I got another idea for a story today. I was out walking and a string of words popped into my head. I was sure it was you. I remember thinking, “you must concentrate on these words,” but they were gone two minutes later. I remember thinking that those seven words had an entire story attached to them and that if I were to be able to get them down on paper, the rest of the story would fall out, too, by some extraordinary gravitational pull of pen and ink. I had no pen on me, and now they are forever lost. I feel kind of like a magician who’s lost her incantation. I’m disappointed, but I suppose that story was simply not for me to tell. Oh well, right?
You Know.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
October 17th, 2007
To know something deeply, softly, in the moments of quiet after my light has been put out, this is to be at peace. To feel so surely the beauty at once. To let flow, at once, the harbored fears. My judgments and expectations of myself, of others, have been killing me. To know that such stillness can be, to find in a brilliant sky some small, chaotic cluster attesting to the gorgeousness of this life- the incompleteness of all my former pretense of life is apparent in the slight rustle of leaves on this otherwise soundless morning. I think I can call it morning, even though I haven’t slept and the sun has yet to rise. I wait for a bus that seems never to come. This morning arrived without my even thinking of it. Gone is the sleeping time. Gone, too, are the worries I cherished yesterday. I haven’t been able to cry lately. Did you know? I have felt cold. I have wished for tears to empty out the sadness, to release my well, to validate my own pity. I have longed to let loose a stream of tears each time I hugged my knees on the back porch. None would come. After great strains there was not even one tear to hold, to shake hands with, to comfort, yet this morning I cry without meaning to. Simply feeling held- neither holding myself not cradled in another’s arms, but held none the less.
You Know.
You Know.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
"Judy"
Walking quiet streets was a pastime for Judy in the purest sense of the word- it was a way to pass the time. The ache in her abdomen refused to give way, crowding her senses and refusing her favorite form of personal abandonment. She had tried to go walking three times already, but she couldn’t catch her breath enough to conquer her stairs, let alone the hill she lived on. She settled for a puff of guilt-ridden cancer and sat on the stoop while its acrid taste seeped into her cheeks and fingertips.
She wondered if the ache in her belly was something more than bad food. The recurring fear of a tiny parasite leeching the walls of her uterus drained her mind of its store of calm and left every signal her body sent tinged with dread. She couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t be.
Why hadn’t she insisted that he be safe? What was it about her that allowed those sudden bursts of passivity in the worst possible moments? She was a pillar of strength and intention except in those terribly hopeless moments when an older man pressed himself against her or an unknown stallion pierced into her. She couldn’t understand herself and she had all but given up hope of forgiving herself for such weaknesses. They were to be born, and that was all.
Judy climbed into her bed and swaddled herself with blankets. She was always cold, her extremities tingling even in the full weight of the sunshine. She pulled the neck of her sweater up over her head to trap in every escaping molecule. She stopped moving to survey the results and found that she was trapped. The warmth would come soon, but the knocking in her head and chest would not leave. She wished for a sign, a desire, a passion, even hatred. Her apathy was paralyzing.
If her blood returned in a week would her numbness disappear? She listlessly hoped it were so and curled her hands into a twisted ball, cradled under her chin. How she longed to sob into the night, but there was nothing for which to sob. There was nothing wrong with her life even if there was nothing right. She wished for sleep.
The elusiveness of such dreamless sleep was ironic for a woman who often battled competing waves of depression and narcolepsy. At any point she could sleep for a dozen hours without stirring, that is, any point but when she desperately needed to escape. She could not banish the thousand empty thoughts running loops in her head. For a woman without conflict she carried too many fears.
And anger, though she was reluctant to admit it, was creating its own course through her body. She couldn’t believe that she had allowed her ex to seduce her. She had been weak, she had been clouded, she had been lonely, and though she knew she could have done things no differently, she was still disappointed with herself. She should have known the future, her gut pushed. She should have seen the falseness and the trap. She could never forgive her own humanity.
How she expected herself to resist That Woman’s smile and shoulders is a mystery, but Judy was still crucifying herself for it, and laughing at the reality of the conversation the day after when That Woman had spoken of being cautious and building friendships with respect. Somehow she seemed to miss the glaring inconsistency in her own philosophy, having pounced on her confused friend and former lover only the night before. Judy felt stupid for having believed any of the words that came out of That Woman’s mouth. After all, she had prior offenses and a history of laxity when it came to being genuine with her truth.
