It always happens someplace between the shoulder and the curve of the neck. The timing is between the flutters of each eye, syncing for a change and then closing into relaxation. It's in the fingertip on the opposite cheek and the way the forehead leans deep into the offered concave.
It's in that smell too - the one of mint chewing gum and the way the sun melted into the skin during the day and then cooled with the sunset.
It always leaves the skin smelling someplace like dew and distinctly human.
It's in the way the lips aren't moving, but are there just the same - the way the brain takes a backseat and the body falls where it would left to its own devices.
It feels quite possibly like music when it ebbs and crashes over the senses with meaning that can only be interpreted without lyrics.
Perhaps.
But it starts with the soft spot between the shoulder and the neck, the rest of the chin, and the sensation of a smile felt someplace overhead.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Noodle's Real Name
For so long I've lived this name. "Noodle" is so back and forth, so ever-fluctuating and inconsistent. To be this is to never lay a root down, never have to focus for too long on one particular thing. You know what I mean man?
I've waffled my whole life, I think. "Waffle,"... perhaps that's my real name, someplace down deep where my parents couldn't find it. Nah, Noodle has served me fine so far. Chicks dig the weirdness of it and it suits a tormented artist like me. It sounds innocent enough to make my mama proud and it makes a cool signature when I'm not being entirely sincere about my decision.
But I got a real name, ya know? I have a name my mom and dad gave me when I came screaming and wiggling into this God-forsaken planet. I have the real "me" under this bland moniker that I try to believe is spicier than it is.
I gotta a 'me' in here someplace, you dig?
That me plays the guitar and hits the keyboard too. That me indulges just as much as the other does and regrets it all the more. That me has the same history and the same disappointments only this guy thinks on them a hell of a lot more and puts a lot more feeling behind it.
That's why I shut him up a lot. He's a pain in the ass wimp with realness to him I can't seem to stomach yet.
He's the asshole who fell in love with her too. Who does that so quickly really? Who thinks about houses and children and vegetable gardens in the country that early on in a relationship? Seriously? Good thing I gave him a push before he got all limp on me.
But I still got that name.
He's still there.
I can't even say his name because it hurts me.
Makes my breath stop short and causes me a moment of insecurity I can't seem to understand yet.
God, who knew there could be so much wrapped up in a name? One so simple as mine?
For now, I guess my initials is all I can do.
I've waffled my whole life, I think. "Waffle,"... perhaps that's my real name, someplace down deep where my parents couldn't find it. Nah, Noodle has served me fine so far. Chicks dig the weirdness of it and it suits a tormented artist like me. It sounds innocent enough to make my mama proud and it makes a cool signature when I'm not being entirely sincere about my decision.
But I got a real name, ya know? I have a name my mom and dad gave me when I came screaming and wiggling into this God-forsaken planet. I have the real "me" under this bland moniker that I try to believe is spicier than it is.
I gotta a 'me' in here someplace, you dig?
That me plays the guitar and hits the keyboard too. That me indulges just as much as the other does and regrets it all the more. That me has the same history and the same disappointments only this guy thinks on them a hell of a lot more and puts a lot more feeling behind it.
That's why I shut him up a lot. He's a pain in the ass wimp with realness to him I can't seem to stomach yet.
He's the asshole who fell in love with her too. Who does that so quickly really? Who thinks about houses and children and vegetable gardens in the country that early on in a relationship? Seriously? Good thing I gave him a push before he got all limp on me.
But I still got that name.
He's still there.
I can't even say his name because it hurts me.
Makes my breath stop short and causes me a moment of insecurity I can't seem to understand yet.
God, who knew there could be so much wrapped up in a name? One so simple as mine?
For now, I guess my initials is all I can do.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Portrait of a Fort Wayne Council Member
It's really a shame, you know. This town could be a city if it really tried hard enough. I'm not the man to do it though. I never have been. I've just lived here too long.
Perhaps everyone feels that way?
And we do an awful lot of talking in this town and not nearly enough doing. We do some great things, but we're always falling just short of doing the right thing. You know what I mean?
Too many people live here. Too many people want to hurt people here.
It's a shame.
Every time I turn around, someone is dying. Someone is being taken to task by an ill-nurtured pitbull. Someone is abusing the financial assistance system. Someone's baby is having a baby between lunch hour and study hall. Someone is always running a red light and cranking down inside a pothole. Note - I keep asking the city about the potholes. No one wants to talk about that or the Illinois Road project.
I can't help it that it happens like this. I'm nice to people. I say good things. For some reason it doesn't translate between me and the doers around this town.
I'm not even sure I work here anymore. Now that I think of it, I was filling in for someone else for awhile.
Right?
*Sigh.
I think what frustrates me most here is that everyone is distracted by garbage. No one says anything meaningful anymore. It's all surface and babble and teenage antics in the most inappropriate places. Have you ever been to The River? They don't card there. Piere's makes me nervous. Why talk when you can bump up against someone for three minutes of drum beats?
I'm getting too old for this. I just want to have a responsible, intellectual conversation with someone here. For a town filled with colleges, we sure are meaning-deprived. We have a lot of churches too.
Makes me worried you know. When the floods finally come and when there isn't a damn big enough, well...I just don't know. We're all too preoccupied with ourselves. I'm not sure we'll even see it coming.
