licked the soot covered walls with their charred and cracked tongues, and he could hear nothing. His heart tightened, and he clutched his wine glass harder. A cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead. He released his fingertips from the wine glass, and watched as it fell to the floor, spilling red wine all over the white carpet. He clutched his heart with his hand, and crumpled to the floor, limbs jagged and splayed like a battered insect, staring at the cold ceiling. His chest was still tight, and now his feet were numb.

As his vision was beginning to fade, he could only see that small, dusty gap on the mantle. He closed his eyes. "That bitch," muttered Henry. But before he could finish, he died, silently and alone, in a room full of old trophies. Soon after, those stubborn blue tongues of the fire finally retreated into their dry, spindly mouths, and all was dark in the house. And then, the neighbors would say, the old house that sat atop the very steep hill looked like a massive, magnificent storm cloud.

a few things: nothing profound.

so as i'm sitting here in bed, listening to my mother warble away to a pbs special on leonard cohen, i've been able to reflect on a few things.

first of all, after spending the day wandering the streets of salem, i realized i can't be that surprised when a man on the streets will go out of his way to tell me to, uh, move your cahh forward a bit (six inches) so mah people can pahk, please. except he didn't say please, just extended a patronizing tap on the hood of my car. he's a descendant of a Puritan, and well, they're all assholes. while eating lunch today at the nathaniel hawthorne inn (my food was served cold, and it was overpriced...how fitting), some bostonian was escorted out of the restaurant for threatening to "have a go" with a fellow diner for looking at his wife the "wrong way." i couldn't help but stare. but when his eyes met mine i quickly turned back to my mesclun. salads don't beat you up when you stare at them, anyway.

second of all, i realized why my parents got divorced. driving from the hotel to salem was quite a cumbersome task, apparently. but, story of their relationship short: they always have a map but can't follow their own directions. my mom does this thing where when she's upset, her hands turn into the paddles of an oar, and she flicks them back and forth. from the amount of flailing, one might think she was paddling upstream in class 5 whitewater rapids. i don't know what dad did, at this point i had drowned both of them out with trumpets and violins.

i had my "aura" photographed today. it was a bona fide polaroid with bad exposure. anyway, my aura was yellow-orange. aka, disease+least favorite color. great...apparently it means i'm creative and overflowing with ideas, but all i could concentrate on were the bags under my eyes. the orange means, according the the self-proclaimed clairvoyant, i've been overworked recently. well, right. i'm surprised when i checked my bag at the airport the other day they didn't charge me for three.

went on a ghost tour--fascinating stuff. i think it's the best way to learn about a city. i've done it in st. augustine, charleston, savannah, and now salem.

tomorrow we're heading to walden pond (side note: thoreau didn't do his own laundry, too busy reflecting i guess), and i'm trying to look forward to it. but right now all i can think of is the fact that i didn't work out today and hinduist contributions to global responsibility. theology test on thursday. i didn't have any cardio today. satyagraha. muscles are softening. reincarnation? fuck it.

i have some ideas for short stories, but am afraid to write in front of my parents. they write, and i dislike answering questions.

potpourri of conclusions:

1) if i get a dog that's not a mutt, i want a bulldog. its name will be anton (get it? i'll be the lady with the pet dog, even though she had a white spitz. but who would really want a dog called a spitz?)
2) a honeybun from walgreens contains 97% of your daily saturated fat intake, and remarkably, over 100% of your daily guilt intake. i didn't have one, but could feel my arteries constrict as i even glanced at it.
3) jeff buckley's "hallelujah" is way better than cohen's.
4) gothic townies piss me off. somehow, i'm pretty sure that if the devil existed, he'd wear a finely tailored italian suit, not some black parachute pants riddled with chains. or eyeliner. nix that.

