I killed a man in my sleep last night.
strange albino maskface
cueball head coated in alabaster
greasepaint of a clown
skin white as the sharpened teeth
tearing through a bloodred slit of mouth
that wound the only color in his face
he was keeping me there
in the darkred room with no windows
holding me there in fear
terrorizing me
torturing me
delighting in it
consuming my fear like a drug
lusting after my pain
pleasuring himself with it
It had been a very bad day for me.
but then he brought Her in
so She could see what he had done
witness the mess he was making of me
brought Her in so I could see
the pain and the fear twisting Her beauty
but then he lost himself
in his lust and hunger for our degradation
he leaned down
face to "face"
pressed his sickening skin to mine
to whisper in my ear
all the things he was about to do to Her
He shouldn't have.
my hands were on his head
fists closed around ears
and pulled
thumbs went into eyes
and sank
and his bloodred mouth opened in glorious tortured screaming
my teeth clamped down
tearing into his bottom lip
with everything i had
i pushed and pulled and tore and ruined
eyeballs popped wet and cold like rotten grapes
ears gave in came off ripping strips of cheek revealing bone
lip tore down down down over chin and neck and red flowed free
free as i felt
free as i now was
as we now were
and i looked to Her
worried for us both
for so many things
and I saw Her
standing shocked
and there was no more fear in Her eyes
and there was no more love in Her smile
there was only the dumbfounded awe
of the newly awakened
all i felt
was justified
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Soured...
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Carpe Diem, My Captain...
I really don't understand why the death of Robin Williams is hitting me so hard. As shocked as I was to hear of his death, I was (and still remain) almost as shocked by the depth of my reaction to it. I mean, sure I've felt saddened by the death of other celebrities before. I remember being particularly saddened by the death of Heath Ledger, and more recently, Philip Seymour Hoffman. But I've never been moved to tears like this before. Celebrities are, by nature, almost fictional characters to us themselves; always removed from our actual lives by cameras and screens. (I think that might have something to do with why it feels so strange whenever you see one in person - it's almost like TV or a movie coming to life!) And since we don't really know them personally, there's only so much their death can move us.
Or so I thought.
I don't know why this one hurts so much. Maybe it's because I grew up with him? Because I've enjoyed him so much for my entire life? I remember the rainbow Mork suspenders I had when I was five years old. (My first cosplay, I guess?) I remember seeing Popeye in the theaters with my parents just a few years later, and loving it completely. I have the same memories of Good Morning, Vietnam. And Hook. (Oh, Peter Pan! Why did you have to grow up?!) I watched Mrs. Doubtfire and Jumanji over and over, just because of the way it delighted both the boy and the man in me at the same time.
And I've seen Dead Poets Society so many times I can practically quote the whole movie. I don't know when I'll be able to watch that one again now. At the very least, I know I'll never be able to see it the same way again.
Maybe it's because it was apparently a suicide? It's possible. Might be the connection to my own mother's death. But I haven't reacted this way to other suicides or overdoses, so why this one? Maybe it's just the fact that suicide adds that final crack of heartbreak to the story. We didn't just lose one of the greats forever; we lost him to himself, to his own demons, to his own sickness. It feels like there must've been something that could've saved him. It feels like it didn't have to end this way. And it touches us all because, let's face it, haven't each and every one of us been there, or somewhere close to it, at least once in our lives? But if we could survive it, then why couldn't he?
I think it's true that there are few things more sad in this life, than a funny man, with a broken heart. His mentor, Jonathan Winters, knew that only too well. But he survived it anyways. It's too bad he couldn't be there to help his friend, who clearly needed him more than anyone knew.
Like so, so many of us today, I feel the need to pour my heart out to the memory of this funny man, who's been there my whole life, in some vain and desperate attempt to figure out just what in the fuck it means to live without him now.
Below, I've collected some of my favorites that other people have been sharing today. Some are funny, some are poignant, some are heart-breaking. But they all made me feel something. And that's helped, at least a little.
Here's hoping it can do the same for any of you.
"Robin Williams is not dead, he is just waiting in the jungle until somebody rolls a 5 or 8." -testingonetwothreetesting, via imgur
"One of the funniest people alive died from sadness." - chili1179, via imgur
And finally, this is how I always want to remember him:
Your barbaric YAWP! was heard around the world, sir, and inspired MILLIONS.
And you will always be my captain.
Or so I thought.
I don't know why this one hurts so much. Maybe it's because I grew up with him? Because I've enjoyed him so much for my entire life? I remember the rainbow Mork suspenders I had when I was five years old. (My first cosplay, I guess?) I remember seeing Popeye in the theaters with my parents just a few years later, and loving it completely. I have the same memories of Good Morning, Vietnam. And Hook. (Oh, Peter Pan! Why did you have to grow up?!) I watched Mrs. Doubtfire and Jumanji over and over, just because of the way it delighted both the boy and the man in me at the same time.
And I've seen Dead Poets Society so many times I can practically quote the whole movie. I don't know when I'll be able to watch that one again now. At the very least, I know I'll never be able to see it the same way again.
Maybe it's because it was apparently a suicide? It's possible. Might be the connection to my own mother's death. But I haven't reacted this way to other suicides or overdoses, so why this one? Maybe it's just the fact that suicide adds that final crack of heartbreak to the story. We didn't just lose one of the greats forever; we lost him to himself, to his own demons, to his own sickness. It feels like there must've been something that could've saved him. It feels like it didn't have to end this way. And it touches us all because, let's face it, haven't each and every one of us been there, or somewhere close to it, at least once in our lives? But if we could survive it, then why couldn't he?
I think it's true that there are few things more sad in this life, than a funny man, with a broken heart. His mentor, Jonathan Winters, knew that only too well. But he survived it anyways. It's too bad he couldn't be there to help his friend, who clearly needed him more than anyone knew.
Like so, so many of us today, I feel the need to pour my heart out to the memory of this funny man, who's been there my whole life, in some vain and desperate attempt to figure out just what in the fuck it means to live without him now.
Below, I've collected some of my favorites that other people have been sharing today. Some are funny, some are poignant, some are heart-breaking. But they all made me feel something. And that's helped, at least a little.
Here's hoping it can do the same for any of you.
Every time I hear a siren I still say "that's my ride." Thank you Robin Williams. I wish your ride had not arrived.
— John Hodgman (@hodgman) August 11, 2014
 |
| Spontaneous tribute appearing at the bench in Boston, made famous from the scene in Good Will Hunting. |
We mourn
the loss of our friend Robin Williams, who always made us laugh and
smile. pic.twitter.com/UOY8LTjVRA
—
Sesame Street (@sesamestreet) August
11, 2014
"Robin Williams is not dead, he is just waiting in the jungle until somebody rolls a 5 or 8." -testingonetwothreetesting, via imgur
"One of the funniest people alive died from sadness." - chili1179, via imgur
Nanu
nanu.
— SarcasticRover (@SarcasticRover) August
11, 2014
Come on in Rob. I got
you.
— Jesus Christ (@jesus) August
11, 2014
 |
| The first comment on this image, from NancyNevada, I think says it all: "When Peter Pan dies, don't tell us to grow up." |
Goodbye pal.
Thanks for everything.
— Louis C.K. (@louisck) August
12, 2014
 |
| This was reportedly posted to Disney's FB page this morning. Heart-wrenching. |
"But
doctor, I AM Pagliacci."
That's the
only way this makes sense. Can't stand thinking of him being
that sad. #RIPRobinWilliams
—
Patton Oswalt (@pattonoswalt) August
11, 2014
And finally, this is how I always want to remember him:
Your barbaric YAWP! was heard around the world, sir, and inspired MILLIONS.
And you will always be my captain.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Eleven Years...
Eleven years ago today, we were packing to leave the beach.
Princess and I, and two of our friends, had just spent a lovely post-Labor Day week at my grandfather's beach cottage in Delaware, and our vacation was over, and we spent the morning packing up to return to our "normal" lives. (I didn't know it at the time, but that was the last time I would ever set foot in that cottage on the beach, where I had spent part of every summer of my entire life up to that point.) When we were finally ready to leave, and packing up the car, I turned my cell phone back on for the first time since I'd arrived a week earlier. About a minute later, I found I had a dozen voicemails from my father, all from that morning. I decided to see what all the fuss was about, and heard recording after recording of my father telling me that the United States was under attack, to turn on the TV, and whatever I do, not to come home.
We hadn't turned on the TV once the entire week. When we finally turned it on that morning, we were all horrified, and dumbstruck. And as we stood there, watching the towers burning, I remember thinking to myself, with odd clarity, That son-of-a-bitch is going to use this as an excuse to invade Iraq. My hand to gods, that exact thought crossed my mind, followed immediately by, No - no way - that's ridiculous - even he wouldn't do something that horrible.
We decided to stay another day, because no one was quite sure what was going on at that point, and it just felt a lot safer out there in that sleepy town on the seashore, then back home, next-door to D.C. That was one of the most surreal days of my life. We were glued to the TV all day, watching what looked like Hell Come To The U.S. But where we were, it was a beautiful, just absolutely gorgeous late-Summer day. It could not have been more peaceful, or serene. It produced a strange sort of cognitive dissonance that permeated the entire day for all of us. Nothing we did felt right - if it fit with the scene around us, it didn't fit with the way we felt about what we knew was going on at home; and if it fit with how we felt about the attacks, then it seemed really out-of-place with where we were at the time and what we were experiencing just then.
Not knowing what else to do, we partied that night like it was the end of the world. We did shots and got wasted and played Truth-or-Dare until we were all drunk and naked. (Trust me, it was a lot more fun at the time than it sounds now.)
And the next day, we went back home to a world that had completely changed, in ways we would have a hard time understanding or coming to terms with for many years. I still haven't completely come to terms with a lot of it.
Addendum: I didn't want to make my post today about this, because I didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful. But I feel like I have to say it, for several reasons. It's just been on my mind a lot lately, and I don't want to bottle it up and pretend it isn't there. And yes, some people might perceive it as disrespectful, but I don't agree with that opinion, and if I start basing my decisions about what to say or believe off of what other people might think about it, then I'm lost. In my opinion, today is the most appropriate time to address it; the only appropriate time to address it, really. It would seem oddly out of place on any other day, and waiting until next year will not have changed anything one way or the other, and by then I might have forgotten it, and lost the opportunity to express these feelings for good.
