My words have always been unorganized, already discovered truths that edge on abyss cliche more than any sort creative talent; and yes, I am aware that talking about cliches is so, cliche, but writing is therapeutic. It is long, so sit as long as you're willing to sit still for. This is me. The following is just a part of everything. It can upsetting, but it isn't depressing. At the very least this, whatever it is, a journal entry maybe?, promises to get the correct use of your and you're right, but I might drive you crazy with run on sentences. After reading, I hope you leave with whatever you came up with while you were here.
Morning: I stopped by my parents house to pick up some laundry my brother had switched to their dryer for me. I'm the typical bachelor who lives out of his laundry basket. Never bothering to fold, hang, or manipulate in anyway. The air of the empty basement was calm and cool, the garments were warm like how I remembered my basement when I lived here. It was still unclear to me my incentive for the chore I was embarking on, as I started to fold my laundry. I thought of the Snuggle Bear ad when touching each towel, admiring the fleeting feelings each brought with touch. This basement had changed. Once my older sister's queendom, followed by my rule, and briefly my younger sister's occupyment I guess you could say, she was never really here like her older siblings. I became aware of a collapsed shelf from a bookshelf across the area. A series of hard covered children's books, each bound with a uniform cover, lethargic and red, and the numbered, had caused a bracket to bend, and the shelf to land on my mother's old rock n roll record collection from before she married my dad. The encyclopedia of how a child ought to be, stands atop the library riffraff of shouldnt-be's. Oh, and some Barbara Streisand. I got this cold chill, not from from the basement air, this chill was not calm. I knew my showtune and gospel jingle loving momma had a grown up in an exciting time for music, but she rarely spoke of it. I never pressed her on her youth, the road left to a new life, to be a dirt-poor single mother finishing nursing school and moving to suburbia for her daughter. But here. Right here in my hands was a relic to this half-life of hers. I do enjoy the warm sound of vinyl, but I also wanted to learn a little more about my mom. I took a lot of them. Just took them and left.
I continued about my day as a zombie in a dizzying sense of disconnectedness in a daydream. You know you're in trouble when you daydream in your daydream. The words are well chosen, the ideas precisely conveyed, the images saturated with so much color it would be impossible to remember it exactly as it happened, no matter how hard you tried. I went to class. I had a health screening to lower my health insurance premium. Good cholesterol is low, but other than that I'm healthy. I guess I should eat some relevant good cholesterol foods to live longer. Is that stuff 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter' the good cholesterol I wondered, because butter butter is the bad cholesterol. I don't know, I'm not crazy about butter. I'm upset with society.
I watched the debate until I couldn't see straight on the Internet. This election is making me physically ill. People have become pawns of rhetoric to the partisan politics closest to their ideology, and it has caused a black n white fallacy among us further dividing us as a society. Why are we completely ruthless with a computer screen between us? I'm ashamed to be a human right now, and will be relieved when we can all go back to not caring about issues for 3 years. Why should we vote? I ask myself. It is always about how the other guy is bad, not why you're guy is good. The phrase I hear is "lesser of two evils" Wtf man? Two evils? Alright, well I guess I'll take AIDS, the lesser of death choices, because cancer has the whole chemo thing, and I like my hair. But to hell with it, they're both dead. I won't politically rant here, because politics is not the human truth I'm trying to tackle conceptually in my mind, but rather why I have my mom's record collection. Regardless, real issues that bother me are what fueled me into this cloud. Why is Guantanamo still open? What about this failed drug war? People are dying in gruesome ways. Sending more troops to Afganistan? That's my little sister, she should be home. I come up with the simple solution to further divide us ideologically and end the war. Let's just reinstate the draft, overload them with warriors, and bring home the gold. And I will go fight the longest war we've ever participated in, go because I am patriotic. A patriot, here is me, fighting for one truth, here's 'them', fighting for another. We will all fight to win, just like we all vote to win. Who's truth is 'the truth'? Who decides that? I ask myself more rhetorical questions because that has gotten me somewhere before.