I'll delete this tomorrow when I have something to say (of self-deemed merit, if it so exists)

Every word that escapes your fingers is completely ersatz and makes my eyes want to bleed.
I would say that trying to read your "work" makes me want to kill myself, but that would just be redundant, now wouldn't it?
Some people say practice makes perfect, but you don't see people training runners without legs.
You can't construct something from nothing. That's not poetic, that's just fucking science.
A pretty pedestal made of air is nothing to be admired. Hell, it doesn't even exist.

Maybe to be a little less cryptic, I'll say this:

stop copying, i see right through it.
develop your own hobby.
or personality.
whatever.

...better?

you're paint-by-numbers.
i can still see the 1's and 3's and 8's no matter how much you try to drench them in acrylics. and it just doesn't hang as pretty. it's crooked, and no matter how expensive of a frame you get for your sunflowers à la van gogh, it still looks like a tacky artificial flower arrangement at a dingy mortuary. no life, just cheap "i love you daddy but not that much" death.

People who tell you to never give up aren't well-adjusted individuals. That flowery "believe in yourself" bookmark you keep (though you rarely use it) was just made by some middle-aged suit who wanted to make a buck or two, anyway. And I mean, he's good at it; it's gathering dust right now in your pseudo-intellectual novel that you can't comprehend. But unfortunately for you, no amount of deceiving diction can transcend reality.



So, here's something to keep your page, something I'm giving to you, something I want you to copy:

"Take off the glasses and put down the pen. Be you and give up."



(this brought to you by a PMS-ing, water-retaining, frizzy haired ((thanks torrential downpour for being my companion to and from class all day, didn't put a damper on my sunny spirits one bit!!!)) bitch named Savannah.)

Fifty.

Dave had never been much of a runner. It wasn't that he was out of shape; he was thin, but he just never ran that often. But today, for whatever reason, was different. He felt like running, so he did. Grabbing a pair of dusty tennis shoes that had found their way to the dark corner of his closet, he put them on: left after right. They were a bit snug in the toe, but they would do.

He realized quickly why running was never one of his hobbies. While it was a beautiful October afternoon, his lungs were singing a different song. He heaved heavily as the cool autumn air filled them. Dave's goal wasn't lofty: "If I can just make it to the top of this hill," he said, "I'll be fine."

In order to distract himself from this daunting task, he decided to concentrate on his surroundings. Amber and golden leaves seemed to drip one by one from the trees; it truly was a sight. As he rounded the corner, however, he was haunted by the image of a girl staring at him through the window of a nearby blue house. Or, at least, he thought she was staring. His breathing grew heavier, and he had to fight to tear himself away from the pale, grey eyed figure gazing blankly into the distance. Dave looked to the sky, only to find that it was the same shade of blue as that house, and as her eyes. Not the girl's eyes, but hers.

The pale sun began to blind him, so he averted his eyes to the trees, and how they swayed easily in the wind as the leaves kept falling. It was the moss, this time, that reminded him of her. Dave remembered how she would wake up early in the morning sometimes and take a shower. And then, while he was still in bed, she would crawl up to him, skin damp, clean, and fragrant. Her hair would hang from her head loose and slightly curly, like the Spanish moss. Sometimes, warm drops of water would tickle and trickle onto his chest as she leaned in to give him a dewy kiss. He always liked her hair that way, but she didn't; she preferred it straight.

The top of the hill can't be that much farther, he thought. From behind, he heard the rhythmic breaths of others who would soon pass him on the trail. His lungs were about to burst. As they passed him like gazelles, he sneered. With each of their steps, he hated them even more, even though he didn't have the slightest idea as to who they were. A gust of cool wind, and even more leaves were falling.

There was a small creek to his left. The runners had passed, so he slowed down. The leaves in the water obscured most of his reflection, but another gust of wind revealed to him a tired and hollow face. Is that really me? he wondered. He kept staring at the creek, and how the tiniest stone created a new ripple in the stream. And then he thought about her again, and her butt. He loved it; it was always so smooth and cool and round like a weathered pebble, with slight dimples here and there. She hated those. Any time he tried to touch her there, she would release an exasperated sigh and roll onto her back. The leaves kept falling.