But this was past, as all her transgressions were. Lying in bed and considering all the ways that life had gone awry was Judy’s least favorite pastime and the one that recurred most painfully and insidiously. It was frustrating, but it was her only reality. What was life without these occasional forays into the pitiful and pathetic? She couldn’t be happy, not really. Perhaps she didn’t believe that such happiness or comfort was acceptable. Perhaps she was happiest in her soul when she was huddled alone and crying. That was a sobering thought. These journeys into her sad, illusionary world were becoming less frequent and, Judy thought with a hint of a smile, maybe she was growing past the sadness. Maybe she was beginning to live.
That life made these moments all the harder to bear. When she had fallen asleep every night cradled in her own arms, it had been comforting to know that her self-pity would always be there. Now its presence brought a stale, mildewy stench with it and memories of that life, many lives ago, when she had believed that she truly was alone. It was jarring to find herself lifted from the joy of life to this self-induced trauma. She hoped it would pass soon. If only she had the energy to walk right now she might walk until she flew away. Instead she tucked her head in and pressed shut her eyes, praying for sleep and a little bit of clarity.
She wondered if the ache in her belly was something more than bad food. The recurring fear of a tiny parasite leeching the walls of her uterus drained her mind of its store of calm and left every signal her body sent tinged with dread. She couldn’t be pregnant. She just couldn’t be.
Why hadn’t she insisted that he be safe? What was it about her that allowed those sudden bursts of passivity in the worst possible moments? She was a pillar of strength and intention except in those terribly hopeless moments when an older man pressed himself against her or an unknown stallion pierced into her. She couldn’t understand herself and she had all but given up hope of forgiving herself for such weaknesses. They were to be born, and that was all.
Judy climbed into her bed and swaddled herself with blankets. She was always cold, her extremities tingling even in the full weight of the sunshine. She pulled the neck of her sweater up over her head to trap in every escaping molecule. She stopped moving to survey the results and found that she was trapped. The warmth would come soon, but the knocking in her head and chest would not leave. She wished for a sign, a desire, a passion, even hatred. Her apathy was paralyzing.
If her blood returned in a week would her numbness disappear? She listlessly hoped it were so and curled her hands into a twisted ball, cradled under her chin. How she longed to sob into the night, but there was nothing for which to sob. There was nothing wrong with her life even if there was nothing right. She wished for sleep.
The elusiveness of such dreamless sleep was ironic for a woman who often battled competing waves of depression and narcolepsy. At any point she could sleep for a dozen hours without stirring, that is, any point but when she desperately needed to escape. She could not banish the thousand empty thoughts running loops in her head. For a woman without conflict she carried too many fears.
And anger, though she was reluctant to admit it, was creating its own course through her body. She couldn’t believe that she had allowed her ex to seduce her. She had been weak, she had been clouded, she had been lonely, and though she knew she could have done things no differently, she was still disappointed with herself. She should have known the future, her gut pushed. She should have seen the falseness and the trap. She could never forgive her own humanity.
How she expected herself to resist That Woman’s smile and shoulders is a mystery, but Judy was still crucifying herself for it, and laughing at the reality of the conversation the day after when That Woman had spoken of being cautious and building friendships with respect. Somehow she seemed to miss the glaring inconsistency in her own philosophy, having pounced on her confused friend and former lover only the night before. Judy felt stupid for having believed any of the words that came out of That Woman’s mouth. After all, she had prior offenses and a history of laxity when it came to being genuine with her truth.
But this was past, as all her transgressions were. Lying in bed and considering all the ways that life had gone awry was Judy’s least favorite pastime and the one that recurred most painfully and insidiously. It was frustrating, but it was her only reality. What was life without these occasional forays into the pitiful and pathetic? She couldn’t be happy, not really. Perhaps she didn’t believe that such happiness or comfort was acceptable. Perhaps she was happiest in her soul when she was huddled alone and crying. That was a sobering thought. These journeys into her sad, illusionary world were becoming less frequent and, Judy thought with a hint of a smile, maybe she was growing past the sadness. Maybe she was beginning to live.
That life made these moments all the harder to bear. When she had fallen asleep every night cradled in her own arms, it had been comforting to know that her self-pity would always be there. Now its presence brought a stale, mildewy stench with it and memories of that life, many lives ago, when she had believed that she truly was alone. It was jarring to find herself lifted from the joy of life to this self-induced trauma. She hoped it would pass soon. If only she had the energy to walk right now she might walk until she flew away. Instead she tucked her head in and pressed shut her eyes, praying for sleep and a little bit of clarity.
