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.
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.
-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.
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.
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