Let me preface this further by saying, I am not a conspiracy theorist. I do believe that conspiracies can and do occur, but I am also a skeptic by nature, and 99% of the conspiracy theories I hear are clearly, demonstrably, ridiculous. However, that said, there is something about the official story of what happened that day that has just never sat right with me. I know a lot of people are going to consider me an ignorant, monstrous anti-patriot for saying this, but that doesn't change the way it appears to me.
I have never believed the story of United 93.
I am truly, truly sorry if that bothers you in any way. I don't want to upset anyone, and that certainly has nothing to do with why I'm writing this here. But it also doesn't do anything to change my perception of the situation, either.
It just always struck me as too neat, too tidy, too... American. It's like something out of a storybook, or a fairytale. Or a Hollywood movie. It's just too perfect to be real. The fact that they just happened to be lucky enough to crash in an uninhabited area. The fact that the one plane that didn't hit its target just happened to be the last one, and just happened to be the one headed for the White House. The fact that on that day, of all days, for this story that is fairly dripping with patriotism and Americans-Are-The-Greatest glory to come out, from the government, has just been a little hard for me to swallow. From the first time I heard it, it has felt exactly like the "your dog went to live on a farm upstate" story a father would tell to his child.
I tend to follow the "Occam's Razor" style-guide when it comes to conspiracy theories: the simplest explanation is the most likely. That's one of the many reasons why I've never believed that 9/11 was an "inside job" (even though it would've felt so good to blame Cheney and Rumsfeld for it); the idea that the federal government could organize a conspiracy on that massive a scale is simply ludicrous, and laughably so.
But the idea that they might shoot down a passenger plane that they believed was on a suicide mission to crash into the White House, especially after three other planes had already hit their targets, and without knowing how many more there might be? And that if they did, in fact, shoot down that plane, that they might, on such a tragic day, tell us an up-lifting story of everyday American heroism, rather than the truth - that the United States government had been forced to kill some of its own citizens, in order to prevent the murder of far more? Those really just don't seem that far-fetched to me. In fact, they seem kind of plausible.
And the more I've been thinking about it lately, the more I've come to realize, that if that is what happened, I wouldn't even blame them for it.
Even if the U.S. shot down United 93, they wouldn't be responsible for those people's deaths. The terrorists who hijacked that plane, and pointed it at the White House are the ones responsible. There is simply no argument about that. I mean, honestly, what else should the government have done? Let the plane destroy the White House, just so that those Americans on that plane could live another hour? Is there anyone who could truly argue that there was some safe way to quickly bring that plane down without injuring anyone? If the government had the means and opportunity to take down that plane - and I don't think there is any reasonable argument to be made that they didn't - then, if I'm honest with myself, I don't see what other choice they had.
And you know what? I wouldn't even blame them for lying to us about it. Those men and women on that plane are everyday American heroes, no matter how they died. Just like every single person who died in New York or D.C. that day is a hero. Don't they deserve to be remembered as heroes? Don't they deserve better than to be remembered as innocent victims caught in the crossfire between their government and a handful of sick assholes?
Yes, you could make the argument that the lie was self-serving to the ones who told it. And I don't necessarily think you'd be wrong. But I think it's just as true that the lie honors the memories of those men and women in a just way; in a way fitting of Americans who gave their lives, willingly or not, so that others could live.
The official story of United 93 might be a mythology, but they deserve that, and much more. A beautiful mythology to honor their deaths is, literally, the least we can do.
Princess and I, and two of our friends, had just spent a lovely post-Labor Day week at my grandfather's beach cottage in Delaware, and our vacation was over, and we spent the morning packing up to return to our "normal" lives. (I didn't know it at the time, but that was the last time I would ever set foot in that cottage on the beach, where I had spent part of every summer of my entire life up to that point.) When we were finally ready to leave, and packing up the car, I turned my cell phone back on for the first time since I'd arrived a week earlier. About a minute later, I found I had a dozen voicemails from my father, all from that morning. I decided to see what all the fuss was about, and heard recording after recording of my father telling me that the United States was under attack, to turn on the TV, and whatever I do, not to come home.
We hadn't turned on the TV once the entire week. When we finally turned it on that morning, we were all horrified, and dumbstruck. And as we stood there, watching the towers burning, I remember thinking to myself, with odd clarity, That son-of-a-bitch is going to use this as an excuse to invade Iraq. My hand to gods, that exact thought crossed my mind, followed immediately by, No - no way - that's ridiculous - even he wouldn't do something that horrible.
We decided to stay another day, because no one was quite sure what was going on at that point, and it just felt a lot safer out there in that sleepy town on the seashore, then back home, next-door to D.C. That was one of the most surreal days of my life. We were glued to the TV all day, watching what looked like Hell Come To The U.S. But where we were, it was a beautiful, just absolutely gorgeous late-Summer day. It could not have been more peaceful, or serene. It produced a strange sort of cognitive dissonance that permeated the entire day for all of us. Nothing we did felt right - if it fit with the scene around us, it didn't fit with the way we felt about what we knew was going on at home; and if it fit with how we felt about the attacks, then it seemed really out-of-place with where we were at the time and what we were experiencing just then.
Not knowing what else to do, we partied that night like it was the end of the world. We did shots and got wasted and played Truth-or-Dare until we were all drunk and naked. (Trust me, it was a lot more fun at the time than it sounds now.)
And the next day, we went back home to a world that had completely changed, in ways we would have a hard time understanding or coming to terms with for many years. I still haven't completely come to terms with a lot of it.
Addendum: I didn't want to make my post today about this, because I didn't want to be perceived as disrespectful. But I feel like I have to say it, for several reasons. It's just been on my mind a lot lately, and I don't want to bottle it up and pretend it isn't there. And yes, some people might perceive it as disrespectful, but I don't agree with that opinion, and if I start basing my decisions about what to say or believe off of what other people might think about it, then I'm lost. In my opinion, today is the most appropriate time to address it; the only appropriate time to address it, really. It would seem oddly out of place on any other day, and waiting until next year will not have changed anything one way or the other, and by then I might have forgotten it, and lost the opportunity to express these feelings for good.
Let me preface this further by saying, I am not a conspiracy theorist. I do believe that conspiracies can and do occur, but I am also a skeptic by nature, and 99% of the conspiracy theories I hear are clearly, demonstrably, ridiculous. However, that said, there is something about the official story of what happened that day that has just never sat right with me. I know a lot of people are going to consider me an ignorant, monstrous anti-patriot for saying this, but that doesn't change the way it appears to me.
I have never believed the story of United 93.
I am truly, truly sorry if that bothers you in any way. I don't want to upset anyone, and that certainly has nothing to do with why I'm writing this here. But it also doesn't do anything to change my perception of the situation, either.
It just always struck me as too neat, too tidy, too... American. It's like something out of a storybook, or a fairytale. Or a Hollywood movie. It's just too perfect to be real. The fact that they just happened to be lucky enough to crash in an uninhabited area. The fact that the one plane that didn't hit its target just happened to be the last one, and just happened to be the one headed for the White House. The fact that on that day, of all days, for this story that is fairly dripping with patriotism and Americans-Are-The-Greatest glory to come out, from the government, has just been a little hard for me to swallow. From the first time I heard it, it has felt exactly like the "your dog went to live on a farm upstate" story a father would tell to his child.
I tend to follow the "Occam's Razor" style-guide when it comes to conspiracy theories: the simplest explanation is the most likely. That's one of the many reasons why I've never believed that 9/11 was an "inside job" (even though it would've felt so good to blame Cheney and Rumsfeld for it); the idea that the federal government could organize a conspiracy on that massive a scale is simply ludicrous, and laughably so.
But the idea that they might shoot down a passenger plane that they believed was on a suicide mission to crash into the White House, especially after three other planes had already hit their targets, and without knowing how many more there might be? And that if they did, in fact, shoot down that plane, that they might, on such a tragic day, tell us an up-lifting story of everyday American heroism, rather than the truth - that the United States government had been forced to kill some of its own citizens, in order to prevent the murder of far more? Those really just don't seem that far-fetched to me. In fact, they seem kind of plausible.
And the more I've been thinking about it lately, the more I've come to realize, that if that is what happened, I wouldn't even blame them for it.
Even if the U.S. shot down United 93, they wouldn't be responsible for those people's deaths. The terrorists who hijacked that plane, and pointed it at the White House are the ones responsible. There is simply no argument about that. I mean, honestly, what else should the government have done? Let the plane destroy the White House, just so that those Americans on that plane could live another hour? Is there anyone who could truly argue that there was some safe way to quickly bring that plane down without injuring anyone? If the government had the means and opportunity to take down that plane - and I don't think there is any reasonable argument to be made that they didn't - then, if I'm honest with myself, I don't see what other choice they had.
And you know what? I wouldn't even blame them for lying to us about it. Those men and women on that plane are everyday American heroes, no matter how they died. Just like every single person who died in New York or D.C. that day is a hero. Don't they deserve to be remembered as heroes? Don't they deserve better than to be remembered as innocent victims caught in the crossfire between their government and a handful of sick assholes?
Yes, you could make the argument that the lie was self-serving to the ones who told it. And I don't necessarily think you'd be wrong. But I think it's just as true that the lie honors the memories of those men and women in a just way; in a way fitting of Americans who gave their lives, willingly or not, so that others could live.
The official story of United 93 might be a mythology, but they deserve that, and much more. A beautiful mythology to honor their deaths is, literally, the least we can do.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The Junkie And The Monk...
This is one of my absolute favorite Moth stories ever, and I'm so glad they finally posted it to their YouTube channel.
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Snow...
This is the only story I wrote on my vacation last weekend.
The biggest and best hill in town was at the VFW golf course. Every Winter, families would gather there on snow-covered weekends and schools-closed snow-days to slide down that awesome hill.
I was fifteen, and just about getting too old for this kind of thing. Pretty soon, this would be "kid stuff" to me, and I would find better, more grown-up ways to pass the time. But for now, this was still my favorite thing to do in the snow.
It was mid-January before we had our first real snowfall that year, and our first snow-day, as well. My Dad made a thermos of hot chocolate, and drove my brother and I and all of our equipment out to the golf course. I had gotten a real snowboard for Christmas that year, and couldn't wait to try it out. It was just a cheap, plastic knock-off from Toys 'R' Us, but it sure beat trying to ride down the hill standing up on our sleds, the way my friends and I had been doing the past couple of Winters.