Friday, October 12, 2007
1.47 AM, Friday, October 12, 2007
Woman-
inconceivable
hands and hips
feet, thighs, breasts, lips,
Mind
-unretractable Mind-
burning into the night.
flesh without pause
Smooth, Scarred
rythmic in taste
and taut
over beating, breathing
Woman
without shame,
without blame,
inconceivable
hands and hips
feet, thighs, breasts, lips,
Mind
-unretractable Mind-
burning into the night.
flesh without pause
Smooth, Scarred
rythmic in taste
and taut
over beating, breathing
Woman
without shame,
without blame,
moving in a spiral
of intention.contention-
no rest but to move.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
October 7th, 2007
I didn’t set out to become some sort of sexual deviant, not that that’s what I’ve become. In all reality I set out to be a nun. I wanted to be pristine, close to god, and the first in line to go to heaven. When I’d given that dream up by the wise age of eight, I converted the same desires into a plan for a solid Catholic marriage. My grandmother still presses this dream into my hands every time I see her, somehow hoping that my short hair and tolerant words might be fluke signs; I might still become her saint. The advantage of my adjusted plan, a good, strong husband of god and all the children that our modest sex afforded us, was that I wouldn’t find myself stuck in a convent for the entirety of my life. Seclusion didn’t fit into my life plans- how could I be president if I were a nun? In holy Catholic matrimony I would find both religion and some semblance of actualization. That was my hope.
My dreams began to revolve around egalitarian white picket fences and average family afternoons. I believed that my life could have one real path: school, college, graduate school, marriage, kids, career. The lines were distinct and everything had its place. Almost, that is. I wasn’t prepared to interpret my thoughts about women.
I knew lesbians and gay men. They were friends, neighbors, people I respected, but they were other. They existed, but they were separate from my personal paradigm, token friends and characters in my own staged show. Sure, I thought about women when I masturbated, but didn’t everybody? So I thought about them pressing me against a wall, that was a normal teenage thought to have. Or maybe it wasn’t, but it just meant that I was open and accepting of people. It didn’t make me gay.
My first sexual experiences were with men. Later on, I would quote those experiences of horrid, passionless single nights as proof that I was simply not a heterosexual. Despite the tiniest nag that those experiences might not have been exactly a fair sampling, I wanted so badly to define myself, to fit in, to belong. I wanted an identity. So when a beautiful woman offered me her hands and her body, I slid happily into my modern box.
All the desires of a life, moving in and out of age and location, the absoluteness of every discovered want, how is it that life can feel so real at every second? To be nine, to know that life has more in store, but to have no plane of reference, no concept of what more might entail. To be twenty and to still hold fast the belief that what one wants then is what one will always want- perhaps this is the soul of naïveté. How disillusioning to find yourself, a proclaimed lesbian with a broken heart, looking at men with a twinkle in your eye? Yet it was even more confusing to go home with one and watch, almost disembodied as he pressed his advantage without ever stopping to ask what I wanted. We fucked on his huge, empty bed, and I wished that it would just be over- that I wouldn’t hate myself too much in the morning. Another one night stand, another series of unfulfilled wishes.
Why am I still attracted to men? It can hardly be explained, and other than my perverse need to explain everything, I really have no desire to pick it apart. I like whom I like. I meet whomever I meet. I follow the guideposts of feelings. Most times this is enough.
I find myself craving the solidity of my ex. The knowing that each night she would tell me she loved me. The comfort of good sex. Even after all the self-prescribed growth inversion, all the weaknesses indulged because I knew she would carry them, because it felt good to have someone who would carry them, after it all, I still miss the assumed right to cuddle, to kiss, to love.
I’m scared of this process of taking each day as it comes. It’s terrifying, at times, to rise to a moment’s unexpectedness. Finding new feelings and realizing that old ones have passed is unsettling for a woman who has tirelessly sought an anchor to believe in, to trust in, to depend upon.
There is a certain honesty in the act of sleeping alone. The reality is that each night I go to bed alone. I have slept alone every night of my life, even when I shared my bed. The loneliness felt bitterer, more hidden, whilst waking next to a cherished body, the pain more acute when my partner was an unknown quantity. Sharing the warmth of a comfortable sleep with another leaves the illusion of solidarity without the removal of reality. The truth is, thus far, that I am the only being with whom I am. I join the paths of others, I listen, I love, I journey, but I do those things in tandem at best and in solitude the rest of the time. This isn’t to say that I prefer sleeping single, as that couldn’t be further from the truth, but my reality remains.
I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of becoming emotionally close to someone who I couldn’t at least imagine being with forever, yet I’ve had three one-night stands. Are these two realities unrelated? Inter-related? Here I am, a woman out of the closet twice, a seeker and a lover, involved in a Polyamorous situation. Relationship? I am not in love with multiple people, though I could be. The object of my affections is most definitely involved with others. How in the world did I find myself here? I would have thought that by now I would have decided exactly what and where I was to be. I thought I had those questions worked out.