I see myself throwing a gun to the rancid ground beside my dying sister, the soldier, the only soldier. It is just her and myself. Bend down to listen for breathing, I have been trained well, as this is natural. While doing so, looking for the movement of her beaming blue eyes. It is natural to pass over them, but I tell myself "don't", instinctually. Look hard and make sure you see every detail. Even in the setting of war, I can tell the way the shakes have disappeared like we were sitting on the bench in the corner of the park catching up about how this town has changed since we were worry free children. Instinct has nothing to say about how the red lines creep out from the center. I am my own decision from here on out. I gently reach, but firmly grasp her shoulder to let her feel through her tainted gear that I am still here. She will know I have not left her, that I won't leave her, that I do not mind the filth, the blood, or tears that come. I can't bring myself to remove my hand, I take five steps to her right to welcome back training while investigating her pack. "What's inside? What is the importance of these things?" Relevant critical thinking, but I am back on my own as I hold back the battery acid vomit creeping up my throat, and simultaneously wipe this look off my face to show her I'm brave.
But I am not brave. I am cracked. I see bare feet from the two of us segregated in the shade, her side of the sandbox generic with copycat towers of her older brother's fortress lazily guarded with a plethora of green plastic army men I loaned her; and my side with the original blueprint fort, securely defended by sweating lego men, and a trench between us. She just wanted to share and be present with me. But I wanted to win. I did this to her, inevitably she was to become a marine from these play yard training exercises. When the heat got the best of us, but mostly her, she no longer wanted to share. I'd break my cherry, orange, or grape popscicle in half, the better half softening. She would bite dominantly into her unbroken blue treat to let me know she could win at something. I can no longer keep this deep inside, the seeping safe and warm and ok has begun to be lost, because I am cracked.
I put my fingers into the bits of gravel that have collected on the bottom of my little sister's pack. Packets of coagulant, surgical kit, and the first-aid support I would need. The support to block out every awful sound I would encounter. The exploding truths above, and around, and below me. I do not hear flashes. I do not see screaming. I smell nothing. I see less.
Only three years younger than I and she lay on a bed of foreign hell. I imagine her hands on the body of a newborn child. Drown in the river of subconscious next to her husband. They were never the most wonderful and inspiring sight she ever saw in her whole god damned life, and the tears streaming from her face, and realizing that her husband was still holding her, and that he was leaving her sight, remembering those things never happened yet, because she was lying in "trashcanistan" as she called it, waiting for her older brother to keep her alive, waiting for me.
I would chew my lips in determination, it would taste like the air in the house of our home schooled neighbors we would play with sometimes because they had a video game console. God, they were weird. The old cartridges froze pixels on screen after the console had overheated to exhaustion. Her demeanor had plateaued on exhausted the first day she stepped overseas, and this, this could be done. No Nintendo placebo effect needed, but blowing breath gently on her forehead was like I sighed confidence into her on the task at hand. Even if the gesture was for my lack of words, we will persevere. I grab the scalpel, and the clamps, and the gauze. Feel the quick sting of a bullet in my back. Followed with the surprise sensation, a ceramic bowl full ice cream against my neck, that was craftily snuck downstairs just for the two of us. The plentiful cookie chip serving to me and the vanilla rich to her. And conquering the brain freeze, empty thought spread, dripping down. Her eyes fall forward, my head falls back, death. And I'm standing on the bottom step of my parent's basement, and my mom 6 feet above, and she has very alive red lines in core of her swollen eyes. The red lines of a dead marine trapped in my head.
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Take my records?"
If I had taken the textured children's books, would I be on trial right now? I ponder whether or not those short stories were well written, if they followed Vonnegut's rules for effective short story telling- Not that they should, great writers break rules, but an encyclopedia's are formats. Before I could answer her, she went on to tell me about how my grandpa has terminal stomach cancer. She tells me various unimportant details, as I recall what rules would be applicable for those books, and which for the stolen albums.
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way they will feel it was not wasted.
There never was a solid piece of art constructed of hit after hit. Layer, or contrast, if only to be picked up years from now as though no time has passed.
2. Give the audience a character they can root for.
I have never been to a funeral. What would I say? I am sure they will ask me to speak. Important people speak at funerals.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
I am sickened with myself to the point that I am thinking of things that happen to me as short stories instead of dealing with them.
4. Every sentence must reveal character or advance action.
How will people see this event? How will the author write this? Seriously man, buckle down and concentrate on what is going on.
5. Start as close to the end as you can.
The end. I'm not good with endings.
6. Be a Sadist. Make awful things happen to your characters to see what they are made of.
"I'm going down to visit them and discuss our options."
"That's heavy." Is all I could sputter.