Each of Dave's feet weighed one thousand pounds now. His cheeks were blotched and red, and he was sure that his lungs were being digested by his stomach, and he was sure that he would never reach the top of the hill. He could feel his shoelaces coming undone. His toes began to throb. And the wind picked up right as his eyes left his feet, and the dry, dirty leaves poured into his eyes and mouth. He couldn't see anything now. "Goddamn it," he cried. "I give up."

Like a wounded soldier, he fumbled over to the nearest park bench and sat down. He began to wipe the bits of leaves from his eyes. Once they were gone, he began to look around. He was at the playground: the top of the hill. "Would you take a look at that," he said while staring at his feet (they were dirty, untied, and still covered with bits of leaves), "I ran up a fucking hill in shoes that don't even fit."

Reminiscing in his newly-found nirvana, he studied the bench. He could barely make out the words written in ink. Etchings of colored-in hearts still remained, but they too were faint--each day slowly being bleached by the autumn sun. And then he looked to the trees: tall, thin, and (to him, at least) weak. He watched in disgust as they were pushed back and forth by something unseen and without weight. He saw the leaves falling, but this time they did not resemble jewels. One fell by his foot; he picked it up. While they glittered in the sunlight as they fell delicately to the floor, upon closer examination, he realized that they were transparent. And they were dead.

Dave released his skinny fingers from the brown leaf, and for a moment it flew like a sparrow, but soon it dropped like a stone. He didn't recognize it anymore. Dave looked to his dirty shoes once again, and began to tie them. He stood up: tall, thin, and tired, and admired the trees as they shed the dead from their wooden skin.

He moved his feet, and heard the faint snapping of a leaf. Moved the other, faster now. And then one more, and one more, and one more! His feet flew forward one by one until they were unstoppable. Snap, snap, snap! The wind tore through his eyes, his ears, his lungs, his hair, and crunch! went the leaves and I'm leaving it all behind me!

Polaroids-9/19 to present: Where I Lay My Head

Shitfaced

I walked down the broken stairs in a buzzed and bubbly haze. Everything and everyone was beautiful, even the cushionless couch on the first floor. So uncomfortable, but so necessary at the same time. My headache grew, and so did my grin. I smiled at everyone. What a mistake. As I was making my way down the stairs, I made the mistake of waving to a girl with a nose ring. She returned the gaze for a second too long, and I averted my heavy eyes to the spotted nape of the girl in front of me. I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. Swiveled my head slowly behind, slightly wincing for some reason unbeknownst to me. "Wait," she said, "weren't you so-and-so's girlfriend?" Her eyes no longer were luminescent, they were stones. Everything lost its sparkle.

Of course, I answered without thinking. "Yes!" I exclaimed.

Her smile faded as quickly as my buzz did. "Oh," she sneered, "I'm one of his best friends."

Oh, fuck.

In a moment's time, that couch grew larger and larger and I smaller and smaller (was I Lilliputian?) I wanted to hide my face in it. Shit. The girl in front of me was moving at a sloth's pace. I almost thrust myself down the spiral staircase. I figured I'd be killing two birds with one stone, or however that saying goes. I'd break my neck, which would please my frenemy, but I'd also be out of that dilapidated hellhole ASAP. Succumbing to my ego, I gulped, stuck out my hand and said, "Well, nice to meet you!"

Swallowing pride is hard to do, apparently. Went home and made friends with my reflection in the toilet for a few hours. It was hard to make myself out through all of the shit floating in it, though. I don't really know what all was in there, but I guess I'm full of it.

The Laptop

Next day, I had to go home. My body seems to be physiologically incapable of feigning kindness, and punished me via toilet torture. I was awake perhaps 6 hours on Monday. My mother offered me her lap on which to rest my head; I opted for the laptop. Tender 98. 6 degree thigh, or electronic warmth that will most likely give me brain cancer with its radiowaves? Let's go with the latter. And to think, I was pissy with my mother that afternoon because my headache didn't go away. What a cold little shit. Given a choice, I choose what doesn't give back--typical.