Here I am, each day a pleasant surprise of new feelings. This good little Catholic girl, this refugee of a broken lesbian relationship, is creating something with a man who has a girlfriend. Why does confusion follow me? I feel fear tonight- the unknown pain, the possible aches and division, the mystery of my heart, all unquantifiable. No promises can be made, no absolutes. I don’t want finite answers and I don’t want promises. I know that I have nothing to be ashamed of and that there is nothing to fear but my thoughts. I have faith in the process, faith in God, but that doesn’t take away the years of habit, worrying about how things might end before they’ve even begun.
What do I want? I want to be happy. But that question begs another, more poignant question- what do I not want? I don’t want to be surrounded by chaos. I don’t want to hurt friends. It seems not to matter that I remind myself that the current problems are not something I could have prevented, I still feel responsible. Not solely responsible, but culpable nonetheless.
I acknowledge that these are not my issues, that I have control over my own actions alone. And though everything might resolve neatly, I am more inclined to believe that it won’t be simple. If I were my own friend I would probably use patronizing expressions while reading this. Shouldn’t I have known that this would be difficult? Shouldn’t I have avoided it? But who can avoid their own journey? Even avoidance of a path is an affrmation, however negative, of that path.
I need to sleep before fatigue overwhelms me. So for tonight, goodnight.
My dreams began to revolve around egalitarian white picket fences and average family afternoons. I believed that my life could have one real path: school, college, graduate school, marriage, kids, career. The lines were distinct and everything had its place. Almost, that is. I wasn’t prepared to interpret my thoughts about women.
I knew lesbians and gay men. They were friends, neighbors, people I respected, but they were other. They existed, but they were separate from my personal paradigm, token friends and characters in my own staged show. Sure, I thought about women when I masturbated, but didn’t everybody? So I thought about them pressing me against a wall, that was a normal teenage thought to have. Or maybe it wasn’t, but it just meant that I was open and accepting of people. It didn’t make me gay.
My first sexual experiences were with men. Later on, I would quote those experiences of horrid, passionless single nights as proof that I was simply not a heterosexual. Despite the tiniest nag that those experiences might not have been exactly a fair sampling, I wanted so badly to define myself, to fit in, to belong. I wanted an identity. So when a beautiful woman offered me her hands and her body, I slid happily into my modern box.
All the desires of a life, moving in and out of age and location, the absoluteness of every discovered want, how is it that life can feel so real at every second? To be nine, to know that life has more in store, but to have no plane of reference, no concept of what more might entail. To be twenty and to still hold fast the belief that what one wants then is what one will always want- perhaps this is the soul of naïveté. How disillusioning to find yourself, a proclaimed lesbian with a broken heart, looking at men with a twinkle in your eye? Yet it was even more confusing to go home with one and watch, almost disembodied as he pressed his advantage without ever stopping to ask what I wanted. We fucked on his huge, empty bed, and I wished that it would just be over- that I wouldn’t hate myself too much in the morning. Another one night stand, another series of unfulfilled wishes.
Why am I still attracted to men? It can hardly be explained, and other than my perverse need to explain everything, I really have no desire to pick it apart. I like whom I like. I meet whomever I meet. I follow the guideposts of feelings. Most times this is enough.
I find myself craving the solidity of my ex. The knowing that each night she would tell me she loved me. The comfort of good sex. Even after all the self-prescribed growth inversion, all the weaknesses indulged because I knew she would carry them, because it felt good to have someone who would carry them, after it all, I still miss the assumed right to cuddle, to kiss, to love.
I’m scared of this process of taking each day as it comes. It’s terrifying, at times, to rise to a moment’s unexpectedness. Finding new feelings and realizing that old ones have passed is unsettling for a woman who has tirelessly sought an anchor to believe in, to trust in, to depend upon.
There is a certain honesty in the act of sleeping alone. The reality is that each night I go to bed alone. I have slept alone every night of my life, even when I shared my bed. The loneliness felt bitterer, more hidden, whilst waking next to a cherished body, the pain more acute when my partner was an unknown quantity. Sharing the warmth of a comfortable sleep with another leaves the illusion of solidarity without the removal of reality. The truth is, thus far, that I am the only being with whom I am. I join the paths of others, I listen, I love, I journey, but I do those things in tandem at best and in solitude the rest of the time. This isn’t to say that I prefer sleeping single, as that couldn’t be further from the truth, but my reality remains.
I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of becoming emotionally close to someone who I couldn’t at least imagine being with forever, yet I’ve had three one-night stands. Are these two realities unrelated? Inter-related? Here I am, a woman out of the closet twice, a seeker and a lover, involved in a Polyamorous situation. Relationship? I am not in love with multiple people, though I could be. The object of my affections is most definitely involved with others. How in the world did I find myself here? I would have thought that by now I would have decided exactly what and where I was to be. I thought I had those questions worked out.