Over and over I flew down that gigantic hill at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Then came the slow climb back up the steep, slippery slope to the top, just to strap in and spend another few seconds sliding back down again. It was like my own personal amusement park ride, with no waiting line. Half-way through the day, some friends and I built a snow-ramp in the middle of the hill, so we could start flying off into the air during our rides. As the light began to dim at the end of the afternoon, my father and my brother were exhausted and ready to go home, but I felt like I could've stayed there all day and all night; I couldn't ever remember having more fun.
After we got home, and had put our wet clothes in the dryer, and were enjoying some more hot chocolate in our comfy, warm pajamas, my father said he had to talk with my brother and I about something. He sat us down and started to talk about my dog, Dillon. Technically, he was the family dog, but everyone knew he was really my dog, just as his mother, Dree, had been my father's. Dree had been a breeding dog; a pure-bred Black Labrador Retriever. Over the years, we'd bred four litters of pups from her, and Dillon was from her first. I'd been three years-old back then, and Dillon and I had bonded instantly. My parents had decided not to sell him off with the other pups, and instead let me keep him. So Dillon and I had grown up together. Whenever the family came home, he'd greet me before acknowledging anyone else. If anyone else in the family and I called his name at the same time, he would come to me. I was the one who spent days and days of Summer roaming the woods behind our development with him, chasing squirrels and rabbits and hiding from the older boys from the other neighborhoods. Dillon was my best friend. For many years of my childhood, he was my only friend. And I was his favorite Human.
But he was twelve years-old by this point. The fur under his chin had gone grey years ago. He was moving very slowly now, when he bothered to move at all. He slept most of the day. And a few days earlier, he'd stopped eating. It was time, my father said, to "put him out of his misery."
I'd known this day was coming; I wasn't ignorant. Still, I hadn't been prepared for it to be right now, this day. I'd just been so happy, having so much fun on that massive hill! And now, suddenly, it's time to kill my dog?! But what was the alternative? Make him spend another day suffering, just so that I could continue to avoid dealing with the inevitable? Why not today? Would tomorrow really be any better?
My little brother, many years younger than me, didn't understand it the same way. All he knew was that he didn't want our dog to die. He cried and cried, and my parents took him upstairs to try and console him, leaving me alone in our basement family room with Dillon.
He sat at my feet, the way he had so many times before over the years, and he looked into my eyes, and arched his eyebrows, as if to ask what was wrong. I petted him, and rubbed his ears the way he loved so much; and I told him how much I loved him, and how very much I was going to miss him. And I cried, as I tried to love him enough to make up for what I knew was coming.
And then, before I knew it, and before I was ready, I heard my father call down to us from the top of the stairs that it was time to go. He began to call out, "Dillon! Come! Come here, boy! Dillon, come!" But Dillon didn't move. Whenever my father would call his name, Dillon would turn his head to look towards the sound of my father's voice, and then turn back to me, with this quizzical expression on his face, as if asking me what to do. Eventually, I heard my father say, "Son, he's not going to listen to me. You'll have to be the one to tell him."
I started crying again. It was bad enough to be losing my best friend like this. I really didn't know if I could be the one to tell him to go. It was too much to ask of a kid. But my Dad was right - it had to be done, it was the kind and loving thing to do, and I was the only one who could do it.
As best I could manage through the tears, I squeaked out a pathetic-sounding, "Go on, boy. Go on. Go upstairs." But either he didn't understand me, or he didn't want to go. So I got up and started up the stairs myself, saying, "Come on, boy." Dillon rose slowly, on shaky legs, and padded weakly over to the stairs at my command. He hadn't climbed the stairs in many months, and it took him a long time that day. I wonder if he knew, as I did, that it would be the last time?
Finally we made it all the way to the top to join the rest of my family in the living room. My little brother, my mother, and I were all crying at this point; everyone but my father. He was trying to be strong for us. He opened the front door, and said, again, "Come on, boy! Here, Dillon! Come!," trying to get the dog to follow him out the door and into the waiting car. But, again, Dillon wouldn't move. He just sat and looked from me, to my father, and back again. "What should I do?," he was asking me.
I didn't wait to be told this time. I held my head up, and stuffed down the tears, and walked out the front door, saying, "Come on, boy." He slowly followed me out the door; I could almost hear his poor, old bones creaking in the cold. The Sun had gone down by this point, and it was dark as I led him down our front walk to my father's car. When he was younger, Dillon used to leap into this car in a rush of infectious enthusiasm, excited almost to the point of mania by the prospect of going on a trip someplace else. His favorite was the beach. He'd swim in the ocean until he was completely exhausted. But those days were gone now, and in the end, my father had to pick him up and place him in the car himself.
Standing there on the sidewalk, in my pajamas, on a cold, January night, I could see my dog through the back window of the car. He watched me as I waved goodbye to my best friend, feeling like a fool, and a murderer. He watched me as they drove away, and I stood shivering and crying in the cold. He never took his eyes off of me. I wonder if he knew it was the end, too.
After they rounded the corner out of my sight at the end of our street, I suddenly felt more alone than I'd ever felt before. And I was so scared. And I was so angry! Angry at my parents, angry at time and age and sickness; but more than anything, angry at myself. And suddenly I was running. Running through the snow and into the woods. Running deep into the trees where there were no tracks and no paths and no sky to be seen. Running until my feet were burning in agony from the freezing snow. When I couldn't go any further, I collapsed on my back, sinking deep into a snowbank.
I laid there, all at once burning and freezing in pain, shivering and weeping for my best friend, for the life I had loved and helped to end, and watching the steam from the melting snow float up off of my body into the bare branches of the trees above me, silhouetted against the stars.
The biggest and best hill in town was at the VFW golf course. Every Winter, families would gather there on snow-covered weekends and schools-closed snow-days to slide down that awesome hill.
I was fifteen, and just about getting too old for this kind of thing. Pretty soon, this would be "kid stuff" to me, and I would find better, more grown-up ways to pass the time. But for now, this was still my favorite thing to do in the snow.
It was mid-January before we had our first real snowfall that year, and our first snow-day, as well. My Dad made a thermos of hot chocolate, and drove my brother and I and all of our equipment out to the golf course. I had gotten a real snowboard for Christmas that year, and couldn't wait to try it out. It was just a cheap, plastic knock-off from Toys 'R' Us, but it sure beat trying to ride down the hill standing up on our sleds, the way my friends and I had been doing the past couple of Winters.
Over and over I flew down that gigantic hill at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Then came the slow climb back up the steep, slippery slope to the top, just to strap in and spend another few seconds sliding back down again. It was like my own personal amusement park ride, with no waiting line. Half-way through the day, some friends and I built a snow-ramp in the middle of the hill, so we could start flying off into the air during our rides. As the light began to dim at the end of the afternoon, my father and my brother were exhausted and ready to go home, but I felt like I could've stayed there all day and all night; I couldn't ever remember having more fun.
After we got home, and had put our wet clothes in the dryer, and were enjoying some more hot chocolate in our comfy, warm pajamas, my father said he had to talk with my brother and I about something. He sat us down and started to talk about my dog, Dillon. Technically, he was the family dog, but everyone knew he was really my dog, just as his mother, Dree, had been my father's. Dree had been a breeding dog; a pure-bred Black Labrador Retriever. Over the years, we'd bred four litters of pups from her, and Dillon was from her first. I'd been three years-old back then, and Dillon and I had bonded instantly. My parents had decided not to sell him off with the other pups, and instead let me keep him. So Dillon and I had grown up together. Whenever the family came home, he'd greet me before acknowledging anyone else. If anyone else in the family and I called his name at the same time, he would come to me. I was the one who spent days and days of Summer roaming the woods behind our development with him, chasing squirrels and rabbits and hiding from the older boys from the other neighborhoods. Dillon was my best friend. For many years of my childhood, he was my only friend. And I was his favorite Human.
But he was twelve years-old by this point. The fur under his chin had gone grey years ago. He was moving very slowly now, when he bothered to move at all. He slept most of the day. And a few days earlier, he'd stopped eating. It was time, my father said, to "put him out of his misery."
I'd known this day was coming; I wasn't ignorant. Still, I hadn't been prepared for it to be right now, this day. I'd just been so happy, having so much fun on that massive hill! And now, suddenly, it's time to kill my dog?! But what was the alternative? Make him spend another day suffering, just so that I could continue to avoid dealing with the inevitable? Why not today? Would tomorrow really be any better?
My little brother, many years younger than me, didn't understand it the same way. All he knew was that he didn't want our dog to die. He cried and cried, and my parents took him upstairs to try and console him, leaving me alone in our basement family room with Dillon.
He sat at my feet, the way he had so many times before over the years, and he looked into my eyes, and arched his eyebrows, as if to ask what was wrong. I petted him, and rubbed his ears the way he loved so much; and I told him how much I loved him, and how very much I was going to miss him. And I cried, as I tried to love him enough to make up for what I knew was coming.
And then, before I knew it, and before I was ready, I heard my father call down to us from the top of the stairs that it was time to go. He began to call out, "Dillon! Come! Come here, boy! Dillon, come!" But Dillon didn't move. Whenever my father would call his name, Dillon would turn his head to look towards the sound of my father's voice, and then turn back to me, with this quizzical expression on his face, as if asking me what to do. Eventually, I heard my father say, "Son, he's not going to listen to me. You'll have to be the one to tell him."
I started crying again. It was bad enough to be losing my best friend like this. I really didn't know if I could be the one to tell him to go. It was too much to ask of a kid. But my Dad was right - it had to be done, it was the kind and loving thing to do, and I was the only one who could do it.
As best I could manage through the tears, I squeaked out a pathetic-sounding, "Go on, boy. Go on. Go upstairs." But either he didn't understand me, or he didn't want to go. So I got up and started up the stairs myself, saying, "Come on, boy." Dillon rose slowly, on shaky legs, and padded weakly over to the stairs at my command. He hadn't climbed the stairs in many months, and it took him a long time that day. I wonder if he knew, as I did, that it would be the last time?
Finally we made it all the way to the top to join the rest of my family in the living room. My little brother, my mother, and I were all crying at this point; everyone but my father. He was trying to be strong for us. He opened the front door, and said, again, "Come on, boy! Here, Dillon! Come!," trying to get the dog to follow him out the door and into the waiting car. But, again, Dillon wouldn't move. He just sat and looked from me, to my father, and back again. "What should I do?," he was asking me.