She went on to talk some more. Talking about major life events can help people heal. It spreads out the weight, helps you maintain your buoyancy, and stop sinking She obviously needs some kind sharing right now. I know, that is a weak metaphor, my inner dialogue quickly thinking of new, less cliche replacements. Is that my fear at this moment?
7. Write to please just one person.
I don't think I should tell her that her eyes look like her dead daughter's eyes in my head, or that I vividly imagined the death in the first place. Now is not the time. No time is the time, you are dumb for still thinking about that. Pay attention.
"You know, you never expect your parents to live forever, but it is still"- she reaches for support on the stairway wall. "hard to deal with."
I am pretty sure my eyes will be red, and that I will need support from a structure when I talk about how my parents are going to die. But right now, I can only think about how dirty that wall looks in this narrowing stairway.
8. To hell with suspense. Audience should be able to finish the story if cockroaches eat the last few pages.
"So I'm not going to tell your sister. She's got enough on her plate, and she's really homesick already."
I stay silent. There is a pause. Is she going to make me do this? God mom, do I have to piece together a "it will be ok" speech from movies, and television, and remembering the good times? Why do you gotta bring me down mom? Don't you know I do that on my own? I eventually conclude that my life is more of a drama on the WB than a piece of art that could be cherished by an audience.
Evening: I guess I fell asleep at the wheel because I am home now, and I don't know how I got home. I shave myself with a dull razor at the very exact time I tell myself this is going to hurt because I have sensitive skin that has been aggravated by the changing weather. Is that intuition if it is a few seconds into the future? Contemplation of moving to a warmer home sets in, for my skin's sake. In Tucson, that's Arizona technically, but geographically Mexico almost, it was hot even as the season was changing here in Salt Lake. It was here that I saw two men beat in the door of Super 8 motel with baseball bats before they were shortly taken off in squad cars. This witness surfaced an inner prejudice I was not aware I had. I was disappointed in myself. Trying to distract myself of this I visited a coffee shop. It was more like a meccadom of hipster. Mason jars, vintage jukebox, vegan menu, oh my stars this was the place that trendy Salt Lake City was missing I thought. My barista was porcelain skinned like me. The red of her lips fiercer than the blue of my eyes. Her eyes were old, and she had a tattoo of an image on her forearm, what was that? I imagine her the front woman of a chill indie girls punk band that couldn't find a drummer, or an artist who was victim to often self-indulgent metaphors hindering her 'breakthrough'; either way, she was the kind of woman who lived only through the art. Then fierce crimson flowed down porcelain into my sink. I AM intuitive. More so on details than actual events, leading me to nowhere. I will not be able to use my intuition to my advantage, just one-to-many ah-ha I knew that was coming moments. I focused enough to clean up and lay in my clean bed.
Night: I lay in bed thinking about death. My dog is 15 years old I think. She is getting deaf, and losing teeth, and doesn't have much time left. I feed her baby aspirin and treats to suppress the guilt of not walking her enough, not taking her to dog parks ever, and for ignoring her when I could've been making memories. She was a rambunctious little shit as a puppy. She would bark at everything. And well, I will admit, I am a crappy owner. When I first got her I took her for a ride in my red wagon. The ones that every suburban family had in the 90s, fun for the kids and nostalgia for the parents. She loved the thrill of the ride, and I loved the sound the wheels made on each crack in the sidewalk; but she was overly-anxious to get out and play with my siblings afterward. The purple leash tangled in the wagon wheel, I tripped, she yelped. My third grade body pinned her, breaking her leg. The purple leash the last thing I saw before that sound she made. I hated the color purple, add in the red of the wagon, and that is all I could see at school the following day while my puppy was recovering at the vet. It was DARE to resist drugs week, the program's colors purple/red. I didn't know how to handle my guilt, how could it get worse? The last bell rang for a long time, sending me on a swift walk to judgement.
My little sheltie waiting for me at home in 'cercheif and rod in her leg. The horrible color combination faded from my young mind. I would protect her I vowed. She started puppyhood at the house once more. Her fur looked like cookie dough, textures on textures with no melting of the colors together. My show dog was unable to travel stairs during healing, I carried her like a good friend to the downstairs where she was to be spoiled with love from kids of my family. I dropped her. 6 stairs or something. 6 floors in my mind. Surgery would fix my dog again, but there was no way to fix how my 11 year old self felt.