Here I am, each day a pleasant surprise of new feelings. This good little Catholic girl, this refugee of a broken lesbian relationship, is creating something with a man who has a girlfriend. Why does confusion follow me? I feel fear tonight- the unknown pain, the possible aches and division, the mystery of my heart, all unquantifiable. No promises can be made, no absolutes. I don’t want finite answers and I don’t want promises. I know that I have nothing to be ashamed of and that there is nothing to fear but my thoughts. I have faith in the process, faith in God, but that doesn’t take away the years of habit, worrying about how things might end before they’ve even begun.
What do I want? I want to be happy. But that question begs another, more poignant question- what do I not want? I don’t want to be surrounded by chaos. I don’t want to hurt friends. It seems not to matter that I remind myself that the current problems are not something I could have prevented, I still feel responsible. Not solely responsible, but culpable nonetheless.
I acknowledge that these are not my issues, that I have control over my own actions alone. And though everything might resolve neatly, I am more inclined to believe that it won’t be simple. If I were my own friend I would probably use patronizing expressions while reading this. Shouldn’t I have known that this would be difficult? Shouldn’t I have avoided it? But who can avoid their own journey? Even avoidance of a path is an affrmation, however negative, of that path.
I need to sleep before fatigue overwhelms me. So for tonight, goodnight.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
4.52 PM, Thursday, October 04, 2007
I'm a woman lost in the throes of hedonism. Lost in a ninth grade pejorative, trying to make sense of a reality I don't want to deny. Maybe there are no words left. Perhaps I've greedily sucked the beauty or sense from every pen I own. Maybe I'm down to the stubby ink that has remained stuck to the end of the tube. Wanting to bring some semblance of wisdom or wittiness to a world that finds me small and lonely. If I can find a few profound words to string together in a neat little row, then surely I am not as small as I feel. I can fool myself only slightly more than I can fool fate. How is it that I could drop through this world without worry or fear? Why must I question it when out of beauty it happens? When by either gravity or fate or God or whichever law rules I float through the obscene obstacles of an unregrettable life. Whose choice is it, then, that I follow these streets and wind away uphill? If mine, then it was chosen long ago, and if I had no part in the discussion, then it was still decided long ago and there is no point in an appeal. I have given up the power I never had, and sometimes I still long for it, but mostly I rejoice in my powerlessness. Sometimes I lie and dream that others have power over me, that I have given them that power, and I fret over my powerlessness and their ability to hoard it. Then I feel the despair of a night spent alone, for I have tricked myself into believing that I am alone as I could never be, for there is always solidarity in the human experience.
Monday, October 1, 2007
October 2007
Can I be honest for a minute? Just a single minute right now- everything I write is crap. I write and I write and I writeandiwrite. And still. When I read again the things that I type I am ashamed. Let’s face it- I’m completely self-absorbed. All I write about is myself. My feelings. Situations I find myself in. And everytime I reread what I’ve written, all I can think is Who Would Want To Read This Crap? If a person didn’t know me, they would stop reading after the second self-indulgent phrase. Which would most likely come at the end of the first cadence. How is it that I can accept so completely the writings of others? When I read someone else’s story I accept it as at least valid almost immediately. At least most of the time. I don’t even accept my own writing. . .how can I expect anyone else to?
I saw writing on a garage in Berkeley a while ago that I’ve thought of often. I’m thinking of it now and shaming myself for being so egotistical. Someone wrote in big, white, spray-painted letters “Write for yourself and you’ll always have an audience,” right on the front of a shabby old house. I don’t even remember exactly where it is. Why do I crave an audience so much? Must I be exhibitionist? Do I want fame? Not exactly. I want to contribute something. AND I want to be able to live as I like to live. AND I think that if I had a posh audience I’d feel like my writing was more valid than I feel like it is now.
I know. Wrong answer. I can’t do it for anybody at all. Not even for me. I just have to do it. Whatever that means. Thanks. I knew that you’d listen. You always do.
You Know.
I saw writing on a garage in Berkeley a while ago that I’ve thought of often. I’m thinking of it now and shaming myself for being so egotistical. Someone wrote in big, white, spray-painted letters “Write for yourself and you’ll always have an audience,” right on the front of a shabby old house. I don’t even remember exactly where it is. Why do I crave an audience so much? Must I be exhibitionist? Do I want fame? Not exactly. I want to contribute something. AND I want to be able to live as I like to live. AND I think that if I had a posh audience I’d feel like my writing was more valid than I feel like it is now.