I didn't wait to be told this time. I held my head up, and stuffed down the tears, and walked out the front door, saying, "Come on, boy." He slowly followed me out the door; I could almost hear his poor, old bones creaking in the cold. The Sun had gone down by this point, and it was dark as I led him down our front walk to my father's car. When he was younger, Dillon used to leap into this car in a rush of infectious enthusiasm, excited almost to the point of mania by the prospect of going on a trip someplace else. His favorite was the beach. He'd swim in the ocean until he was completely exhausted. But those days were gone now, and in the end, my father had to pick him up and place him in the car himself.
Standing there on the sidewalk, in my pajamas, on a cold, January night, I could see my dog through the back window of the car. He watched me as I waved goodbye to my best friend, feeling like a fool, and a murderer. He watched me as they drove away, and I stood shivering and crying in the cold. He never took his eyes off of me. I wonder if he knew it was the end, too.
After they rounded the corner out of my sight at the end of our street, I suddenly felt more alone than I'd ever felt before. And I was so scared. And I was so angry! Angry at my parents, angry at time and age and sickness; but more than anything, angry at myself. And suddenly I was running. Running through the snow and into the woods. Running deep into the trees where there were no tracks and no paths and no sky to be seen. Running until my feet were burning in agony from the freezing snow. When I couldn't go any further, I collapsed on my back, sinking deep into a snowbank.
I laid there, all at once burning and freezing in pain, shivering and weeping for my best friend, for the life I had loved and helped to end, and watching the steam from the melting snow float up off of my body into the bare branches of the trees above me, silhouetted against the stars.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
In Toto Memorium...
There's a War Memorial in the middle of my town.
It's a park, actually. It's filled with dozens of memorials, each one for a different conflict. Apparently, it's the only park in Maryland that commemorates soldiers from every American war; from the French and Indian War, all the way to the first Gulf War. There's even a monument dedicated to the residents of Frederick County that lost their lives fighting the Barbary Pirates.
Apparently, there are also some soldiers buried under that park. Which I guess is fitting, considering its purpose.
I first discovered the park a few years ago, on another Walpurgisnacht, while drifting through town in the middle of the night, in my usual state of psychedelic illumination. It was knowledge of the bodies buried there that actually drew me to investigate it; tickling my sense of ghoulish voyeurism. But I ended up having an entirely different experience.
I imagine most people have been to war memorials at one time or another. Living in the D.C. area, it's an especially common occurrence; I'd lost track of the number of memorials I'd been to before I'd even made it to high school. After a while, they just start to blend into one another, and it's easy to become desensitized to their meaning. But, usually, those are memorials dedicated to one, single, specific war or conflict. I found that the effect of a memorial dedicated to All American War to be powerful in the extreme, even to someone as jaded as I sometimes pretend to be.
The first effect I noticed is that there are simply so many monuments in this park. And when you realize that each one is dedicated to a different war, then you begin to get a sense of the scope of just how much of our history we have spent trying to kill other people before they could kill us. And you can't help but start to ask yourself, Have we ever been at peace? Is peace even a realistic possibility? Or is it just an idealistic fantasy we tell ourselves to soothe our sense of fear and alienation in the face of a violent, hostile, uncaring world; just like "God" and "Heaven"? (How ironic that those two concepts in particular, so often the direct cause of so many wars, are actually responsible for all wars, in a way. Would it be so easy for us to kill one another so often, and in such numbers, and for such ridiculous reasons, if so many of us didn't believe with such absolute certainty that they wouldn't really be ending forever, but simply traveling to "a better place?" I would wager that Life means more to the atheist, who understands its true finality.)
But then I began to wander through the monuments, one-by-one, down through the history of our wars. The Persian Gulf War. The Vietnam War. The Korean War. Each one filled with names chisled in stone. Names of people who lived here, in my town. Who wandered these same streets at some point in their youth. Some who even wandered the same school hallways. Maybe some who had even lived on my street. Fools and Heroes, every one. Strong, and Doomed, and so unbelievably Brave. Braver than I will ever be. Braver than I ever could be. And just boys! Just boys. They'd only just started. They had so much left to do. Just boys. How is it possible that this country, of all countries, that coddles and insulates and over-protects its children to such a ridiculous, obsessive degree, could do all of this? Could still be doing all of this? It is literally, staggering.
And so many names. So many names. The World War II memorial is the largest in the park, by far. A wall, ten feet high, and fifty feet long. Entirely filled with names. Our names. And I wandered down that memorial, reading those names, trying to take it all in. It was almost too much. I could barely comprehend so many people, just from my tiny little town alone(!), all fighting and dying all over the world, not much more than sixty years ago. How could that possibly have happened?! And this, the most moral and just of all the wars! The one where we were most clearly combating an Evil; the greatest Evil the modern world had ever seen. It was still almost too much to believe. But I finally got to the end of that immense list, and the end of that long wall... and then I realized - the list of names had stopped at "L." Oh, no, I thought, it's not possible. But I rounded the corner of that wall to discover, to my horror, that the entire other side was filled in, as well.
It felt like a lead weight had been inserted into my chest. It was all I could do to keep myself from breaking down into tears right then and there. I simply could not comprehend that amount of pain and suffering, on that enormous scale.
But the memorial that affected me most, and that I will always remember, was the memorial to the soldier boys of World War I.
I've always had a bit of a fascination with WWI. It was, by far, the most gruesome and horrible conflict that humanity has ever seen. The brutal combination of trench warfare and the advent of modern weaponry - the machine gun, the tank, the flamethrower, the grenade, the fighter plane, chemical warfare, etc., etc. - created an environment that was, quite simply, more akin to a meat grinder than what we think of as "war." Almost forty MILLION people killed, wounded, or missing-in-action. By the end of the war, Europe was running out of fighting age men. So they were drafting men as old as seventy, and boys as young as fourteen. More meat for the grinder.
At the time, they called it "The Great War."
The memorial dedicated to this human atrocity is obviously the oldest in the park. It's almost certainly the first one built there. It was sculpted in the style of classic monuments, with a bronze statue of a doughboy standing atop a large, octagonal concrete base. Onto each of the eight sides of the base has been affixed a bronze plaque, each about three feet wide by four feet tall; and each plaque is, again, a list of names. The names are so small that they are impossible to read without climbing up onto the memorial itself. They had to make them that small in order to fit them all on the monument. And unlike the other monuments in the park, which list the names of everyone involved in their conflict in any way, the WWI memorial is from an earlier time in America's history - it only lists the names of the boys who never came home. Boys from my hometown. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them. All slaughtered. Gone now, even from memory. All that's left of them are names on a plaque, that you can't even read.
As I wandered around the memorial, trying to comprehend the weight of it all, I came upon one plaque that was different from the others. It had fewer names, and was in a larger font. I noticed it had a title across the top that was large enough that I could it read it:
"The Negro Men of Frederick County, Who Gave Their Lives In The Great War of 1917"
I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes, trying to come up with my response to that; to sum up how it made me feel then, or how I feel about it now. I'm sorry, but I can't. I just don't have the words. I guess I should try to concentrate on feeling grateful that they were even included in the memorial at all.
I'll leave you with this thought for this Memorial Day. Sums up my feelings pretty well.
I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend. And while you're out there, barbequing, and sunbathing, and partying - try to be good to someone. Just because you can.
And just because, it's something.
It's a park, actually. It's filled with dozens of memorials, each one for a different conflict. Apparently, it's the only park in Maryland that commemorates soldiers from every American war; from the French and Indian War, all the way to the first Gulf War. There's even a monument dedicated to the residents of Frederick County that lost their lives fighting the Barbary Pirates.
Apparently, there are also some soldiers buried under that park. Which I guess is fitting, considering its purpose.
I first discovered the park a few years ago, on another Walpurgisnacht, while drifting through town in the middle of the night, in my usual state of psychedelic illumination. It was knowledge of the bodies buried there that actually drew me to investigate it; tickling my sense of ghoulish voyeurism. But I ended up having an entirely different experience.
I imagine most people have been to war memorials at one time or another. Living in the D.C. area, it's an especially common occurrence; I'd lost track of the number of memorials I'd been to before I'd even made it to high school. After a while, they just start to blend into one another, and it's easy to become desensitized to their meaning. But, usually, those are memorials dedicated to one, single, specific war or conflict. I found that the effect of a memorial dedicated to All American War to be powerful in the extreme, even to someone as jaded as I sometimes pretend to be.
The first effect I noticed is that there are simply so many monuments in this park. And when you realize that each one is dedicated to a different war, then you begin to get a sense of the scope of just how much of our history we have spent trying to kill other people before they could kill us. And you can't help but start to ask yourself, Have we ever been at peace? Is peace even a realistic possibility? Or is it just an idealistic fantasy we tell ourselves to soothe our sense of fear and alienation in the face of a violent, hostile, uncaring world; just like "God" and "Heaven"? (How ironic that those two concepts in particular, so often the direct cause of so many wars, are actually responsible for all wars, in a way. Would it be so easy for us to kill one another so often, and in such numbers, and for such ridiculous reasons, if so many of us didn't believe with such absolute certainty that they wouldn't really be ending forever, but simply traveling to "a better place?" I would wager that Life means more to the atheist, who understands its true finality.)
But then I began to wander through the monuments, one-by-one, down through the history of our wars. The Persian Gulf War. The Vietnam War. The Korean War. Each one filled with names chisled in stone. Names of people who lived here, in my town. Who wandered these same streets at some point in their youth. Some who even wandered the same school hallways. Maybe some who had even lived on my street. Fools and Heroes, every one. Strong, and Doomed, and so unbelievably Brave. Braver than I will ever be. Braver than I ever could be. And just boys! Just boys. They'd only just started. They had so much left to do. Just boys. How is it possible that this country, of all countries, that coddles and insulates and over-protects its children to such a ridiculous, obsessive degree, could do all of this? Could still be doing all of this? It is literally, staggering.