And it's starting to rain. Again.
Perhaps everyone feels that way?
And we do an awful lot of talking in this town and not nearly enough doing. We do some great things, but we're always falling just short of doing the right thing. You know what I mean?
Too many people live here. Too many people want to hurt people here.
It's a shame.
Every time I turn around, someone is dying. Someone is being taken to task by an ill-nurtured pitbull. Someone is abusing the financial assistance system. Someone's baby is having a baby between lunch hour and study hall. Someone is always running a red light and cranking down inside a pothole. Note - I keep asking the city about the potholes. No one wants to talk about that or the Illinois Road project.
I can't help it that it happens like this. I'm nice to people. I say good things. For some reason it doesn't translate between me and the doers around this town.
I'm not even sure I work here anymore. Now that I think of it, I was filling in for someone else for awhile.
Right?
*Sigh.
I think what frustrates me most here is that everyone is distracted by garbage. No one says anything meaningful anymore. It's all surface and babble and teenage antics in the most inappropriate places. Have you ever been to The River? They don't card there. Piere's makes me nervous. Why talk when you can bump up against someone for three minutes of drum beats?
I'm getting too old for this. I just want to have a responsible, intellectual conversation with someone here. For a town filled with colleges, we sure are meaning-deprived. We have a lot of churches too.
Makes me worried you know. When the floods finally come and when there isn't a damn big enough, well...I just don't know. We're all too preoccupied with ourselves. I'm not sure we'll even see it coming.
And it's starting to rain. Again.
Rule #8
In the most passionate of moments, marry the body to the mind.
Only then is it comfortable and easiest to recognize the self.
Only then is it comfortable and easiest to recognize the self.
Rule #7
Know when not to fall upon your own sword.
Know when it's best to put someone else first.
Try to distinguish the two.
Only then can real happiness take place in a world filled with such chaos and suspicion.
Know when it's best to put someone else first.
Try to distinguish the two.
Only then can real happiness take place in a world filled with such chaos and suspicion.
The Call - Alana Weedgrass is out of state
It was 3 AM Arizona time when the phone rang. Alana, groggily and blindly reached out into the dry darkness to find her cell phone. It was her father's ring tone. As she reached, she smacked Jackson by mistake; however, he didn't stir, just rolled over snarfling a little.
Jackson was a new boyfriend. They'd been dating only a few weeks. Alana's divorce wasn't final and the company Jackson contributed to her life wasn't all that bad for the time being, but moments like this pissed her off. It was too ordinary, too soon. She clutched the phone and stumbled into the living room of her first floor apartment.
"Dad?" she sleepily said into the darkness, hoping her eyes would adjust to the scene.
"Alana," her dad said tiredly, "Mom's in trouble."
Her stomach turned. She felt sour. Surely this wasn't coming up again. Years of failed relationships, affairs, workaholic tendencies, Prozac, and a hefty therapy bill had led her to finally accept that her mother wasn't like the other mothers on the playground.
"What happened?" she asked, suddenly wide awake.
"Mom's in jail. They're questioning her again. This time it's a bigger deal. That thing with your brother. I think it's finally happening just like you and I thought it might. Just like we talked about all those years ago, at the park."
Her dad sounded wounded, exhausted, and yet strikingly unemotional. Alana always wondered how he dealt like this. It was eerie how he didn't seem to care on certain levels.
"I think you should fly home. Now. They're going to want to talk to you, I think. I'm going in tomorrow to see what the deal is. They wouldn't let me see her today."
"Okay," was all she replied and hung up.
She sat down on the cold floor with a thud. Legs crossed, her mind reeled. Her brother was one thing. His death was tragic and yet not entirely unexpected. He'd been threatening to off himself for years. She knew the hospital wasn't a good idea. You can't deter someone that bent on hell.
She felt cold, numbed by circumstance and irony. Leaning against the wall, she tried to cry.
It wouldn't come.
Jackson was a new boyfriend. They'd been dating only a few weeks. Alana's divorce wasn't final and the company Jackson contributed to her life wasn't all that bad for the time being, but moments like this pissed her off. It was too ordinary, too soon. She clutched the phone and stumbled into the living room of her first floor apartment.
"Dad?" she sleepily said into the darkness, hoping her eyes would adjust to the scene.
"Alana," her dad said tiredly, "Mom's in trouble."
Her stomach turned. She felt sour. Surely this wasn't coming up again. Years of failed relationships, affairs, workaholic tendencies, Prozac, and a hefty therapy bill had led her to finally accept that her mother wasn't like the other mothers on the playground.
"What happened?" she asked, suddenly wide awake.
"Mom's in jail. They're questioning her again. This time it's a bigger deal. That thing with your brother. I think it's finally happening just like you and I thought it might. Just like we talked about all those years ago, at the park."
Her dad sounded wounded, exhausted, and yet strikingly unemotional. Alana always wondered how he dealt like this. It was eerie how he didn't seem to care on certain levels.
"I think you should fly home. Now. They're going to want to talk to you, I think. I'm going in tomorrow to see what the deal is. They wouldn't let me see her today."
"Okay," was all she replied and hung up.