While I was awake, I was inundated with advertisements concerning cellulite, wrinkles, and stretchmarks (thanks, God), soon to be followed by McDonald's commercials. You know the end is nigh when even Mother Nature needs lipo. Trim the fat, you know. But I thought that's what capitalism was for? Turns out we're all just pigs who eat pigs.


"Be the change you wish to see in the world." Yeah, whatever.

I felt like being friendly today. We were discussing Gandhi in class, what can I say. A few seats to my left sat a thin and rather insect-like boy, resting his emaciated frame on the table. The professor left us for group discussion, and allowed us to choose our groups. Decided to extend a warm and ink stained hand to a stranger. I had to ask twice, but no big deal. He scoots closer to me and my impromptu group, and I think all is good. He feels like "part" of something, it's the first step!

So we discuss peace and violence, and how Gandhi felt that while violence may appear good in the moment, it's disastrous, and well, worse, in the long run. It's all about the satyagraha, baby. In a casual glance, I noticed was wearing a Radiohead shirt; I figured he was pretty informed of world affairs, and either libertarian or a crazy liberal. I wanted him to open up, so I compared that to the war in Iraq. It was relevant, and hell, it wasn't boring. I looked over to him, and his head was resting on the desk. Again. So I poked. Whatdoyouthink! I asked. He asked what we were discussing. Still optimistic (though waning), I repeated the question. Another girl gave her take. I looked back over to him. He was picking at his wart.

Some people are alone for a reason.

Lily

She only rode in elevators. Stairs were too much work. Speaking of, she hated that too. She would wake, yawning, at noon, and then go to bed precisely twelve hours later. She would spend her days lounging listlessly in her bedroom, staring at herself, and curling her toes like a feline tail. Occasionally she would purse her lips, hoping not to see her whiskers in the form of long wrinkles. Lily thought about her eyes, her thighs, and grew quite jealous of the firm and glossy legs of her desk chair, knowing that they would never lose their shape.

She hated weeds, but hated dirt more. Sometimes, when she wasn't looking at herself, she would glance to her garden, and see the ivy growing over her daisies. "Well," she said, "if you squint your eyes hard enough, it all looks the same anyway."

She also loathed spiders. They terrified her. One day she saw one climbing its invisible ladder to the ceiling. Lily would have reached out to snap its silken rope in half, but all of a sudden her petite fingers became bricks, and she didn't have the strength to lift them from her bed. It would be easy, she thought, but I just don't care. Then, her fingers lost their red weight and became long slender piano keys once more. Lily picked up the mirror and began to gaze again.

One day she received a letter in the mail. "Your father has died," it said. The girl read it thrice over before the words took on any weight. And all of a sudden, her hands began to tremble and she could no longer hold the piece of paper, so she threw it away. Walking to the kitchen, she took the dusty keys from the hook, and walked outside.

Lily walked past the garden, past the dirty green ivy choking the roses, and stepped into her car. It didn't start immediately; she hadn't used it in years.

When she finally was on the road, she remembered why that was so. Lily hated traffic, and people (well, people other than her), and especially those who drove convertibles. What narcissists, she thought. In truth, she only hated them because she didn't receive one for her sixteenth birthday.

Lily kept driving, and realized she needed to change lanes. She was behind a convertible. The best way to drive a convertible, she thought, is to not. And if you must see one, drive in front of it so the driver has to smell your fumes. That will teach them. So, she sped past the convertible and looked to her rear view mirror approvingly. And to her horror, she had lines on her face. "No," she said, "whiskers! I have whiskers." She squinted to make them go away. They didn't, they were even worse. They were that hideous spider's legs!

She had enough of driving. She removed her hands from the wheel, and as she was doing so, the convertible behind her slammed into her car, and Lily began her silken ascent into the sky. But the thread snapped. And the girl who hated weeds and dirt landed face first into an overgrown ditch.