And so many names. So many names. The World War II memorial is the largest in the park, by far. A wall, ten feet high, and fifty feet long. Entirely filled with names. Our names. And I wandered down that memorial, reading those names, trying to take it all in. It was almost too much. I could barely comprehend so many people, just from my tiny little town alone(!), all fighting and dying all over the world, not much more than sixty years ago. How could that possibly have happened?! And this, the most moral and just of all the wars! The one where we were most clearly combating an Evil; the greatest Evil the modern world had ever seen. It was still almost too much to believe. But I finally got to the end of that immense list, and the end of that long wall... and then I realized - the list of names had stopped at "L." Oh, no, I thought, it's not possible. But I rounded the corner of that wall to discover, to my horror, that the entire other side was filled in, as well.
It felt like a lead weight had been inserted into my chest. It was all I could do to keep myself from breaking down into tears right then and there. I simply could not comprehend that amount of pain and suffering, on that enormous scale.
But the memorial that affected me most, and that I will always remember, was the memorial to the soldier boys of World War I.
I've always had a bit of a fascination with WWI. It was, by far, the most gruesome and horrible conflict that humanity has ever seen. The brutal combination of trench warfare and the advent of modern weaponry - the machine gun, the tank, the flamethrower, the grenade, the fighter plane, chemical warfare, etc., etc. - created an environment that was, quite simply, more akin to a meat grinder than what we think of as "war." Almost forty MILLION people killed, wounded, or missing-in-action. By the end of the war, Europe was running out of fighting age men. So they were drafting men as old as seventy, and boys as young as fourteen. More meat for the grinder.
At the time, they called it "The Great War."
The memorial dedicated to this human atrocity is obviously the oldest in the park. It's almost certainly the first one built there. It was sculpted in the style of classic monuments, with a bronze statue of a doughboy standing atop a large, octagonal concrete base. Onto each of the eight sides of the base has been affixed a bronze plaque, each about three feet wide by four feet tall; and each plaque is, again, a list of names. The names are so small that they are impossible to read without climbing up onto the memorial itself. They had to make them that small in order to fit them all on the monument. And unlike the other monuments in the park, which list the names of everyone involved in their conflict in any way, the WWI memorial is from an earlier time in America's history - it only lists the names of the boys who never came home. Boys from my hometown. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them. All slaughtered. Gone now, even from memory. All that's left of them are names on a plaque, that you can't even read.
As I wandered around the memorial, trying to comprehend the weight of it all, I came upon one plaque that was different from the others. It had fewer names, and was in a larger font. I noticed it had a title across the top that was large enough that I could it read it:
"The Negro Men of Frederick County, Who Gave Their Lives In The Great War of 1917"
I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes, trying to come up with my response to that; to sum up how it made me feel then, or how I feel about it now. I'm sorry, but I can't. I just don't have the words. I guess I should try to concentrate on feeling grateful that they were even included in the memorial at all.
I'll leave you with this thought for this Memorial Day. Sums up my feelings pretty well.
I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend. And while you're out there, barbequing, and sunbathing, and partying - try to be good to someone. Just because you can.
And just because, it's something.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Confessions #3...
"Is it really mine??"
She was curled up in the fetal position on her bed, a mattress on the floor, hiding her head under her pillow. This tiny, terrified little girl, trying to hide from me the way a child might.
"Is it MINE?!" I screamed, again, as though the volume of my voice could somehow force her to answer me.
We'd been together for four years, since my sophomore year of high school; an eternity at that age. She had recently moved out of her parents' house and into this tiny, barely furnished basement apartment across the street from our old high school. Her roommate, a mutual male friend of ours, had just told me they'd been "screwing for the past month."
"Fucking TELL ME, goddammit!" She curled up tighter and pulled the pillow closer around her head. I could hear her muffled sobbing. I have to admit, it made me feel a little better.
She'd told me she was pregnant a couple of weeks earlier, as we'd sat parked in her car, waiting out a rainstorm. Even though we'd only had sex once in the month leading up to that, I still just naturally assumed it was mine. After all, she wasn't having sex with anyone else. And why else would she bother telling me if it wasn't mine?
She told me she was going to "get rid of it." I could feel a part of me break when she said that. At the same time, we weren't married, weren't ready to marry, weren't living together, didn't have jobs, and I had just failed my freshman year of college; we were hardly ready to be parents. And I didn't really feel like I had much say in the matter, either.
"How are you going to do it?" I asked, as the rain beat down on the car all around us. "Do you need my help?"
"No, I know what to do. I looked it up in my book of remedies. There's an herb, and I have to make a tea out of it and drink a bunch of it, and that'll make me bleed it out."
That sounded horrific to me. "Wouldn't you rather just go to a doctor?"
"I can't afford a doctor. And I don't want my parents to find out. Plus, this method is supposed to be safer, and less painful."
"TELL ME, YOU FUCKING BITCH!! IS THAT MY BABY YOU'RE KILLING OR NOT?!!"
The next day she bought a vial of Oil of Pennyroyal from our local
Wiccan shop. The concentrated oil was incredibly pungent. As she
infused a dropper full into a cup of hot water, the sickly-sweet aroma
filled every corner of the tiny apartment. It smelled like mildew and
peppermint. It was enough to make you gag, and there was nowhere to go
to get away from it.
She drank two cups of the "tea" every day for the next two weeks. Within a day, the smell began to ooze from her pores, mixing with the smell of her sweat. If anything, that smell was even worse, like moldy garlic, with an astringent note mixed in, something halfway between nail-polish remover and hairspray. It was nauseating. I couldn't even stand to be in the same room with her.
Even if it hadn't smelled so strong, and so horribly, I don't know if I'd have been able to stand it. Because that smell was the smell of my first child being murdered. It was the bloody death of my son or daughter violently assaulting my senses. And I guess in that way, it was almost fitting. It would've seemed wrong somehow if it had smelled pleasant. No, of course it had to smell like boiled death.
For the record, I was, and am, pro-choice. I believe everyone has a right to make up their own mind on this issue, and I do not judge anyone for the choice they make. If a woman has an abortion, at any point, and for any reason, I do not consider it the murder of a baby. But I found it was easy to accept these things in the abstract, when they were about other people, and other babies. I soon discovered I felt very differently when it was suddenly about my baby.
The tincture of pennyroyal made her horribly sick. She bled constantly, and was bent double with vicious cramps for days. She had trouble keeping food down. She would get sudden fevers. She couldn't sleep. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would hallucinate.
I felt just as sorry for her as I did for myself, and for our unborn child. It just seemed to go on and on and on. I felt like this had to be worse than just going to a doctor and getting it over with. But now it was too late for that. I alternately tried to comfort her, and ignore her. I stayed away from the apartment for days at a time, going out to get high with my friends, trying to forget what was going on in that tiny, damp little basement room. I couldn't even begin to figure out how to deal with what I was feeling. And while part of me wanted to take care of her and try to help her, another part of me hated her for what she was doing.
But then, after she'd been drinking the pennyroyal tea for almost two weeks, the oil almost gone, her roommate had casually confessed their affair to me, and all the nebulous, sickening things I was feeling crystallized into a razor-edged rage. First, there was the sense of betrayal - they'd both been lying to me for at least a month now. They'd been fucking behind my back. And how could I be so stupid as to not see it! But then came the realization: we'd only had sex the one time over a month ago (her recent and sudden lack of sexual interest in me suddenly making sense). But she'd been having sex with him repeatedly during that same month. So how could she possibly think the baby was mine?? But, of course, she didn't think it was mine. She knew it was his; they both knew it was his. They just let me believe it was mine. They just let me suffer through all of that, for nothing.
Because it was easier to just let me believe she was killing my child, than it was to admit that they were fucking behind my back.
I kicked open the door to her bedroom and screamed at her, "You've been fucking HIM?!"
"Oh, God, no!" she screamed, and curled up fetal, hiding her head under her pillow. I continued to scream at her, getting louder and more angry, demanding to know if it was my child. She wouldn't even acknowledge me, which only infuriated me more. She just kept hiding in that ridiculously childish way, as if she could make me disappear simply by hiding her head long enough.
Finally, I'd had enough, and I grabbed her pillow and blanket and flung them across the room. She covered her head with her hands, but I grabbed her arms and pinned them down on her bed. Straddling her, holding her down, I screamed into her face, "IS IT FUCKING MINE?!!"
"NO! IT'S NOT FUCKING YOURS!! OK?!!"
...
I don't know what I expected her to say. I guess it was more about forcing her to tell me the truth. But, the thing is, to this day, I still don't know if she really was telling me the truth or not. I don't know if she even knew the truth. She'd lied to me about so many things by that point; she'd been lying to me for almost our entire relationship. I can do the math, and I know that, statistically speaking, it almost certainly wasn't mine. But, she said they'd used condoms.
And we hadn't.
So I still can't help but wonder.
And I know that I'll never know the answer - no one will ever know the answer - and that the numbers are on his side, so there's really no point in speculating.
But, if that's true, then why am I still thinking about it, all these years later?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Confessions #1...
A couple of hours after writing this post, I was reading an issue of The Sun, a non-profit literary magazine I subscribe to. In every issue, they have a section called Readers Write, where they publish true stories sent in by readers, and related to a different topic each month. At the bottom of the first page of the Readers Write section, I saw the list of upcoming topics and submission deadlines, and I thought, Well here's a ready-made list of ideas for whenever I have a day like today where I can't think of anything to write about. How perfect!
So, I think I'm going to start trying to do that for a while. As always, we'll see how it goes. The first topic on the list is "Confessions," and the submission deadline is May 1st. I've got a few ideas, and we'll see how many I post in the next couple of weeks. For now, here's my first submission:
...
"I'm Suzanne, and I'm an alcoholic."
"Hi, Suzanne!"
My mother and I had always been very close. I was her first-born, and my father worked three jobs to support our family, so my mother practically raised me herself. She was my best friend, and we shared everything with each other. So when she finally had to give up drinking and drugs, after her gall bladder had failed and had to be removed, it seemed completely natural when she invited me to attend some of her AA meetings with her. I was ten years-old.
I think she wanted to share this new world of hers with me. And I imagine that she wanted to show me that she was different now, that she was getting better. I was curious, too, and I enjoyed being included in her new grown-up world of church basements and coffee urns and chain smokers. And I have to admit, there was a definite voyeuristic thrill in spending an hour listening to strangers' sordid tales of addiction and despair.