She sat down on the cold floor with a thud. Legs crossed, her mind reeled. Her brother was one thing. His death was tragic and yet not entirely unexpected. He'd been threatening to off himself for years. She knew the hospital wasn't a good idea. You can't deter someone that bent on hell.
She felt cold, numbed by circumstance and irony. Leaning against the wall, she tried to cry.
It wouldn't come.
Mrs. Weedgrass is in a lot of trouble...
The officer looked the old woman over for a few moments before beginning to ask questions. Having read the old, painfully thick file, he couldn't believe what he read translated into this 60 year old, washed up, wrinkled, and smirking woman. She could be anyone's grandmother.
He watched across the table as her papery hands twisted around one another and as she clicked her tongue against her front teeth.
"Officer, this is really a waste of all of our time. Surely you know that file is riddled with untruths and gaps. I am a God-fearing, Christian woman. I go to church. I help the Africans. I am a teacher of children. This must be a horrible mistake. I don't know what this woman was talking about."
Officer McKinney had been on the street for five years. He always had wanted to be a cop. His dad was a cop. His grandfather was a cop. After patrolling for two years, Officer McKinney was promoted to vice. Quickly however, the force determined he was best set for the tougher cases. He was now a detective working cold cases, the ones the force always had on the burner, but the ones that weren't all that hot anymore. His job - reopen them. Find the loopholes and missed investigations. Track down the bad guy. Bring him in. Make him pay.
The 5th district investigation grant from the feds covered just McKinney. Just McKinney had to deal with this old bag. His mind peeled through other women he knew who looked like her - his fifth grade teacher, his neighbor Mrs. Pinsky, his own mother.
"Mrs. Weedgrass, surely you know why you've been called in here. Your son...what happened at the hospital. It shed some new light on these old files here," he said slowly. Looking at her, he felt a burning inside that made him feel nauseous. He had to remember that this woman would have been in her 20s, 30s, 40s, when some of the real shit went down. For all he knew, she never really stopped.
"Officer, honey, check with my minister. Check with my husband. Ask my friends at the Service of Life Center. They'll tell you. I'm an innocent lady accused of some horrible things. What that says in there about the private schools, the tutoring, the nutrition habits,...that's just propaganda to ruin me. People have always been trying to ruin me. I'm a good woman. A Christian. You see?"
Officer McKinney stared at Mrs. Weedgrass hard. His teeth clenched. The weight and severity of what he was dealing with struck him. He mashed his fist on top of the file.
"Mrs. Weedgrass, we're going to go over this file and you're going to tell the truth. Now. But first, I have to read you your rights."
He watched across the table as her papery hands twisted around one another and as she clicked her tongue against her front teeth.
"Officer, this is really a waste of all of our time. Surely you know that file is riddled with untruths and gaps. I am a God-fearing, Christian woman. I go to church. I help the Africans. I am a teacher of children. This must be a horrible mistake. I don't know what this woman was talking about."
Officer McKinney had been on the street for five years. He always had wanted to be a cop. His dad was a cop. His grandfather was a cop. After patrolling for two years, Officer McKinney was promoted to vice. Quickly however, the force determined he was best set for the tougher cases. He was now a detective working cold cases, the ones the force always had on the burner, but the ones that weren't all that hot anymore. His job - reopen them. Find the loopholes and missed investigations. Track down the bad guy. Bring him in. Make him pay.
The 5th district investigation grant from the feds covered just McKinney. Just McKinney had to deal with this old bag. His mind peeled through other women he knew who looked like her - his fifth grade teacher, his neighbor Mrs. Pinsky, his own mother.
"Mrs. Weedgrass, surely you know why you've been called in here. Your son...what happened at the hospital. It shed some new light on these old files here," he said slowly. Looking at her, he felt a burning inside that made him feel nauseous. He had to remember that this woman would have been in her 20s, 30s, 40s, when some of the real shit went down. For all he knew, she never really stopped.
"Officer, honey, check with my minister. Check with my husband. Ask my friends at the Service of Life Center. They'll tell you. I'm an innocent lady accused of some horrible things. What that says in there about the private schools, the tutoring, the nutrition habits,...that's just propaganda to ruin me. People have always been trying to ruin me. I'm a good woman. A Christian. You see?"
Officer McKinney stared at Mrs. Weedgrass hard. His teeth clenched. The weight and severity of what he was dealing with struck him. He mashed his fist on top of the file.
"Mrs. Weedgrass, we're going to go over this file and you're going to tell the truth. Now. But first, I have to read you your rights."
Sensation 5 - Euphoria
It means laughing at nothing whatsoever.
It means stealing kisses.
It means sharing a dream and blanket.
It means fingertips at the lightest places.
It means a warm hug and soft smile.
It means rain and sunshine all at once.
It means joking about things that are all sorts of inappropriate.
It means endorphines.
It means fire power and endurance.
It means driving out of the way.
It means pushing a bit further outside the comfort zone.
It means an undetermined outcome and a certain history.
It means challenging the what ifs.
It means breaking the lines of society.
It means distracting and attracting.
It means saying good bye to old ghosts.
It means acknowledging the here and now.
It means arms, legs, faces, fingers, toes...
It means expectations and the lack thereof.
It means a simple honesty.
It means truth.
