Here's the number one reason why corporate America sucks. This song "celebrates" the merge of Bank of America and MBNA -- at the expense of U2's masterpiece "One." Where is the gang from Mr. Show when you need them? Christ.
11 November 2006
10 November 2006
first
My first appointment with Dr. F. was anticlimactic.
I have a second meeting, which I plan to attend, scheduled for 21 November.
I want to thank those of you who have left kind and supportive comments. Your concerns are greatly appreciated.
mc
I have a second meeting, which I plan to attend, scheduled for 21 November.
I want to thank those of you who have left kind and supportive comments. Your concerns are greatly appreciated.
mc
soon
In approximately 60 minutes I'll be leaving for my appointment with Dr. F. I wish I could say that I'm looking forward to the experience, but that isn't true.
M called last night; she wished me well with today's appointment. The phone call ended rather abruptly, but I guess it's the thought that counts.
My head is swirling with anxiety, fear and uncertainty, and I feel nauseous. But this is nothing new. Every day is the same.
mc
M called last night; she wished me well with today's appointment. The phone call ended rather abruptly, but I guess it's the thought that counts.
My head is swirling with anxiety, fear and uncertainty, and I feel nauseous. But this is nothing new. Every day is the same.
mc
08 November 2006
disambiguation
If I'm completely honest with Dr. F. about my mental situation I will be "involuntarily committed" to a mental hospital/program. I came to this conclusion after researching Indiana's laws and protocols regarding the matter. While I don't consider myself a "threat" to others I'm certainly a "threat" to myself. I'm extremely hesitant about taking pharmaceuticals to address my situation; I'm totally against any form of inpatient/outpatient treatment.
I don't know where to go from here.
As my appointment nears I'm feeling trapped. Cornered. Threatened.
When the concept of death/dying/suicide is a daily thought and constant presence, one forms a symbiotic relationship with the notion and explores it with a logical and inquisitive mind. It's difficult, if not impossible, to fathom the reality of nonexistence. It's also painfully difficult to imagine the pain and heartache one leaves with his or her permanent absence.
Fuck.
I don't know.
I want to disappear.
No new beginning.
No ending.
Just disintegration.
A complete and total removal from everyone and everything.
mc
I don't know where to go from here.
As my appointment nears I'm feeling trapped. Cornered. Threatened.
When the concept of death/dying/suicide is a daily thought and constant presence, one forms a symbiotic relationship with the notion and explores it with a logical and inquisitive mind. It's difficult, if not impossible, to fathom the reality of nonexistence. It's also painfully difficult to imagine the pain and heartache one leaves with his or her permanent absence.
Fuck.
I don't know.
I want to disappear.
No new beginning.
No ending.
Just disintegration.
A complete and total removal from everyone and everything.
mc
07 November 2006
things
Earlier today I spoke to mom. Apparently last week's mammogram showed something in her left breast and a nodule on a lymph node. Further tests are scheduled for Monday. I didn't react to the news. I couldn't. I suppose on some level I was expecting it. I said, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." She asked me to pray for her. I don't believe in god. I'll hope for the best.
I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.
I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.
Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.
Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.
Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.
Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.
mc
I feel like I'm stranded on a vacant street in a city in shambles. The citizens have escaped to higher ground. With no sense of direction I don't know where to turn. The hospitals are wounded, empty. Telephone lines, cut. The sun is obscured by smoke from distant bonfires, burning somewhere far away.
I finished reading Camus's The Stranger. At 117 pages it's a short read, but it took me two weeks to finish; I read it at a leisurely pace. There is something comforting and, to a certain degree, familiar about Meursault, the book's protagonist. I've begun reading the book again.
Dr. F. moved my appointment from 1 PM to 4 PM. I've spoken to her twice. She sounds ancient. I'm afraid if I'm completely honest with her she will have me committed, but I'm unsure of the legalities of such a maneuver.
Monday was a better day. While I struggled to quell the highs and silence the lows, it was mostly an even day, emotionally speaking. Today, however, hasn't been so kind. High episodes make me want to leap from my flesh; low moments leave me crawling, looking for an escape.
Today was Election Day. I voted. But things won't change.
Outside a fog like a heavy ghost chokes the street lamps and blurs headlights. Forty-five degrees feels nice. I'm chain-smoking cigarettes wondering what will come next.
Colorful products glow inside warm and bright convenience stores.
American dreams are fueled at $2.34 a gallon.