I know. Wrong answer. I can’t do it for anybody at all. Not even for me. I just have to do it. Whatever that means. Thanks. I knew that you’d listen. You always do.
You Know.
Friday, August 17, 2007
1.01 AM, Friday, August 17th, 2007
What if the what ifs in life are beyond the sane? Well, of course they are, but then what if the sun had dozed a little on the 23rd of January, if its temperature had cooled the tiniest parcel of a degree centigrade, if the weather 90 million miles away shifted in the slightest, would it have changed the course of time or the vandalism in my chest? If a single drop of dew had lingered an extra moment in the mid-morning sun, would it have been enough to alter this reality? Would my guts still urge me to rebellion, toward the pavement, toward a salty display of fireworks in honor of a witnessed kiss? Not my kiss, of course, but igniting nonetheless a sort of sour dramedy. Working at the carefully mended knot, pulling at the pieces and loosening the only nice bits, and then again what if the moons orbiting Jupiter had paused in their journey, paused to sigh or think about which skirt they might wear on a Sunday if the opportunity arose? What if the gravitational pull of the entire universe was altered, would that have changed a damn thing?
If everything happens for some reason, even the birth of a wormy caterpillar, and every tiny gasp plays its power in my universe. . . if everything that happens, happens, would a speck of past intervention or even a giant boulder colliding with a puppy dog change the happen-ness of my happiness?
It remains that the sane lack the ifs, the 'what the world might look like' outside of this world. This world is, and without my gut's personal revolt it would no longer be this world. In another world I might have challenged in the iditarod, or scaled a pyramid with my magical fingers, or made her want to stay and love me. In another world I might be a frog, too. Or a flea, which would explain the dog-racing. The ifs continue without pause when you think about it. All the ways this world might mirror another.
But then again what if I lived in this world, with these hands, and these aches? If I lived here and knew it, would it be better than the worlds I imagine when the aching just above my gut reaches its height? Would I care if it were better?
If everything happens for some reason, even the birth of a wormy caterpillar, and every tiny gasp plays its power in my universe. . . if everything that happens, happens, would a speck of past intervention or even a giant boulder colliding with a puppy dog change the happen-ness of my happiness?
It remains that the sane lack the ifs, the 'what the world might look like' outside of this world. This world is, and without my gut's personal revolt it would no longer be this world. In another world I might have challenged in the iditarod, or scaled a pyramid with my magical fingers, or made her want to stay and love me. In another world I might be a frog, too. Or a flea, which would explain the dog-racing. The ifs continue without pause when you think about it. All the ways this world might mirror another.
But then again what if I lived in this world, with these hands, and these aches? If I lived here and knew it, would it be better than the worlds I imagine when the aching just above my gut reaches its height? Would I care if it were better?
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
"Possibilities"
He looked across the street and stared at an empty tree. In the dim light of the street lamps, the old oak looked like a dead hand, trying to claw its way out of the earth. He sucked in a long stream of acrid smoke and held it in his lungs, waiting for the nicotine to infiltrate his blood stream, waiting for the smoothness of a little tobacco high to even out his night. In his room there were two forties and a bottle of vodka waiting. A tall stack of porn and a short stack of novels waited to vie for his attention. The competition would not be intense.
He exhaled a bitter cloud and felt a little bit of heartburn irritate his stomach. He thought about not drinking tonight, taking a couple of Tums and sneaking into bed early. He thought about beginning to write the story that had been percolating in his mind for the last few weeks, or calling up the guys to come over for a couple rounds of poker. He thought about not spending the night alone in the basement of his parents’ house. He thought about calling her.
He knew that the possibilities for the evening were numerous, and that it didn’t matter how limitless they might be. He had already made his decision, and the events of the evening had been set in motion. The forces of gravity were less exacting than the forces at work within his body, so he took one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the street. He watched with a wistful resignation as a few red embers sparked off the pavement before dying. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, slumped his lanky shoulders, and went back inside.
His parents were in the living room as he walked through. They were arguing about something on the television and didn’t seem to see him passing. He no longer noticed their ignorance. Living with them was like living with apathetic strangers, and if living there had cost him a penny, he would have moved out long ago. As it was, he had adapted to the survivable mediocrity of his cheap surroundings.
He walked downstairs into the semi-finished basement he had been living in since he finished high school. He rounded a corner, passed the bathroom, and walked into his humble abyss.
It was a small room; the bed and bookshelf took up most of the floor space. A small TV was huddled on top of a nightstand in one corner, with a stack of case-less DVDs resting near the screen. Dirty clothing obscured the corners of everything and empty beer cans lurked underneath old papers.