Every story began the same way. The person would stand up and state their name, followed by, "...and I'm an alcoholic." Then the entire group would respond by saying, "Hi," always using the person's name back at them. "Hi, Suzanne!" And then they would tell whatever story was on their mind to tell that day. There was no judgement, no disapproval. Everyone understood what everyone else had been through, because they'd all been through the same thing at some point. They were there to take care of each other. "Keep coming back," they'd say.
We weren't Catholic, but I'd seen the ritual of confession enough times in movies to understand that these meetings served a similar purpose. Everyone there all seemed to feel very guilty about who they'd been and the things they'd done. And so they were confessing their sins. Not to a God, but to their peers; people who had suffered in the same way, who understood their pain intimately, and who could provide immediate feedback in the form of reassurance and support and compassion. And forgiveness.
As I got older, I stopped going to the meetings with my mother. And she stopped going, as well. Over the next ten years, she would fall back into drinking and getting high again and again. And in her brief periods of sobriety between relapses, she would go back to the meetings for a while, until the next time she fell back off the wagon.
On December 31, 1999, she went to her last meeting. She left that particular basement room that day, checked herself into a local Holiday Inn, and took her life with a bottle of sleeping pills purchased at a nearby grocery store.
Now it's my turn to stand up at the front of one of those rooms and state my name. But I can't bring myself to do it. Because I can't find any comfort or solace in that ritual of confession. Hearing those familiar calls and responses, all I can think of, is the life I've lost.
So, I think I'm going to start trying to do that for a while. As always, we'll see how it goes. The first topic on the list is "Confessions," and the submission deadline is May 1st. I've got a few ideas, and we'll see how many I post in the next couple of weeks. For now, here's my first submission:
...
"I'm Suzanne, and I'm an alcoholic."
"Hi, Suzanne!"
My mother and I had always been very close. I was her first-born, and my father worked three jobs to support our family, so my mother practically raised me herself. She was my best friend, and we shared everything with each other. So when she finally had to give up drinking and drugs, after her gall bladder had failed and had to be removed, it seemed completely natural when she invited me to attend some of her AA meetings with her. I was ten years-old.
I think she wanted to share this new world of hers with me. And I imagine that she wanted to show me that she was different now, that she was getting better. I was curious, too, and I enjoyed being included in her new grown-up world of church basements and coffee urns and chain smokers. And I have to admit, there was a definite voyeuristic thrill in spending an hour listening to strangers' sordid tales of addiction and despair.
Every story began the same way. The person would stand up and state their name, followed by, "...and I'm an alcoholic." Then the entire group would respond by saying, "Hi," always using the person's name back at them. "Hi, Suzanne!" And then they would tell whatever story was on their mind to tell that day. There was no judgement, no disapproval. Everyone understood what everyone else had been through, because they'd all been through the same thing at some point. They were there to take care of each other. "Keep coming back," they'd say.
We weren't Catholic, but I'd seen the ritual of confession enough times in movies to understand that these meetings served a similar purpose. Everyone there all seemed to feel very guilty about who they'd been and the things they'd done. And so they were confessing their sins. Not to a God, but to their peers; people who had suffered in the same way, who understood their pain intimately, and who could provide immediate feedback in the form of reassurance and support and compassion. And forgiveness.
As I got older, I stopped going to the meetings with my mother. And she stopped going, as well. Over the next ten years, she would fall back into drinking and getting high again and again. And in her brief periods of sobriety between relapses, she would go back to the meetings for a while, until the next time she fell back off the wagon.
On December 31, 1999, she went to her last meeting. She left that particular basement room that day, checked herself into a local Holiday Inn, and took her life with a bottle of sleeping pills purchased at a nearby grocery store.
Now it's my turn to stand up at the front of one of those rooms and state my name. But I can't bring myself to do it. Because I can't find any comfort or solace in that ritual of confession. Hearing those familiar calls and responses, all I can think of, is the life I've lost.
Monday, April 9, 2012
It's Not A River, It's A Bullet...
"Denial is how it kills you," he said.
They were sitting on the beach, watching the waves, the Sun setting behind them, feeling the cool, salty air on their faces, and discussing their respective abuses. They were three days into their week-long vacation, the first the three brothers had taken together since the youngest was still a baby, and the first they had ever taken together as adults. The youngest had just recently graduated college, and this trip was a sort of present for him from the older two. At that moment, he was back up at the cottage, enjoying his girlfriend, while the older two were on the beach, the eldest trying his best to educate the middle brother with whatever bullshit-wisdom he'd managed to glean by that point in his life. He felt it was his duty, in some way, as the oldest. Especially now that their parents were gone.
"Yeah, it's the denial that gets you. That's the one thing they got right in those meetings. You can have a relatively easy time of things, and keep using for a long, long time, so long as you don't start lying to yourself about it. But the second you start thinking, 'I don't have a problem,' then the drug's got you, and you're done for."
The waves crashed on the beach in a constant rhythm, like the slow, steady heartbeat of the world. A young family flew a kite together some yards away down the beach from where the two brothers sat, and a man fished the surf down in the other direction. The middle brother sat silent, listening, not knowing what to say; not sure if he should.
"It starts off, you're just having a good time. Being young and reckless and free, and feeling as good as you possibly can. Nothin' wrong with that. But, it's inevitable - at some point, it's going to change you. That 'want' is going to slowly turn into 'need.' And it's so hard to tell when that's happening. And if you're not looking for it, you'll never see it. So that's the thing - you have to always be looking for it. Always. You have to be constantly asking yourself, 'Am I addicted to this? Am I starting to need it?' And the first time you're not 100% certain that the answer is 'No,' then the answer is 'Yes.'"
The waves crashed, and the breeze kissed their faces. The little girl screamed happily as she flew her kite, and a gull cried somewhere over the water. The middle brother stared out across the ocean at the blurry blue line of the horizon, feeling sheepish and guilty, and more than a little stupid, as he so often did when he talked with his older brother. He realized he'd never even thought of these things, let alone asked himself these questions. Am I an addict?, he asked himself. And he realized, he didn't know the answer.
"So, that's the key: near-constant self-reflection, combined with brutal honesty. It's the only way to do this shit, and be able to enjoy it, and not end up fuckin' dyin' from it. 'The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.' You have to be able to look at yourself and say 'I'm an addict. I'm a drunk. I'm a fuckin' junkie.' You have to be able to recognize that, and to accept it about yourself. That doesn't excuse it, of course. Doesn't make it ok just because you can admit it. But, if you can't say that to yourself, then you'll never even have a chance to make it right, because you'll never even know that anything was wrong."
The sky was slowly progressing from yellow to orange, and the breeze was starting to pick up. It was going to be a beautiful night. The middle brother didn't think he could ask himself those questions. And he was sure he couldn't answer them correctly. His whole life, his brothers had always seemed to do everything better than he did. And he looked up to them both, and loved them both so much. He felt surrounded by their greatness; almost comforted by it, in a way. But that only made his feeling of mediocrity that much more acute by comparison. He's talking about this like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world to do. But I can't stand to think about myself at all, so how the fuck am I supposed to be able to do it constantly? Hell, that's one of the reasons I like getting high so much in the first place, so I don't have to think about this shit.
"That is the only thing that keeps this urge in check. Without it, you've got no reason to resist at all. Remember, getting high is a constant downward slide, and at the bottom is degradation, at best; death, at worst. You wanna stay up near the top of that slide, where it's all still fun and games. Where it isn't consuming you, taking over your whole life. And that honest self-reflection, that willingness to admit to yourself, and the world, that you have a problem, is the one and only tool you have to keep yourself from sailing off down that slide and into nothing."
A constant downward slide, huh? Well, thanks for telling me that now, big brother. He watched as the fisherman down the beach wrestled to bring in a sandshark, and remembered the first time he'd gotten high. He'd been fifteen at the time, and it had been a Summer night, a lot like this one. Big brother had said, "Yeah, I guess you're about old enough now," as though he were answering a question that no one had asked. Then he'd said, "Follow me," and they'd walked out into the woods behind their family's house. They'd sat down against the base of a big tree, and passed a joint, watching the fireflies come on. To this day, it was one of the greatest nights of his life. He couldn't help but feel that this warning was coming a bit too late.
"Drugs are a tool; they serve a purpose. They're not inherently good or bad. It's all in how you use them. But they're a dangerous tool. Like a gun. And like a gun, you have to treat them carefully, and with respect, or they'll kill you. If you don't ask yourself these questions, constantly - or if you can't answer them honestly - then you're done for. You won't have any reason to slow down at all, and you'll use more and more, needing more and more to get less and less out of it, as it eats away at your body; your mind. Your soul, even. You'll lose your Self. And then what've you got? Because that's all you ever had, right? I'm speakin' from experience here. It's so easy to think you've got everything under control, and it's everyone else who has the problem, not you. But that's the Need talkin'. And you can't listen to it. You just gotta keep asking yourself those questions, never stop wondering if this is the day it's finally happened to you - because it will, eventually, some day."
He'd heard this gun metaphor before. It was one of big brother's favorites. He honestly didn't know if he had a problem or not, but how could he say that out loud, to this man he'd looked up to his entire life? This person whose approval he had sought for as long as he could remember, almost even more than he had their parents'? He watched the little girl flying her kite, as happy as a person ever could be, and he thought about it, really thought about it for the first time. He knew he didn't use anywhere near as much as either of his brothers, but he also knew that they were both a lot more successful than he was, and that they didn't struggle with anything the way he always seemed to. And this had always seemed to come so easily to them. But lately, it'd been all he could do to make sure he didn't get sick at work. He could even remember a couple of times where he'd had to choose between getting high and getting groceries. It hadn't been that hard to bum food off of people. Easier than he'd thought. Definitely easier than bumming dope. He was sure his brothers had never been in a similar situation. They'd never allow it.
"But as long as you can do that, as long as you can ask and answer those difficult questions without flinching, then you'll be alright. You'll be able to see the bottom of that slide coming at you, and you'll have a chance to do something about it. You'll be able to say, 'Whoa, hold on a minute here! This isn't what I want. I gotta cut this shit out for a while.' But you have to be able to recognize that there's a problem before you can hope to do anything about it. Ha, don't look so worried, little brother. We come from a long line of drunks and junkies and users - it's in our blood. Their voices are inside of us. Listen to them, and they'll tell you what to do. They'll steer you right."