Wet dreams are soaked by young girls dancing naked inside a dimly lit club. Music blares. Bass pounds like focused erections. And a man feeds "Rachel" dirty dollar bills. He doesn't want her to leave. He spent his last $4 on a poorly mixed drink. Alone, he'll stumble from the club looking for a ride home.
Home is where the heart is.
Organ transplants and empty refrigerators.
Fluorescent light and narcotics.
A hangman's noose and smeared lipstick, a forgotten valentine.
A fog like a heavy ghost chokes the city.
I'm chain-smoking cigarettes.
mc
05 November 2006
closer
The countenance in the mirror is not a familiar one. Something has changed. My eyes look different. Is it the shape? The color? Something is no longer recognizable.
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:
William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."
In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.
mc
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:
William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."
In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.
mc
04 November 2006
help?
I have scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist, Dr. F., for Friday, 10 November.
I'm tired.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
I'm in need of a reprieve.
Something.
mc
I'm tired.
I'm giving up.
I'm giving in.
I'm in need of a reprieve.
Something.
mc
31 October 2006
drive
In an attempt to touch base with something familiar and mentally regroup, I took the day off from work and made the two hour trip to Hometown.
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."
mc
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."
mc
26 October 2006
24 October 2006
disappear
Saturday night was bad. I should get help. Just give up. Admit myself to that palace of white walls and locked doors. Eat medications supplied by "qualified professionals." Talk about my feelings.
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
11 October 2006
...
Whenever I see the Verne Troyer GEICO Auto Insurance advertisement, I feel really sad.
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
01 October 2006
relevant
"You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
23 September 2006
blood, birds and glaciers
Lawns are emitting the fragrance of chemical flowers. The firehouses are empty, dark. And I'm stranded on a sidewalk in the dead part of town, Futility's ghost swirling in my head like smoke from her cigarette.
And I tasted her faded lips.
And I thrashed inside her wilted figure.
I look skyward. Huge birds blanketed in black are soaring, wingtips slicing, painting invisible arcs. Their silence is grace. Their grace, ineffable.
A fire flickers in my chest.
And I remember Futility...
She was sleeping as rain rattled off rooftops and cascaded into gurgling gutters. Puddles coalesced on muddy lawns, flooding and silencing that chemical scent.
I closed the window, lit a cigarette and stared at her body. I felt like a painter, an artist studying the female figure, attempting to digest an unmanageable microcosm of perfection, incalculable beauty. The human mind cannot grasp the concept of perfection -- but her body offered a glimpse into that staggering abyss. I felt impotent. Out of place. Like a bloodstain on the immaculate linen of a queen. ("And queens do not bleed.")
And then, words fell. Softly.
"We are giant glaciers of ice. Shifting. Moving. Slowly. Our coordinates will change. Eyes will traverse strange landscapes. Our flesh will taste foreign climates. And we will befriend invisible lovers and lick their salted wounds behind locked doors in midnight rooms. We will attach just to peel off, away. Every experience will mold, shape and sculpt a body, a memory, something to live inside us. But when our pupils dilate and fade for the final time, what will be the sum of these experiences, these memories, these bodies? Who will read our epilogues after we exit? And who will stand in the shadows of our intangible sculptures and offer validation?"
Her name was Futility.
I left her side, walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Cats and dogs continued to fall, a punishing rain. It was the kind of rain that forces lovers and strays to scamper and take refuge.
Through the rain and across the soggy landscape I could see a cemetery. The graveyard was like a quilt stitched into the hillside. Hidden in the threads were bodies buried in boxes, forgotten secrets.
And I wanted to hear them.
I put on the shirt she had crawled on and stained with her sweet scent, climbed into pants of dirty denim, strapped on my boots and walked outside, into the thick of it.
I was soaked in seconds but remained undeterred. The tombstones and mausoleums beckoned like a dying chapel, a lighthouse.
And I was a captain lost at sea.
The pelting rain was telling me to abandon ship ("There is nothing here"), turn around and return to sheets warm with Futility, but I stayed the course. This was a pilgrimage I had to make. I wanted to know the secrets -- the code of the dead.
Lightning flashed like dying filaments.
Thunder cracked like broken bibles.
And it was then that I realized the dead know nothing.
The dead.
The unborn.
They all occupy that great invisible void: the collapsed cosmos of nothingness. Inconceivable and unjustifiable, like Futility's flushed flesh.
And it was then that I realized there is no heaven, white and glowing. There is no perdition, fiery and furious. No towering god. No devastating devil.