Months past, my puppy was growing fast, she was the queen of the backyard. She loved me the same, and in time I stopped distancing myself from her. I, genuinely happy to see her, and I think she was happy to see me too. She went missing with signs of foul play. The gate was open, and I had a feeling there was foul play. This must have been my first intuition experience. The teenage boy kitty corner from us had quite the wrap sheet for vandalism and animal torture. Today, I have no doubt in my mind he is in prison somewhere. Probably his first charges were domestic assault after he beat his girlfriend to a bloody pulp like in those nighttime crime shows on network tv. I'm assuming he went on to get caught for child pornography or was involved in a dog fighting scheme. I have quite the imagination.
I was a live wire obligated to handle this situation. No authorities, no permission. I walked over to this young man, I still a child, and interrogated him on the whereabouts of my dog. He was wearing a purple shirt and jeans that could've belonged to Greg Ostertag. I never understood why the alternative fashion of the time was that of lurpy white men, but this was '98. He threatened to steal my basketball again, or throw sawdust in my eyes if I didn't piss off. I had stood up to him one July when he and the older neighborhood guys were blowing glass up in the street with fireworks. I had not forgotten the eye patch I had to wear all summer after an entire package of some "snaps" was flung into my face while I was protecting the battlegrounds were my basketball often roll. This threat was a cover to avoid my questions, but I so young, it worked. I was scared of him. He had a chain for his wallet, and a pump bb gun with a sawed-off end-probably just for looks, but maybe to hide in those ridiculous jeans.
My dad helped me avoid sure death by calling me home from the yard, I stomped dramatically across the asphalt unsure of who I was more upset with. We sat under the shade while my anger visibly shook me. My dad trying to be fatherly and his fiery son down, but was being more silly. He would eat bugs to get the shock effect out of me. Just worms and grasshoppers. I noticed once a few summers later, that he was just dropping them to the side to appear as he was eating these creepy crawlies. I called him on it, and he ate them for real to prove he was cool. This night after I had cooled back down to be reasoned with, he compared the delinquent who stole my dog to Dennis Rodman from the household enemies the Chicago Bulls, this was an effective argument for my father. He recalled times where the "worm" would singlehandedly beat the Jazz, while Jordan rested on the bench, by getting into their heads with hard fouls or trash talk. If another player is playing dirty, you need to be twice as clean he explained. Then my dad was shot with a bb.
Late night: The people who saved my dog have special souls. I remember watching my dog through a window in a clinic on an overcast day because any raise of her heartbeat or movement could literally kill her. It was fate, or chance, or whatever that two vets happened upon her on the side of I-215 out by the airport. Her legs broken in multiple places from multiple impacts they said, her chart said her weight less than half that when she roamed my backyard. If I was not growing up fast enough, this was helping. This poor creature had pulled- no dragged herself along the highway with her two front legs to gather candy wrappers and other litter for nourishment. Unless this poor girl could up to 16 or 18 pound- I can't remember which exactly, she could not come home with our family.
I visited her twice. Staring longingly through the glass like into the huge salt water fish tank this couple had in their clinic. They spared me the talk, the talk of how the amount of energy, money, and luck to keep my dog alive was running out, they gave the talk to my mom instead, but I knew. The logical thing was to offer her some relief. The arrangements were made to have the couple put her down. The day came, but she was recovering quickly. Gained 4lbs and some visible strength. So we put it off for a few more days. Now my dog is grown up, rebuilt like the terminator in those legs I'm sure, but an example to me of not giving up even when she probably should have.
It wouldn't be until I was almost 24 laying in my bed thinking of really awful events that happened to my dog, that I considered the repercussions of making and breaking appointments with Death. I guess in my life there was never a 24-hour cancellation policy offered. I think about what it must've been like for my pet to lay there patiently watching the end of her life, a young dog lying on the shore as the tide comes in. And I fall asleep thinking about what my grandpa will do with the last 6 months of his life, this rented space until friday.
I will soon have to deal with death in my life for the first time. It will be a moment where I think I'll use the event to do something completely awesome, and not use my previous admissions to mean that I should give up, feel sorry, be scared, feel hopeless, be ashamed, have regret, or succumb to any feeling other than extreme gratitude that regardless of my mistakes, I am here, and I am alive, and I am lucky to encompass the capacity to care so deeply about a dog, or a person.