He sat on the edge of his bed and opened his first can of beer. It was cheap and mostly tasteless, which was why he preferred it. He didn’t need to be classy in his alcohol choices tonight; no one was watching what he drank, and he certainly wasn’t drinking for the taste. He downed half the beer in a few quick swigs and set it on the floor.
He flipped through the stack of pornography next to the DVD player and was annoyed by the choices. They seemed stale. He’d seen them all too many times, and hadn’t been bothered to go to the store for anything new earlier in the day. He regretted that decision now and defeatedly stuck an unexciting selection into the open tray. He picked his beer back up and finished it while the title menu came onscreen.
He pressed play, opened the second beer, and picked up the bottle of vodka. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of the fiery liquid before quickly chasing with a drink of beer. A small voice in his mind told him to slow down, the whole evening was before him. There was plenty of time to drink half the bottle.
He couldn’t slow down. He took a few more shots of vodka, and half his second beer was gone. His head was beginning to reel as he pressed “mute” on the remote and yawned as two women began to undress each other onscreen. He lay back on the bed and picked up his blinking cell phone. She had sent him a text message telling him to call her. He considered the possibility for a moment, but decided to wait a few minutes before engaging her in conversation.
A cough began to build up in his chest and he sat up suddenly, the hacking shaking his whole frame. He couldn’t catch his breath, and tears were beginning to cloud his eyesight. After a few minutes of an exploding sensation in his chest, the coughing subsided. He went to wipe the tears from his eyes, but stopped when he noticed there was blood on his hands. He had coughed up blood.
What was that disease? he thought. The Poe one. The one that killed all Edgar Allen Poe’s women? Consumption? What was that? He squinted his eyes for a moment and tried to concentrate. Concentrate. TB. . . Tuberculosis?
He worried for a moment that he might be terminally ill. Coughing up a handful of blood was not a normal occurrence. He wondered if Tuberculosis was still going around and if it was a painful way to die. The worry morphed into a warm sense of relief as he concretely thought about dying in six months. He smiled.
He probably wasn’t dying. It more than likely had to do with his recent increase in smoking. He had moved from two or three cigarettes to two packs a day in the space of a week.
The realization that he wasn’t going to tragically die in six months was a grave disappointment to the evening. He found himself longing for the simplicity of a divinely mandated exit visa and felt cheated by the tease of blood in his lungs. He cleared his eyes with the back of his hand and wiped off the blood and saliva on a nearby t-shirt.
There was a blinking light next to his leg, and he stared for a moment before it registered that his phone was ringing. He answered her call and began to listen to the latest edition of bad-boyfriend weekly. She was crying into the phone and saying that she wished her boyfriend would be as sweet as he was.
He swallowed and mentioned that he would never hit her child. She said he was so sweet and went back to talking about the latest in her long string of loser boyfriends. For some reason it didn’t matter that he was blindingly drunk; he still couldn’t tell her to fuck off. He couldn’t avoid her calls, he couldn’t tell her how passionately he felt, and he couldn’t tell her to leave him alone if she didn’t want him.
He managed to make it through another five minutes of her pitiful gibberish before excusing himself and hanging up. The chicks were still going at it on the TV, and he couldn’t find his vodka. That didn’t matter too much, seeing as he didn’t have any beer left with which to chase it.
The evening was becoming too long. He looked at the clock, which was upside down from the twisted position he had posed himself in on the bed. He tried to make out what time it was, but he couldn’t stop the numbers from spinning. He closed his eyes and held onto the bed as the feeling worsened.
He stumbled into the bathroom and bent over the toilet just in time to vomit. He wiped away the tears that he couldn’t stop from coming whenever he threw up. He tried to gauge if this was going to be one of those rare single-vomit nights. Not so lucky, he thought as he puked again, and again.
When he thought he was mostly done he curled into a ball. He had one last thought before passing out on the floor of the bathroom, arms wrapped around the base of the toilet, hoping that the experience of being twenty-five would be better than the past year. Another shitty birthday.
He exhaled a bitter cloud and felt a little bit of heartburn irritate his stomach. He thought about not drinking tonight, taking a couple of Tums and sneaking into bed early. He thought about beginning to write the story that had been percolating in his mind for the last few weeks, or calling up the guys to come over for a couple rounds of poker. He thought about not spending the night alone in the basement of his parents’ house. He thought about calling her.
He knew that the possibilities for the evening were numerous, and that it didn’t matter how limitless they might be. He had already made his decision, and the events of the evening had been set in motion. The forces of gravity were less exacting than the forces at work within his body, so he took one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the street. He watched with a wistful resignation as a few red embers sparked off the pavement before dying. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, slumped his lanky shoulders, and went back inside.