Only this moment.
A flinching eye.
A beating heart.
A drop of rain.
A kiss like the Fourth of July.
I jumped ship and ran through the flooded streets.
And it was then that I realized Futility was my chapel. My lighthouse. My Jesus. My secret. My moment.
I was dripping like a dead sailor as I ripped through the door. A staggering silence greeted me. That detestable stillness of an empty room. Her scent lingered but Futility was gone.
I peeled off my saturated clothes, threw them away. I was naked. Stripped of the moment. My scars glistened in the dim glow of candlelight. Hot wax. Clammy flesh. Contrast. Unity.
I fell to my knees, crawled into bed and pressed the pillow to my face. Her scent slithered into my nostrils and filled my head with lamentations.
"Oh, Futility, where have you gone? You've left me dripping, shaking, alone with a heart full of dirty blood."
A flash of lightning penetrated my closed eyelids.
And I waited for the sky to explode.
I opened my eyes, looked skyward, and on the ceiling, written in the ink of a ghost, were the words:
Appreciate the knowledge of the unknown and embrace the weight of the invisible; for life is a fleeting kiss from the unborn, the futile.
Stranded on this sidewalk, I'm trying to shake her memory loose, trying to exorcise her tepid ghost. I'm trying to pretend that nothing happened. I'm telling myself Futility didn't exist.
But she did.
And she does.
She's a caged bird trapped inside my cold chest, pecking away and making a bloody mess. The doctors tell me it's heartburn, acid reflux, something. I don't listen to them because I know better. It's Futility, eating me from the inside out.
"And I won't deny you, baby."
The black birds of grace have disappeared and the sky is a gray canvas, blossoms of clouds are pluming.
I can hear thunder rolling over a distant prairie.
It smells like rain.
mc
And I tasted her faded lips.
And I thrashed inside her wilted figure.
I look skyward. Huge birds blanketed in black are soaring, wingtips slicing, painting invisible arcs. Their silence is grace. Their grace, ineffable.
A fire flickers in my chest.
And I remember Futility...
She was sleeping as rain rattled off rooftops and cascaded into gurgling gutters. Puddles coalesced on muddy lawns, flooding and silencing that chemical scent.
I closed the window, lit a cigarette and stared at her body. I felt like a painter, an artist studying the female figure, attempting to digest an unmanageable microcosm of perfection, incalculable beauty. The human mind cannot grasp the concept of perfection -- but her body offered a glimpse into that staggering abyss. I felt impotent. Out of place. Like a bloodstain on the immaculate linen of a queen. ("And queens do not bleed.")
And then, words fell. Softly.
"We are giant glaciers of ice. Shifting. Moving. Slowly. Our coordinates will change. Eyes will traverse strange landscapes. Our flesh will taste foreign climates. And we will befriend invisible lovers and lick their salted wounds behind locked doors in midnight rooms. We will attach just to peel off, away. Every experience will mold, shape and sculpt a body, a memory, something to live inside us. But when our pupils dilate and fade for the final time, what will be the sum of these experiences, these memories, these bodies? Who will read our epilogues after we exit? And who will stand in the shadows of our intangible sculptures and offer validation?"
Her name was Futility.
I left her side, walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Cats and dogs continued to fall, a punishing rain. It was the kind of rain that forces lovers and strays to scamper and take refuge.
Through the rain and across the soggy landscape I could see a cemetery. The graveyard was like a quilt stitched into the hillside. Hidden in the threads were bodies buried in boxes, forgotten secrets.
And I wanted to hear them.
I put on the shirt she had crawled on and stained with her sweet scent, climbed into pants of dirty denim, strapped on my boots and walked outside, into the thick of it.
I was soaked in seconds but remained undeterred. The tombstones and mausoleums beckoned like a dying chapel, a lighthouse.
And I was a captain lost at sea.
The pelting rain was telling me to abandon ship ("There is nothing here"), turn around and return to sheets warm with Futility, but I stayed the course. This was a pilgrimage I had to make. I wanted to know the secrets -- the code of the dead.
Lightning flashed like dying filaments.
Thunder cracked like broken bibles.
And it was then that I realized the dead know nothing.
The dead.
The unborn.
They all occupy that great invisible void: the collapsed cosmos of nothingness. Inconceivable and unjustifiable, like Futility's flushed flesh.
And it was then that I realized there is no heaven, white and glowing. There is no perdition, fiery and furious. No towering god. No devastating devil.
Only this moment.