He didn't know what to say. What could he say? He understood, and on some level he already knew. But he couldn't do anything about it. He wasn't like them. He couldn't be honest with himself that way. He didn't want to. He knew he felt safe when he was with his brothers, like they'd be able to take care of everything. And he knew he never felt that way when he was by himself. His whole life, he'd wanted nothing more than to be like the two of them. But he knew he never would be. And now, he also knew, that would be the end of him.
I need to say something, he thought. He watched that little girl with her kite and he remembered those days, what that felt like, and he knew they were gone, and he wanted to be like her. And he felt the sting in his eye and he felt his lip begin to curl and he thought, I need to say it, I need to say it now, I need to say it right now... And he felt the breeze come on strong all of a sudden, in the opposite direction, a gust of moist brine blowing through him. And he saw the kite dive from the sky in the sudden reversal of force, saw it dive straight at her, saw it smash her in the face and knock her to the sand. Her shrill screams filled the beach, and the gulls took flight in alarm, screaming with her, as if they knew.
"Come on," big brother said, standing up and brushing the sand from his legs. "I bet those two're done by now. Let's see if baby brother has any of those joints left. We'll get twisted before dinner."
...
This story was inspired by a piece of my dreaming last night. In the dream, I was one of the two characters on the beach (not saying which), but I decided to write it in third person, just as an exercise. As before, I just let it come to me, one piece at a time, sort of letting the story tell itself.
As much as I enjoyed writing this, I can't wait to have something else to write about. It can't all be drug addiction and death. I know I must have something else to say, some other story to tell.
Patience, child...
They were sitting on the beach, watching the waves, the Sun setting behind them, feeling the cool, salty air on their faces, and discussing their respective abuses. They were three days into their week-long vacation, the first the three brothers had taken together since the youngest was still a baby, and the first they had ever taken together as adults. The youngest had just recently graduated college, and this trip was a sort of present for him from the older two. At that moment, he was back up at the cottage, enjoying his girlfriend, while the older two were on the beach, the eldest trying his best to educate the middle brother with whatever bullshit-wisdom he'd managed to glean by that point in his life. He felt it was his duty, in some way, as the oldest. Especially now that their parents were gone.
"Yeah, it's the denial that gets you. That's the one thing they got right in those meetings. You can have a relatively easy time of things, and keep using for a long, long time, so long as you don't start lying to yourself about it. But the second you start thinking, 'I don't have a problem,' then the drug's got you, and you're done for."
The waves crashed on the beach in a constant rhythm, like the slow, steady heartbeat of the world. A young family flew a kite together some yards away down the beach from where the two brothers sat, and a man fished the surf down in the other direction. The middle brother sat silent, listening, not knowing what to say; not sure if he should.
"It starts off, you're just having a good time. Being young and reckless and free, and feeling as good as you possibly can. Nothin' wrong with that. But, it's inevitable - at some point, it's going to change you. That 'want' is going to slowly turn into 'need.' And it's so hard to tell when that's happening. And if you're not looking for it, you'll never see it. So that's the thing - you have to always be looking for it. Always. You have to be constantly asking yourself, 'Am I addicted to this? Am I starting to need it?' And the first time you're not 100% certain that the answer is 'No,' then the answer is 'Yes.'"
The waves crashed, and the breeze kissed their faces. The little girl screamed happily as she flew her kite, and a gull cried somewhere over the water. The middle brother stared out across the ocean at the blurry blue line of the horizon, feeling sheepish and guilty, and more than a little stupid, as he so often did when he talked with his older brother. He realized he'd never even thought of these things, let alone asked himself these questions. Am I an addict?, he asked himself. And he realized, he didn't know the answer.
"So, that's the key: near-constant self-reflection, combined with brutal honesty. It's the only way to do this shit, and be able to enjoy it, and not end up fuckin' dyin' from it. 'The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.' You have to be able to look at yourself and say 'I'm an addict. I'm a drunk. I'm a fuckin' junkie.' You have to be able to recognize that, and to accept it about yourself. That doesn't excuse it, of course. Doesn't make it ok just because you can admit it. But, if you can't say that to yourself, then you'll never even have a chance to make it right, because you'll never even know that anything was wrong."
The sky was slowly progressing from yellow to orange, and the breeze was starting to pick up. It was going to be a beautiful night. The middle brother didn't think he could ask himself those questions. And he was sure he couldn't answer them correctly. His whole life, his brothers had always seemed to do everything better than he did. And he looked up to them both, and loved them both so much. He felt surrounded by their greatness; almost comforted by it, in a way. But that only made his feeling of mediocrity that much more acute by comparison. He's talking about this like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world to do. But I can't stand to think about myself at all, so how the fuck am I supposed to be able to do it constantly? Hell, that's one of the reasons I like getting high so much in the first place, so I don't have to think about this shit.
"That is the only thing that keeps this urge in check. Without it, you've got no reason to resist at all. Remember, getting high is a constant downward slide, and at the bottom is degradation, at best; death, at worst. You wanna stay up near the top of that slide, where it's all still fun and games. Where it isn't consuming you, taking over your whole life. And that honest self-reflection, that willingness to admit to yourself, and the world, that you have a problem, is the one and only tool you have to keep yourself from sailing off down that slide and into nothing."
A constant downward slide, huh? Well, thanks for telling me that now, big brother. He watched as the fisherman down the beach wrestled to bring in a sandshark, and remembered the first time he'd gotten high. He'd been fifteen at the time, and it had been a Summer night, a lot like this one. Big brother had said, "Yeah, I guess you're about old enough now," as though he were answering a question that no one had asked. Then he'd said, "Follow me," and they'd walked out into the woods behind their family's house. They'd sat down against the base of a big tree, and passed a joint, watching the fireflies come on. To this day, it was one of the greatest nights of his life. He couldn't help but feel that this warning was coming a bit too late.
"Drugs are a tool; they serve a purpose. They're not inherently good or bad. It's all in how you use them. But they're a dangerous tool. Like a gun. And like a gun, you have to treat them carefully, and with respect, or they'll kill you. If you don't ask yourself these questions, constantly - or if you can't answer them honestly - then you're done for. You won't have any reason to slow down at all, and you'll use more and more, needing more and more to get less and less out of it, as it eats away at your body; your mind. Your soul, even. You'll lose your Self. And then what've you got? Because that's all you ever had, right? I'm speakin' from experience here. It's so easy to think you've got everything under control, and it's everyone else who has the problem, not you. But that's the Need talkin'. And you can't listen to it. You just gotta keep asking yourself those questions, never stop wondering if this is the day it's finally happened to you - because it will, eventually, some day."
He'd heard this gun metaphor before. It was one of big brother's favorites. He honestly didn't know if he had a problem or not, but how could he say that out loud, to this man he'd looked up to his entire life? This person whose approval he had sought for as long as he could remember, almost even more than he had their parents'? He watched the little girl flying her kite, as happy as a person ever could be, and he thought about it, really thought about it for the first time. He knew he didn't use anywhere near as much as either of his brothers, but he also knew that they were both a lot more successful than he was, and that they didn't struggle with anything the way he always seemed to. And this had always seemed to come so easily to them. But lately, it'd been all he could do to make sure he didn't get sick at work. He could even remember a couple of times where he'd had to choose between getting high and getting groceries. It hadn't been that hard to bum food off of people. Easier than he'd thought. Definitely easier than bumming dope. He was sure his brothers had never been in a similar situation. They'd never allow it.
"But as long as you can do that, as long as you can ask and answer those difficult questions without flinching, then you'll be alright. You'll be able to see the bottom of that slide coming at you, and you'll have a chance to do something about it. You'll be able to say, 'Whoa, hold on a minute here! This isn't what I want. I gotta cut this shit out for a while.' But you have to be able to recognize that there's a problem before you can hope to do anything about it. Ha, don't look so worried, little brother. We come from a long line of drunks and junkies and users - it's in our blood. Their voices are inside of us. Listen to them, and they'll tell you what to do. They'll steer you right."
He didn't know what to say. What could he say? He understood, and on some level he already knew. But he couldn't do anything about it. He wasn't like them. He couldn't be honest with himself that way. He didn't want to. He knew he felt safe when he was with his brothers, like they'd be able to take care of everything. And he knew he never felt that way when he was by himself. His whole life, he'd wanted nothing more than to be like the two of them. But he knew he never would be. And now, he also knew, that would be the end of him.
I need to say something, he thought. He watched that little girl with her kite and he remembered those days, what that felt like, and he knew they were gone, and he wanted to be like her. And he felt the sting in his eye and he felt his lip begin to curl and he thought, I need to say it, I need to say it now, I need to say it right now... And he felt the breeze come on strong all of a sudden, in the opposite direction, a gust of moist brine blowing through him. And he saw the kite dive from the sky in the sudden reversal of force, saw it dive straight at her, saw it smash her in the face and knock her to the sand. Her shrill screams filled the beach, and the gulls took flight in alarm, screaming with her, as if they knew.
"Come on," big brother said, standing up and brushing the sand from his legs. "I bet those two're done by now. Let's see if baby brother has any of those joints left. We'll get twisted before dinner."
...
This story was inspired by a piece of my dreaming last night. In the dream, I was one of the two characters on the beach (not saying which), but I decided to write it in third person, just as an exercise. As before, I just let it come to me, one piece at a time, sort of letting the story tell itself.
As much as I enjoyed writing this, I can't wait to have something else to write about. It can't all be drug addiction and death. I know I must have something else to say, some other story to tell.
Patience, child...
Sunday, April 8, 2012
The Old Cherry Tree By The Lake...
Dead tree, blossoming
Twisted trunk, pink flower buds
Like a corpse breathing
Ancient and rotten
Split and stunted, bent and burnt
This is surely death
Yet blossoms burst forth
Pink and fragrant, life from death
Impossible bloom
This, here, is the Tao
From dead Yin flowers Yang life
Fire roars from ashes
I see this, and know
I am this tree; my Tao flows
From root to petal
...
Just posted this yesterday, and I'm already editing it. I posted it too quickly, and almost immediately saw changes I wanted to make. Doesn't help that haiku is about the most immature, Creative Writing 101 style of poetry, either. But, I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be. The thing I like about haiku, is that it isn't necessarily about being pretty or poignant or profound. A lot of the power is inherent in the form itself; anyone can do it. It lends this almost zen-like quality to whatever you say. So, I find it's perfect for expressing zen-like thoughts and emotions.