It means breaking the silence.
It means.....all of these things.
It means....
Being....
Living......
Moving on.
It means stealing kisses.
It means sharing a dream and blanket.
It means fingertips at the lightest places.
It means a warm hug and soft smile.
It means rain and sunshine all at once.
It means joking about things that are all sorts of inappropriate.
It means endorphines.
It means fire power and endurance.
It means driving out of the way.
It means pushing a bit further outside the comfort zone.
It means an undetermined outcome and a certain history.
It means challenging the what ifs.
It means breaking the lines of society.
It means distracting and attracting.
It means saying good bye to old ghosts.
It means acknowledging the here and now.
It means arms, legs, faces, fingers, toes...
It means expectations and the lack thereof.
It means a simple honesty.
It means truth.
It means breaking the silence.
It means.....all of these things.
It means....
Being....
Living......
Moving on.
Cold Memory #8 - What she never tells anyone.
It happened just long enough ago that she thought she forgot about it. She was never one for nightmares or silly bouts of timidity.
In fact, she had a terribly high pain threshold for her age and station in life.
But this one thing, well....it always resurfaced somehow...usually when life got a little more emotional or a little more complicated.
Sometimes she wondered what happened to him. Wondered if anyone ever got him back.
She often sat at her desk, twisting the ends of her hair and wondering if she'd ever be able to recall everything. Part of her wished she could.
A part of her was relieved she never knew all of it.
Though the worst part was being informed after the fact.
Perhaps this is why numbness always made her nervous, that sensation she sometimes woke up with having slept on her arm for too long or having a leg twisted out of sorts during a dream.
Never again did she want to not be able to use her legs and arms.
Even now, she sometimes pinched herself to make sure she could feel things.
Being human is like that, you know.
And she always has her teeth.
Takes more than a few things to numb your face.
Not even a good hard slap will do it right away.
Now...she imagines someone has bitten him hard enough.
To make it stick.
Takes a lot to earn that kind of desire, she thinks.
He worked on it for years apparently.
She hopes it's really not what it appears now. How does someone like that get the girl, the dream house, the luxury car, and the career?
Surely that's not what hell looks like.
Or is it?
In fact, she had a terribly high pain threshold for her age and station in life.
But this one thing, well....it always resurfaced somehow...usually when life got a little more emotional or a little more complicated.
Sometimes she wondered what happened to him. Wondered if anyone ever got him back.
She often sat at her desk, twisting the ends of her hair and wondering if she'd ever be able to recall everything. Part of her wished she could.
A part of her was relieved she never knew all of it.
Though the worst part was being informed after the fact.
Perhaps this is why numbness always made her nervous, that sensation she sometimes woke up with having slept on her arm for too long or having a leg twisted out of sorts during a dream.
Never again did she want to not be able to use her legs and arms.
Even now, she sometimes pinched herself to make sure she could feel things.
Being human is like that, you know.
And she always has her teeth.
Takes more than a few things to numb your face.
Not even a good hard slap will do it right away.
Now...she imagines someone has bitten him hard enough.
To make it stick.
Takes a lot to earn that kind of desire, she thinks.
He worked on it for years apparently.
She hopes it's really not what it appears now. How does someone like that get the girl, the dream house, the luxury car, and the career?
Surely that's not what hell looks like.
Or is it?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Warm Memory #8 Continued...What She Thought of Him
She found him fascinating and wanted to know him.
She didn't know why.
She didn't have to.
She didn't know why.
She didn't have to.
Warm Memory #8 - How They Met
Even when his memory was fuzzy, he always remembered meeting her. She was a lightning bolt of energy the night he was introduced - bouncing from person to person throwing candor and spunk into the atmosphere.
He wondered what compelled her to do that. Sitting near the corner of the room, he watched as this imp of a woman chatted aimlessly and poured through guest after guest with inane conversation topics and witty banter. There was something magnetic about this woman and yet something irritatingly bothersome about her behavior. She went from waving excitedly to swiping drinks from guests. She danced about as if she hadn't a care in the world and yet there was something artificial about this display.
He took a drink. Watched.
She took two drinks. Continued to move about.
He was beginning to wonder why she hadn't landed in his corner yet when he felt the reverie-shaking 'thump' of a body falling down next to him.
"So, who are you?"
Startled, she was now staring right in his face demanding an answer to her question. She introduced herself and then waited, the awkward hanging in the air for only a few seconds. Up close, she didn't look nearly as young, nearly as immature as she had seemed across the room.
In fact, he wondered why she looked so incredibly tired.
He answered.
She nodded, her hand brushing his curled up arm. She asked him questions. He gave her answers. She laughed. He laughed back.
He hadn't laughed in awhile.
Neither had she.
She whispered something to him that no one else could hear.
He understood.
Watched her bound away.
Wondered why she told him.
That's how it happened the first time.
At least, that is what he remembered...
He wondered what compelled her to do that. Sitting near the corner of the room, he watched as this imp of a woman chatted aimlessly and poured through guest after guest with inane conversation topics and witty banter. There was something magnetic about this woman and yet something irritatingly bothersome about her behavior. She went from waving excitedly to swiping drinks from guests. She danced about as if she hadn't a care in the world and yet there was something artificial about this display.