A flinching eye.
A beating heart.
A drop of rain.
A kiss like the Fourth of July.
I jumped ship and ran through the flooded streets.
And it was then that I realized Futility was my chapel. My lighthouse. My Jesus. My secret. My moment.
I was dripping like a dead sailor as I ripped through the door. A staggering silence greeted me. That detestable stillness of an empty room. Her scent lingered but Futility was gone.
I peeled off my saturated clothes, threw them away. I was naked. Stripped of the moment. My scars glistened in the dim glow of candlelight. Hot wax. Clammy flesh. Contrast. Unity.
I fell to my knees, crawled into bed and pressed the pillow to my face. Her scent slithered into my nostrils and filled my head with lamentations.
"Oh, Futility, where have you gone? You've left me dripping, shaking, alone with a heart full of dirty blood."
A flash of lightning penetrated my closed eyelids.
And I waited for the sky to explode.
I opened my eyes, looked skyward, and on the ceiling, written in the ink of a ghost, were the words:
Appreciate the knowledge of the unknown and embrace the weight of the invisible; for life is a fleeting kiss from the unborn, the futile.
Stranded on this sidewalk, I'm trying to shake her memory loose, trying to exorcise her tepid ghost. I'm trying to pretend that nothing happened. I'm telling myself Futility didn't exist.
But she did.
And she does.
She's a caged bird trapped inside my cold chest, pecking away and making a bloody mess. The doctors tell me it's heartburn, acid reflux, something. I don't listen to them because I know better. It's Futility, eating me from the inside out.
"And I won't deny you, baby."
The black birds of grace have disappeared and the sky is a gray canvas, blossoms of clouds are pluming.
I can hear thunder rolling over a distant prairie.
It smells like rain.
mc
19 September 2006
flash
My friendships and relationships have been like a kaleidoscope: brilliant colors glimmer and shine briefly, only to turn, shift and transform into something unrecognizable, foreign, fading to nothing. And a memory is formed. The faces, unforgettable. Always. "I won't forget you."
She's gone now. Her absence only confirms my fear of trusting another soul. I cut myself open and exposed all those secret places that I hide from everyone else. I sliced open old scars, let them bleed into her; I revealed fresh insecurities, she was assurance.
And now she's gone.
No one will ever know the amount of strength I expend attempting to establish something, anything with a new face. I thought I had established something meaningful with her. A foundation, a floor, a bridge, something steady and durable, something to silence the fear, the doubt, the insecurities, the static -- a remedy.
I shared with her the most intimate of secrets, ghosts that had never been exposed, ghosts that now haunt me more than ever because they've been leaked into her heart, a sacred vessel I thought to be secure. Safe. And trustworthy.
And now she is gone.
And now there's this disconnection.
And now those secrets, those ghosts have become unmanageable particles, dust catching rays of distant light, floating through my fingers and out of reach, swimming in her heart. Those untamed secrets -- pieces of me -- drift, unprotected.
I feel exposed. Ashamed. Foolish. Naked. Exploited. Alone. I feel like the unsuspecting talk show ghost who has been bombarded with an embarrassing monster from the past. I feel like an obscene caricature, a forgettable punchline from a bar room joke because I was naive enough to suspend my fears and trust her.
She was a strange juror and I was at her mercy.
The jewels of dependability, assurance, love, trust, safety, reciprocation and peace glimmered in her beautiful eyes (the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen), crumbling my defenses and numbing my instincts. My heart now bares the scars of retribution.
Alone tonight, my mind flickers with the fleeting memory of a glimpse, a taste of what I longed for. And now she's gone. A memory. A postcard. "Wish you were here." I was, but for a flash.
"I won't forget you."
mc
She's gone now. Her absence only confirms my fear of trusting another soul. I cut myself open and exposed all those secret places that I hide from everyone else. I sliced open old scars, let them bleed into her; I revealed fresh insecurities, she was assurance.
And now she's gone.
No one will ever know the amount of strength I expend attempting to establish something, anything with a new face. I thought I had established something meaningful with her. A foundation, a floor, a bridge, something steady and durable, something to silence the fear, the doubt, the insecurities, the static -- a remedy.
I shared with her the most intimate of secrets, ghosts that had never been exposed, ghosts that now haunt me more than ever because they've been leaked into her heart, a sacred vessel I thought to be secure. Safe. And trustworthy.
And now she is gone.
And now there's this disconnection.