His parents were in the living room as he walked through. They were arguing about something on the television and didn’t seem to see him passing. He no longer noticed their ignorance. Living with them was like living with apathetic strangers, and if living there had cost him a penny, he would have moved out long ago. As it was, he had adapted to the survivable mediocrity of his cheap surroundings.
He walked downstairs into the semi-finished basement he had been living in since he finished high school. He rounded a corner, passed the bathroom, and walked into his humble abyss.
It was a small room; the bed and bookshelf took up most of the floor space. A small TV was huddled on top of a nightstand in one corner, with a stack of case-less DVDs resting near the screen. Dirty clothing obscured the corners of everything and empty beer cans lurked underneath old papers.
He sat on the edge of his bed and opened his first can of beer. It was cheap and mostly tasteless, which was why he preferred it. He didn’t need to be classy in his alcohol choices tonight; no one was watching what he drank, and he certainly wasn’t drinking for the taste. He downed half the beer in a few quick swigs and set it on the floor.
He flipped through the stack of pornography next to the DVD player and was annoyed by the choices. They seemed stale. He’d seen them all too many times, and hadn’t been bothered to go to the store for anything new earlier in the day. He regretted that decision now and defeatedly stuck an unexciting selection into the open tray. He picked his beer back up and finished it while the title menu came onscreen.
He pressed play, opened the second beer, and picked up the bottle of vodka. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of the fiery liquid before quickly chasing with a drink of beer. A small voice in his mind told him to slow down, the whole evening was before him. There was plenty of time to drink half the bottle.
He couldn’t slow down. He took a few more shots of vodka, and half his second beer was gone. His head was beginning to reel as he pressed “mute” on the remote and yawned as two women began to undress each other onscreen. He lay back on the bed and picked up his blinking cell phone. She had sent him a text message telling him to call her. He considered the possibility for a moment, but decided to wait a few minutes before engaging her in conversation.
A cough began to build up in his chest and he sat up suddenly, the hacking shaking his whole frame. He couldn’t catch his breath, and tears were beginning to cloud his eyesight. After a few minutes of an exploding sensation in his chest, the coughing subsided. He went to wipe the tears from his eyes, but stopped when he noticed there was blood on his hands. He had coughed up blood.
What was that disease? he thought. The Poe one. The one that killed all Edgar Allen Poe’s women? Consumption? What was that? He squinted his eyes for a moment and tried to concentrate. Concentrate. TB. . . Tuberculosis?
He worried for a moment that he might be terminally ill. Coughing up a handful of blood was not a normal occurrence. He wondered if Tuberculosis was still going around and if it was a painful way to die. The worry morphed into a warm sense of relief as he concretely thought about dying in six months. He smiled.
He probably wasn’t dying. It more than likely had to do with his recent increase in smoking. He had moved from two or three cigarettes to two packs a day in the space of a week.
The realization that he wasn’t going to tragically die in six months was a grave disappointment to the evening. He found himself longing for the simplicity of a divinely mandated exit visa and felt cheated by the tease of blood in his lungs. He cleared his eyes with the back of his hand and wiped off the blood and saliva on a nearby t-shirt.
There was a blinking light next to his leg, and he stared for a moment before it registered that his phone was ringing. He answered her call and began to listen to the latest edition of bad-boyfriend weekly. She was crying into the phone and saying that she wished her boyfriend would be as sweet as he was.
He swallowed and mentioned that he would never hit her child. She said he was so sweet and went back to talking about the latest in her long string of loser boyfriends. For some reason it didn’t matter that he was blindingly drunk; he still couldn’t tell her to fuck off. He couldn’t avoid her calls, he couldn’t tell her how passionately he felt, and he couldn’t tell her to leave him alone if she didn’t want him.
He managed to make it through another five minutes of her pitiful gibberish before excusing himself and hanging up. The chicks were still going at it on the TV, and he couldn’t find his vodka. That didn’t matter too much, seeing as he didn’t have any beer left with which to chase it.
The evening was becoming too long. He looked at the clock, which was upside down from the twisted position he had posed himself in on the bed. He tried to make out what time it was, but he couldn’t stop the numbers from spinning. He closed his eyes and held onto the bed as the feeling worsened.
He stumbled into the bathroom and bent over the toilet just in time to vomit. He wiped away the tears that he couldn’t stop from coming whenever he threw up. He tried to gauge if this was going to be one of those rare single-vomit nights. Not so lucky, he thought as he puked again, and again.
When he thought he was mostly done he curled into a ball. He had one last thought before passing out on the floor of the bathroom, arms wrapped around the base of the toilet, hoping that the experience of being twenty-five would be better than the past year. Another shitty birthday.
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