He took a drink. Watched.
She took two drinks. Continued to move about.
He was beginning to wonder why she hadn't landed in his corner yet when he felt the reverie-shaking 'thump' of a body falling down next to him.
"So, who are you?"
Startled, she was now staring right in his face demanding an answer to her question. She introduced herself and then waited, the awkward hanging in the air for only a few seconds. Up close, she didn't look nearly as young, nearly as immature as she had seemed across the room.
In fact, he wondered why she looked so incredibly tired.
He answered.
She nodded, her hand brushing his curled up arm. She asked him questions. He gave her answers. She laughed. He laughed back.
He hadn't laughed in awhile.
Neither had she.
She whispered something to him that no one else could hear.
He understood.
Watched her bound away.
Wondered why she told him.
That's how it happened the first time.
At least, that is what he remembered...
Temporary sensation...
Continuing to look around the room, she wondered about herself. She ached everywhere and the sun was starting to tear at her eyes a little.
She occasionally brought a hand to her face, hoping to recognize herself by touch. The mirror didn't help her pinpoint the person she thought she had been before.
The heart monitor tugged at her skin as she tried to settle into a comfortable position. She wasn't sure what it was doing there.
Had she nearly died?
No one had said. They all kept saying the same thing, these nurses in their loud, freakishly pleasant scrubs, "Wait for Dr. Macafee. He'll explain this. He'll help you."
The room was eerily silent and yet peaceful. It was then that she realized the sensation in her brain...
She was alone.
And now this time...she didn't even know who she was.
She occasionally brought a hand to her face, hoping to recognize herself by touch. The mirror didn't help her pinpoint the person she thought she had been before.
The heart monitor tugged at her skin as she tried to settle into a comfortable position. She wasn't sure what it was doing there.
Had she nearly died?
No one had said. They all kept saying the same thing, these nurses in their loud, freakishly pleasant scrubs, "Wait for Dr. Macafee. He'll explain this. He'll help you."
The room was eerily silent and yet peaceful. It was then that she realized the sensation in her brain...
She was alone.
And now this time...she didn't even know who she was.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Time passes - Noodle is no longer in town.
He stood on the back balcony and looked out over the water. The sun was slowly rising and he knew he had to be at work in a matter of minutes; however, every once in awhile he found himself pausing out back, coffee cup in hand, wondering about his most recent decisions.
He leaned back on his heels and took a long drink from his cup. "I mean, how can it be my fault?" he found himself asking aloud, his voice dropping over the deck towards the ground.
"But it is my fault. God, why can't I take myself more seriously?"
His eyes surveyed the new landscape behind his house - the fresh grass, the newly planted shrubs - it was nothing like his apartment back there. It was a lot quieter here too. Hell, his life was always getting quiet like this.
He'd only gone to see her once in the hospital. She looked so vulnerable, so messed up, he couldn't bear the thought of how much pain she'd actually feel when and if she ever woke up. In fact, he didn't know what he'd do when or if she did.
She would have eventually needed him - needed him to help her with therapy; run errands; move her to a more comfortable spot; help her tie up the loose ends. She would have needed to cry on him and scream in agony when she tried to walk. The thought had sent him reeling when he peered down at her pale body, lying attached to the bed. The bandages alone freaked him out.
"She would have needed too much from me," he barely whispered. Realizing just how selfish it sounded out loud, a tear escaped him. He never gave her a chance to wake, never gave himself a chance to see if he could handle it - handle her - in all of her visible need.
Even today, months later, the idea overwhelmed him.
He hated himself for leaving and each time he paused on the patio, he considered whether or not it wasn't the best choice he ever made.
"Someone else is better for her," he said, "She deserves someone who can deal with all that. Someone strong, someone with nerve, someone older and wiser than I am."
He was always defeating himself like this and it hurt more than all that other stuff he thought about and wondered about. For all he knew, she had died days later though he checked the newspaper every morning and never saw an obituary or newstory. He'd moved away shortly after that day in the hospital, to start over, work on his music, and some of those other things he always said he'd try.
But he always wondered about her. Wondered if she ever woke up.
Wondered and hoped a little that she would remember him.
Because he remembered her.
All the time.
Mumbling to himself, he headed back inside to ditch his coffee and head to work. At least here alone, he didn't have to worry about failing her too.
He leaned back on his heels and took a long drink from his cup. "I mean, how can it be my fault?" he found himself asking aloud, his voice dropping over the deck towards the ground.
"But it is my fault. God, why can't I take myself more seriously?"
His eyes surveyed the new landscape behind his house - the fresh grass, the newly planted shrubs - it was nothing like his apartment back there. It was a lot quieter here too. Hell, his life was always getting quiet like this.
He'd only gone to see her once in the hospital. She looked so vulnerable, so messed up, he couldn't bear the thought of how much pain she'd actually feel when and if she ever woke up. In fact, he didn't know what he'd do when or if she did.
She would have eventually needed him - needed him to help her with therapy; run errands; move her to a more comfortable spot; help her tie up the loose ends. She would have needed to cry on him and scream in agony when she tried to walk. The thought had sent him reeling when he peered down at her pale body, lying attached to the bed. The bandages alone freaked him out.