And now those secrets, those ghosts have become unmanageable particles, dust catching rays of distant light, floating through my fingers and out of reach, swimming in her heart. Those untamed secrets -- pieces of me -- drift, unprotected.
I feel exposed. Ashamed. Foolish. Naked. Exploited. Alone. I feel like the unsuspecting talk show ghost who has been bombarded with an embarrassing monster from the past. I feel like an obscene caricature, a forgettable punchline from a bar room joke because I was naive enough to suspend my fears and trust her.
She was a strange juror and I was at her mercy.
The jewels of dependability, assurance, love, trust, safety, reciprocation and peace glimmered in her beautiful eyes (the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen), crumbling my defenses and numbing my instincts. My heart now bares the scars of retribution.
Alone tonight, my mind flickers with the fleeting memory of a glimpse, a taste of what I longed for. And now she's gone. A memory. A postcard. "Wish you were here." I was, but for a flash.
"I won't forget you."
mc
06 September 2006
passing
As I drove home earlier today, I saw a gopher, twisting on the roadway.
It was confused.
It was contorting.
Writhing.
Its eyes moved in slow motion, unable to calculate the End.
It was dying.
Slowly.
Once I recognized the situation, I looked away and hoped its end would come soon. I hoped for a giant steel belt wrapped in black to come tearing down the road and crush the suffering. But a prayer for death is a plea fraught with complications. How does one weigh suffering and life with salvation and death? Who wants to wear the executioner's mask when his or her heart bleeds with sympathy and compassion?
Thirty minutes later Sister calls with tears in her tone.
What's going on? Is everything okay? How is the pregnancy proceeding?
She tells me the baby boy is doing fine, his kicking and wrestling a constant reminder, and he's due in mid-November.
But this phone call isn't about a baby, a beginning or a new life.
This call is about an ending, and her tears are for Family Dog.
After seventeen years, Family Dog's life is quickly fading and Sister is faced with that brutal prayer: a prayer for death. The Angels of Anesthesia are calling and Sister, naturally, is hesitant to heed their song.
Family Dog was the staple that bound Sister and I through our parents' divorce, and when everything was falling apart, that little Pekingese was there to lick our wounded hearts.
And this is very difficult to write about...
It's hard to express how the confluence of recent events has affected me emotionally... My creative spark remains broken, silent... My mental stability: a volatile signal of depression, self-doubt, fear and hopelessness, with intermittent flashes of joy, love and passion... It feels like everyone is an antenna, receiving some kind of secret broadcast -- a transmission I'm unable to catch -- and I'm rendered lost and lonely, left with frequent moments of "unreality"... And the last pure and untainted symbol from my crippled childhood will soon be gone.
What happened? How did things get like this? And why is Family Dog's imminent death just another tragic poetic stanza?
mc
It was confused.
It was contorting.
Writhing.
Its eyes moved in slow motion, unable to calculate the End.
It was dying.
Slowly.
Once I recognized the situation, I looked away and hoped its end would come soon. I hoped for a giant steel belt wrapped in black to come tearing down the road and crush the suffering. But a prayer for death is a plea fraught with complications. How does one weigh suffering and life with salvation and death? Who wants to wear the executioner's mask when his or her heart bleeds with sympathy and compassion?
Thirty minutes later Sister calls with tears in her tone.
What's going on? Is everything okay? How is the pregnancy proceeding?
She tells me the baby boy is doing fine, his kicking and wrestling a constant reminder, and he's due in mid-November.
But this phone call isn't about a baby, a beginning or a new life.
This call is about an ending, and her tears are for Family Dog.
After seventeen years, Family Dog's life is quickly fading and Sister is faced with that brutal prayer: a prayer for death. The Angels of Anesthesia are calling and Sister, naturally, is hesitant to heed their song.
Family Dog was the staple that bound Sister and I through our parents' divorce, and when everything was falling apart, that little Pekingese was there to lick our wounded hearts.
And this is very difficult to write about...
It's hard to express how the confluence of recent events has affected me emotionally... My creative spark remains broken, silent... My mental stability: a volatile signal of depression, self-doubt, fear and hopelessness, with intermittent flashes of joy, love and passion... It feels like everyone is an antenna, receiving some kind of secret broadcast -- a transmission I'm unable to catch -- and I'm rendered lost and lonely, left with frequent moments of "unreality"... And the last pure and untainted symbol from my crippled childhood will soon be gone.
What happened? How did things get like this? And why is Family Dog's imminent death just another tragic poetic stanza?
mc
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