I found this tree on my way back from my old high school during my St. Patrick's Day drift, after sitting for a while under the tree where She and I first fell in love a couple of decades ago. I was stunned, at first, to see something so blatantly impossible. Then I was attracted to it, because I found it so amazing. Then I felt an intense kinship with this tree, as though we'd shared similar lives, and were both going through the same experience just then. I would've taken a picture of it, so that I could share this amazing sight with others, but my phone had just died the day before, so I didn't have a working camera on me for once. Seems oddly like provenance, now, that this mystical vision should only exist in my memory. I have this strange feeling that if I went back to that spot, the tree wouldn't be there anymore.
I'd been planning to write a full entry about the experience at some point, but during meditation yesterday afternoon, the seeds of this haiku began to form inside of me, and by the time I was finished meditation, I knew I had to express them.
Twisted trunk, pink flower buds
Like a corpse breathing
Ancient and rotten
Split and stunted, bent and burnt
This is surely death
Yet blossoms burst forth
Pink and fragrant, life from death
Impossible bloom
This, here, is the Tao
From dead Yin flowers Yang life
Fire roars from ashes
I see this, and know
I am this tree; my Tao flows
From root to petal
...
Just posted this yesterday, and I'm already editing it. I posted it too quickly, and almost immediately saw changes I wanted to make. Doesn't help that haiku is about the most immature, Creative Writing 101 style of poetry, either. But, I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be. The thing I like about haiku, is that it isn't necessarily about being pretty or poignant or profound. A lot of the power is inherent in the form itself; anyone can do it. It lends this almost zen-like quality to whatever you say. So, I find it's perfect for expressing zen-like thoughts and emotions.
I found this tree on my way back from my old high school during my St. Patrick's Day drift, after sitting for a while under the tree where She and I first fell in love a couple of decades ago. I was stunned, at first, to see something so blatantly impossible. Then I was attracted to it, because I found it so amazing. Then I felt an intense kinship with this tree, as though we'd shared similar lives, and were both going through the same experience just then. I would've taken a picture of it, so that I could share this amazing sight with others, but my phone had just died the day before, so I didn't have a working camera on me for once. Seems oddly like provenance, now, that this mystical vision should only exist in my memory. I have this strange feeling that if I went back to that spot, the tree wouldn't be there anymore.
I'd been planning to write a full entry about the experience at some point, but during meditation yesterday afternoon, the seeds of this haiku began to form inside of me, and by the time I was finished meditation, I knew I had to express them.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
April 20th is NOT a "holiday"...
I know I'm in the minority, but I tend to take the word "holiday" in its literal interpretation, as a "holy day." There is something special about that day that separates it from the rest of the regular calendar. We give it a higher estimation in our reckoning of our time here in these bodies. Also, "holidays" are always celebrations of something Good. The Bad things we commemorate with "memorials" or "rememberances", but never with holy days.
And because of my peculiarly literal take on the concept, I have always had a hard time celebrating 4/20 as a holy day, even when I was regularly meditating at the altar of The Bowl, The Bong, and The Cannabinoid. It just seems so...base, to me. It'd be like having an "Eat Junk Food and Jerk Off" day and calling it "holy" or "special". Just seems wrong, somehow. Admittedly, of all the different ways of poisoning ourselves for pleasure, that really is the only one that could even come close to deserving it's own holiday. (Can you imagine a Smack, Crack & Crystal holiday? How about a Nicotine day? Though I do tend to always be sure to have a drink on Repellation Day.) ;-) It's definitely the least of all of those evils, but it's still technically an evil, so why would we want to celebrate it?
But I still do celebrate it. (Though I celebrate in a different way now than I used to.) I celebrate it because a "hippie holiday" of getting stoned and laughing your tits off is SO MUCH BETTER than all of the other things this day represents to so many people.
Hitler was born on April 20th, and so this is a holy day, indeed, to thousands and thousands of monsters with human faces who poison our species with violence and hatred. Taking their holiday away from them, as the catholics took xmas from the heathens, can only be a Goodness.
Two of those monsters in particular chose this day eleven years ago to stage a massacre at a Colorado high school. They brutally murdered children, and they had fun doing it. And they were just children themselves. And they chose this day specifically because it was Hitler's birthday AND because it was the "hippie holiday;" they wanted to attack the "peace & Love" crowd that they despised so much, and they wanted to re-brand the day and turn it into something horrifying. And, unfortunately, they succeeded in doing just that for hundreds of families. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of doing it to me, too.
So, no, it's not a true "holiday." But I don't think that matters much, in the end. Taking a day of tragedy and horror and turning it into a celebration of joy, even self-destructive joy, is still a Goodness, and one that I will continue to take part in, for as long as I can.
And because of my peculiarly literal take on the concept, I have always had a hard time celebrating 4/20 as a holy day, even when I was regularly meditating at the altar of The Bowl, The Bong, and The Cannabinoid. It just seems so...base, to me. It'd be like having an "Eat Junk Food and Jerk Off" day and calling it "holy" or "special". Just seems wrong, somehow. Admittedly, of all the different ways of poisoning ourselves for pleasure, that really is the only one that could even come close to deserving it's own holiday. (Can you imagine a Smack, Crack & Crystal holiday? How about a Nicotine day? Though I do tend to always be sure to have a drink on Repellation Day.) ;-) It's definitely the least of all of those evils, but it's still technically an evil, so why would we want to celebrate it?
But I still do celebrate it. (Though I celebrate in a different way now than I used to.) I celebrate it because a "hippie holiday" of getting stoned and laughing your tits off is SO MUCH BETTER than all of the other things this day represents to so many people.
Hitler was born on April 20th, and so this is a holy day, indeed, to thousands and thousands of monsters with human faces who poison our species with violence and hatred. Taking their holiday away from them, as the catholics took xmas from the heathens, can only be a Goodness.
Two of those monsters in particular chose this day eleven years ago to stage a massacre at a Colorado high school. They brutally murdered children, and they had fun doing it. And they were just children themselves. And they chose this day specifically because it was Hitler's birthday AND because it was the "hippie holiday;" they wanted to attack the "peace & Love" crowd that they despised so much, and they wanted to re-brand the day and turn it into something horrifying. And, unfortunately, they succeeded in doing just that for hundreds of families. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of doing it to me, too.
So, no, it's not a true "holiday." But I don't think that matters much, in the end. Taking a day of tragedy and horror and turning it into a celebration of joy, even self-destructive joy, is still a Goodness, and one that I will continue to take part in, for as long as I can.
Friday, April 16, 2010
"Sicilians are great liars..."
Oddly enough, "Drug addict" and "President of the United States" share one thing in common. Both titles, once earned, are yours forever, and can never be disowned.
I am a drug addict. Whether I use or not, I will always be a drug addict. The only difference between me and the sad sacks you see on shows like Intervention, is that I'm good at it. I am a smart, and successful drug addict. Those unfortunate people are ignorant, and weak, and they just seem to run headlong off the deep-end as quickly as possible. They don't have the knowledge or the will to keep from being completely consumed by their addiction, so they just go straight up in flames. It's not their fault (usually); it's just how things turned out for them. But I'm smart, and strong. And I have the intuitive understanding of addiction that can only come from being raised by a family of drug addicts. I am a GREAT fucking drug addict.
I'm still killing myself. Obviously. No different from those pathetic zombies on the TV; not in the end. But see, I know what I'm doing. I know how to make it laaaast. I know how to keep it from killing me too quickly, so that I can continue to use. Make it take as long as possible so that I can suck every single molecule of meaningless, masturbatory bio-pharmacological bliss out of it before it inevitably kills me.
THAT is the mark of a great addict. Exerting only just enough control to keep it going, to make it last, but not enough to stop. "We called him 'Mother Superior' on account of the length of his habit." Too much control and you quit, and the fun's over, and you live a long, boring life of wishing you could get high; too little, and you end up dying of the DT's in the gutter before you ever even get to live.
I want to live as long as possible. But I also want to feel good as much of that life as I possibly can. I know, in the end, that I'll die screaming. But will I regret the choices that brought me there? I mean, honestly - doesn't everyone scream when they die? Still, the greatest addict who ever lived, was still just a fucking junkie when you get right down to it. How am I any different?
We're defined by how we live, not how we die. (Unless you end up winning a Darwin award.) I never felt a need to be great. Never had any desire to change the world, or "leave my mark" for future generations. I just want to live my life with as little pain, and as much pleasure, as I possibly can. And so, every day, I get up and walk that line between living well and dying young.
I'm not sure where it's leading me, but the view is breath-taking. On both sides.
I am a drug addict. Whether I use or not, I will always be a drug addict. The only difference between me and the sad sacks you see on shows like Intervention, is that I'm good at it. I am a smart, and successful drug addict. Those unfortunate people are ignorant, and weak, and they just seem to run headlong off the deep-end as quickly as possible. They don't have the knowledge or the will to keep from being completely consumed by their addiction, so they just go straight up in flames. It's not their fault (usually); it's just how things turned out for them. But I'm smart, and strong. And I have the intuitive understanding of addiction that can only come from being raised by a family of drug addicts. I am a GREAT fucking drug addict.
I'm still killing myself. Obviously. No different from those pathetic zombies on the TV; not in the end. But see, I know what I'm doing. I know how to make it laaaast. I know how to keep it from killing me too quickly, so that I can continue to use. Make it take as long as possible so that I can suck every single molecule of meaningless, masturbatory bio-pharmacological bliss out of it before it inevitably kills me.
THAT is the mark of a great addict. Exerting only just enough control to keep it going, to make it last, but not enough to stop. "We called him 'Mother Superior' on account of the length of his habit." Too much control and you quit, and the fun's over, and you live a long, boring life of wishing you could get high; too little, and you end up dying of the DT's in the gutter before you ever even get to live.
I want to live as long as possible. But I also want to feel good as much of that life as I possibly can. I know, in the end, that I'll die screaming. But will I regret the choices that brought me there? I mean, honestly - doesn't everyone scream when they die? Still, the greatest addict who ever lived, was still just a fucking junkie when you get right down to it. How am I any different?
We're defined by how we live, not how we die. (Unless you end up winning a Darwin award.) I never felt a need to be great. Never had any desire to change the world, or "leave my mark" for future generations. I just want to live my life with as little pain, and as much pleasure, as I possibly can. And so, every day, I get up and walk that line between living well and dying young.
I'm not sure where it's leading me, but the view is breath-taking. On both sides.
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