"She would have needed too much from me," he barely whispered. Realizing just how selfish it sounded out loud, a tear escaped him. He never gave her a chance to wake, never gave himself a chance to see if he could handle it - handle her - in all of her visible need.
Even today, months later, the idea overwhelmed him.
He hated himself for leaving and each time he paused on the patio, he considered whether or not it wasn't the best choice he ever made.
"Someone else is better for her," he said, "She deserves someone who can deal with all that. Someone strong, someone with nerve, someone older and wiser than I am."
He was always defeating himself like this and it hurt more than all that other stuff he thought about and wondered about. For all he knew, she had died days later though he checked the newspaper every morning and never saw an obituary or newstory. He'd moved away shortly after that day in the hospital, to start over, work on his music, and some of those other things he always said he'd try.
But he always wondered about her. Wondered if she ever woke up.
Wondered and hoped a little that she would remember him.
Because he remembered her.
All the time.
Mumbling to himself, he headed back inside to ditch his coffee and head to work. At least here alone, he didn't have to worry about failing her too.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Dr. Macafee
He had been sitting in the lounge when the night nurse from the neurology floor came off her shift on Monday morning. "She's awake now," she commented as she pulled her purse from a locker. "Guess you'll finally get to meet your patient." The nurse turned and left the lounge, a heavy breeze followed her.
Dr. Macafee had been treating her for six months. Maybe it had been seven - he could not quite remember. When she came in she'd been a crumpled woman pile of blood and shattered bone. The bullets had torn through her doing damage he hadn't seen since he'd been overseas. He shuddered at the memory.
Since, he'd spent each day checking her chart, her vitals, and inspecting his handiwork. It'd taken 32 hours of surgery, but he'd removed every bullet save one, the one lodged behind her ear. It was too dangerous to remove it. He couldn't bear the thought of taking her hearing and likely her eyesight in one eye with him.
She arrived on the day he had decided to quit his job, move to the south, and start over. Rita had left him long ago and the work just didn't motivate him anymore. He had no longer cared about saving anyone. But this woman, this mess aboard a stretcher, had taken hold of him someplace deep - a place he hadn't recognized since his interning days at U of M.
He looked down at his newspaper and the unfinished sandwich. How was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to say when he met her? In the past months, he'd formed a subtle bond with the comatose woman, caring for her bandages and making sure she was not disturbed. How do you tell someone they have to learn to walk again? How do you tell someone they'll never have children because some freak who skipped his meds opened fire in a crowded lunch room - a gun the police later learned had been slipped in by the patient's mother.
Marc Macafee rose and looked around the quiet lounge, the dank space he'd spent the last several months eating lunch in - a place he swore he'd leave behind a long time ago.
He had no idea what he was going to say. In fact, he'd spent several evenings sitting by her bedside, reading next to her and wondering what her life was like. She was so young and yet looked wise and tired beyond her years.
It was time. He had to do something.
Clearing his throat, he left the lounge and headed for the third floor.
Dr. Macafee had been treating her for six months. Maybe it had been seven - he could not quite remember. When she came in she'd been a crumpled woman pile of blood and shattered bone. The bullets had torn through her doing damage he hadn't seen since he'd been overseas. He shuddered at the memory.
Since, he'd spent each day checking her chart, her vitals, and inspecting his handiwork. It'd taken 32 hours of surgery, but he'd removed every bullet save one, the one lodged behind her ear. It was too dangerous to remove it. He couldn't bear the thought of taking her hearing and likely her eyesight in one eye with him.
She arrived on the day he had decided to quit his job, move to the south, and start over. Rita had left him long ago and the work just didn't motivate him anymore. He had no longer cared about saving anyone. But this woman, this mess aboard a stretcher, had taken hold of him someplace deep - a place he hadn't recognized since his interning days at U of M.
He looked down at his newspaper and the unfinished sandwich. How was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to say when he met her? In the past months, he'd formed a subtle bond with the comatose woman, caring for her bandages and making sure she was not disturbed. How do you tell someone they have to learn to walk again? How do you tell someone they'll never have children because some freak who skipped his meds opened fire in a crowded lunch room - a gun the police later learned had been slipped in by the patient's mother.
Marc Macafee rose and looked around the quiet lounge, the dank space he'd spent the last several months eating lunch in - a place he swore he'd leave behind a long time ago.
He had no idea what he was going to say. In fact, he'd spent several evenings sitting by her bedside, reading next to her and wondering what her life was like. She was so young and yet looked wise and tired beyond her years.
It was time. He had to do something.
Clearing his throat, he left the lounge and headed for the third floor.
Sometimes...
Sometimes it is what goes unfinished in life that brings the most incredible joy and the deepest of sorrows.
How is an author to compose through the most intense writer's block to date?
Answer - Make it up.
Fiction, afterall, is a genre too.
How is an author to compose through the most intense writer's block to date?
Answer - Make it up.
Fiction, afterall, is a genre too.
Lost Settlement
Cement steps are more brittle
On the southern side of Oak Street.
Denim against pasty skin,
Icy even in late summer sunsets.
You know how it feels when you put your clothes on too early,
That “cling and stick” because you’re still wet?
You see, everything is cooler here
In this broke down place.
They’ll mark your tomb with historic curlicues.
“Here laid one warm body.”
Everyone lives to die here,
In this middle finger of land.
We don’t pay for movies,
But waste around the back door,
Communing together – with broken pavement,
Crackle scratch of dead leaves.
We burn on with tapped cigarette
While paper curls and chill ash falls to stone.
We all smoke when we’re drinking.
Honestly, we smoke all the time.
Buzzed hard as the sun drops,
We forget – we forget – about the money
We all don’t have.
There’s not much work,
But lots of labors,
In this town.
That’s okay with us.
Dragging, drinking, puffing;
Bound together in one smoke ring,
Waiting to die.
Years from now, when they scroll up our tombstones,
Children will honor the cracks in the cement
Arms linked in the haze and scratch of leaves,
Clinging to the chilled bones of this town.
On the southern side of Oak Street.
Denim against pasty skin,
Icy even in late summer sunsets.
You know how it feels when you put your clothes on too early,
That “cling and stick” because you’re still wet?
You see, everything is cooler here
In this broke down place.
They’ll mark your tomb with historic curlicues.
“Here laid one warm body.”
Everyone lives to die here,
In this middle finger of land.
We don’t pay for movies,
But waste around the back door,
Communing together – with broken pavement,
Crackle scratch of dead leaves.
We burn on with tapped cigarette
While paper curls and chill ash falls to stone.
We all smoke when we’re drinking.
Honestly, we smoke all the time.
Buzzed hard as the sun drops,
We forget – we forget – about the money
We all don’t have.
There’s not much work,
But lots of labors,
In this town.
That’s okay with us.
Dragging, drinking, puffing;
Bound together in one smoke ring,
Waiting to die.
Years from now, when they scroll up our tombstones,
Children will honor the cracks in the cement
Arms linked in the haze and scratch of leaves,
Clinging to the chilled bones of this town.
What Eventually Blushes Green
Because she knows
It will be painful
In the end,
Tendon slap bone slap skin
Marry the salt taste
Above the brow
And someplace down below
Where –
When you think on it
Feels like everything else
In her life,
The sweat tastes like sweat
And something green
Brushed over naked miles
Where –
If she had words
She may say love.
Light carries dark carries flame
Flame a fresh jade onion
Or something just as crisp,
Where –
If you could see her
She may feel like saline
Smell like tendon slap bone
And forever sound like
What eventually blushes green.
It will be painful
In the end,
Tendon slap bone slap skin
Marry the salt taste
Above the brow
And someplace down below
Where –
When you think on it
Feels like everything else
In her life,
The sweat tastes like sweat
And something green
Brushed over naked miles
Where –
If she had words
She may say love.
Light carries dark carries flame
Flame a fresh jade onion
Or something just as crisp,
Where –
If you could see her
She may feel like saline
Smell like tendon slap bone
And forever sound like
What eventually blushes green.
Organ Donor To Do List:
One: Read all of it first,
Even the fine print,
Or else the leftover
Will seep out into light
And do significant harm
To the recipient.
*Note – If the latter occurs, you may experience some discomfort.
Two: The guideline, source, and outcome
Are all subjects to change
At the request,
Or even an uneven gesture,
Made by the recipient.
*Note – You may experience nausea, increased anxiety, or depression depending on your hereditary predisposition.
Three: The procedure is not quick.
In fact, it requires profound patience
And site must be clean,
Packed tightly from the outside in.
*Note – If hole seeps, you may experience tenderness or fits of shuddering.
Green ooze is indicative of infection.
Four: Bear the hole.
You are now without.
Recipient claims all rights of disposal
Or promulgation.
*Note – You may experience suicidal thoughts or just sympathy pains.
Disclaimer:
Rights and details not for the public.Copyright the brain
Even the fine print,
Or else the leftover
Will seep out into light
And do significant harm
To the recipient.
*Note – If the latter occurs, you may experience some discomfort.
Two: The guideline, source, and outcome
Are all subjects to change
At the request,
Or even an uneven gesture,
Made by the recipient.
*Note – You may experience nausea, increased anxiety, or depression depending on your hereditary predisposition.
Three: The procedure is not quick.
In fact, it requires profound patience
And site must be clean,
Packed tightly from the outside in.
*Note – If hole seeps, you may experience tenderness or fits of shuddering.
Green ooze is indicative of infection.
Four: Bear the hole.
You are now without.
Recipient claims all rights of disposal
Or promulgation.
*Note – You may experience suicidal thoughts or just sympathy pains.
Disclaimer:
Rights and details not for the public.Copyright the brain
Cold Memory #7 - The Letter
It was a Saturday morning when the letter arrived. Snuggled in with the cable bill and an invitation to a summer wedding, the long envelope looked innocent enough.
She opened it with a smile on her face noticing that her dear friend's address was on it. Surely this was something fun. Just days before the two of them had walked and talked, finally saying those things they often never could before. She eagerly tore the envelope to see what she had written.
Joy slipped quickly to sadness as she read the curlicued script. "You are so bitter. You have such animosity," it read. "You hurt feelings."
Trembling, she put the letter down, half of it unread. Shock faded into despair as she realized she never really knew her friend afterall. Tears blurred her vision and she stepped away from the letter as it hung halfway off the edge of the counter.
Inside, she felt her stomach lurch with fear, trepidation, knowing her confessions were no longer safe - knowing her friend deceived her confidence and did not care for her afterall.
The phone beeped. It was time to meet someone else, someplace else, some other commitment for the time being.
Wiping the tears from her face, straightening, she grabbed her purse and ran outside into the sunshine. Surely she could feign it for another few days until she could deal with this.
She opened it with a smile on her face noticing that her dear friend's address was on it. Surely this was something fun. Just days before the two of them had walked and talked, finally saying those things they often never could before. She eagerly tore the envelope to see what she had written.
Joy slipped quickly to sadness as she read the curlicued script. "You are so bitter. You have such animosity," it read. "You hurt feelings."
Trembling, she put the letter down, half of it unread. Shock faded into despair as she realized she never really knew her friend afterall. Tears blurred her vision and she stepped away from the letter as it hung halfway off the edge of the counter.
Inside, she felt her stomach lurch with fear, trepidation, knowing her confessions were no longer safe - knowing her friend deceived her confidence and did not care for her afterall.
The phone beeped. It was time to meet someone else, someplace else, some other commitment for the time being.
Wiping the tears from her face, straightening, she grabbed her purse and ran outside into the sunshine. Surely she could feign it for another few days until she could deal with this.
Warm Memory #7
It had been an evening when the sun fell lazily over the water. Wrapped in a blanket, she had peered through the glass at the setting sun, wondering if everything she felt at the moment was indeed really happening to her. Somewhere behind her, she smelled the slow simmer of food and could hear him moving about in the kitchen.
Goosebumps surfaced on her arms and she smiled knowing she wasn't really cold at all.
"You okay?" she heard from the distance. He was only about six feet away, but her mind, senses, were someplace else wrapping around the moments of the past hour and a half. She always got this way when they talked this much, when they connected in the ways she hoped they always would.
"Mmm hmmm," she responded, turning to face him.
"You know, I never want that to happen with you," he said. "This is different. I don't want it to happen that way this time. I love it with you."
She smiled. She believed him.
Someplace inside she relaxed her boundaries, finally accepted that this was going to be something far beyond what she ever knew before.
Goosebumps surfaced on her arms and she smiled knowing she wasn't really cold at all.
"You okay?" she heard from the distance. He was only about six feet away, but her mind, senses, were someplace else wrapping around the moments of the past hour and a half. She always got this way when they talked this much, when they connected in the ways she hoped they always would.
"Mmm hmmm," she responded, turning to face him.
"You know, I never want that to happen with you," he said. "This is different. I don't want it to happen that way this time. I love it with you."
She smiled. She believed him.
Someplace inside she relaxed her boundaries, finally accepted that this was going to be something far beyond what she ever knew before.
Day Break
It was summer when she finally awakened. Slowly, she felt her senses returning and a fog lifting someplace below her brain and between her heart. Her legs, arms, hands, and feet began to twitch a bit from unuse and the snap-fizz of returning energy. She opened her eyes to find herself in a quiet hospital room, light shining pleasantly through a nearby open window. Somewhere, birds were singing and cars buzzed along the streets below. From where she lay, she could only see clouds and sunlight and a few trailing leaves from a tree outside.
For a moment, she couldn't do anything but stare. Her focus scanned the room - the quiet TV against the wall, the broken-in chair next to her bed, the bedside table with a chart laying innocently on top. She realized she couldn't move - her arms tucked tightly at her sides beneath blankets. In moments, she realized she was also bandaged.
She wiggled a bit and freed one of her arms so she could pull back the covers. Looking down, she saw her mid-section bandaged tightly with crisp, tan bandages. She reached up, felt her head. Her head was wrapped tightly as well. Puzzled, she continued to look around.
What had happened? Where in the hell was she? She felt an ache that seemed to possess her entire body, but it hurt most above her eyes someplace between them and her brain. As she gained consciousness, the pain increased.
She tried to speak, hear her own voice that morning only to find it was muffled and sore. She lay flatly in wonderment without knowing exactly how she had arrived in this position or how serious her situation at the moment was.
How can such a beautiful day hurt so much? How can such a wonderful morning feel so empty, foreign, and cold?
She hoped dearly to find out.
For a moment, she couldn't do anything but stare. Her focus scanned the room - the quiet TV against the wall, the broken-in chair next to her bed, the bedside table with a chart laying innocently on top. She realized she couldn't move - her arms tucked tightly at her sides beneath blankets. In moments, she realized she was also bandaged.
She wiggled a bit and freed one of her arms so she could pull back the covers. Looking down, she saw her mid-section bandaged tightly with crisp, tan bandages. She reached up, felt her head. Her head was wrapped tightly as well. Puzzled, she continued to look around.
What had happened? Where in the hell was she? She felt an ache that seemed to possess her entire body, but it hurt most above her eyes someplace between them and her brain. As she gained consciousness, the pain increased.
She tried to speak, hear her own voice that morning only to find it was muffled and sore. She lay flatly in wonderment without knowing exactly how she had arrived in this position or how serious her situation at the moment was.
How can such a beautiful day hurt so much? How can such a wonderful morning feel so empty, foreign, and cold?
She hoped dearly to find out.
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