So shackled breath is all that's available, and other's clumsily juxtaposed words.
There is a year that would best be destroyed. But years are everyone's property, and it is not my right to render judgment I suppose.
Consolation is not easily found. Many years ago I turned my back on faith, with no moral structure to substitute in its place. Years later I used the bondage of religion to tie my professional hands, and I barred myself from its sacrosanct walls of faith, trading it away for the apple of academic Knowledge. There's no comfort there anymore. Only the sins of intellectual Gluttony and the Pride of academic integrity.
One can only be so lucky, and one can only run so far before the arrows of deeds left unsaid catch you in the back. But its the barbs tossed by those most dear that bring one down the fastest, when the arms holding you turn to knives, cutting deep and denying the chance for atonement. What's done is done, they say, and you've made your bed. But I was too afraid of the nightmares to lie in it.
So I did the one thing I've gotten quite good at over the years. I ran.
I ran farther than I'd ever run before. Mile after mile. 7 times around the park. 1 for each deadly sin, if one chooses to read it that way, though it hadn't occurred to me at the time. After the tenth mile my arithmetic grew hazy, and my mind light-headed.
And I collapsed back in my room. An hour watching my limbs twitch as muscle cramps took over--they are pleasantly distracting. But in the end, I know deep down that self-flagellation does not bring absolution, and nothing is changed. I ran in circles, tethered to the centripetal force of regret. Casting aside the prophets and their books, the only thing I can truly believe in anymore is Time. So I watch the hours tick by, comforted in their honest rhythm.
Situations shredded finely, spat forth with intensity that flays the flesh from the bone. Try as it might, it won't scab over, and it's so raw to the touch. Analysis can be so cruel and biting. Criticality where it shouldn't exist. This existence shouldn't be critical. But your insight is sharp and quick where I didn't expect it.
And how can one apologize for the thoughts unthought? And how can one seek forgiveness for the blame left unassigned, yet diffusely felt?
Thousands of miles. On the Island of the Day After. Time and space is the veil of frustration, turning every picture backwards and potent in a camera obscura. Words come out backwards, sincerity becomes a silhouette. And the projections of my best intentions become shadows of mangled apologies.
Holes dug deeper, every word a shovel.
How often it is all nothing, how often it is nothing at all. But paradigm shift is not lightly used, and one's world seldom remains the same.
There can be little less comforting than the silence of a phone quickly hung up.
"They're moving me to a bigger hospital. They think it has something to do with my brain. I have to go."
What? What do you mean? What hospital? What's going on?
Silence is all I'm given as an answer.
The moments of brightness are suddenly darkened, and the rose petals on the desk wilt.
Stay positive, I tell myself.
...Wishing I could wrench away the tubes and plunge my hands deep into that sickness, rip it's throat out. Cast it away. Burn it's sepulchral carcass.
But these hands are useless. All they do now is punch buttons on the phone in vain, trying to reach someone, trying to reach some explanations, trying to reach some calm.
A phone call comes--it's not her. "Your car is ready."
Lovely. My beat-up old car can be fixed in a day for $500, but why can't our technology fix the ones we love?
I guess our technology can't fix what we didn't create. It can only fool us into thinking we're not as weak as we really are.
As much as I'd prefer to leave the damn car there, I might need it once I find out where the hospital is...so off I go.
30 minutes of cold air. The wind howls strongly. Trash and sand blown from the road are my companions once again.
The journey is much longer mentally than it is physically. Loping briskly through the run-down part of town, a woman asks me for the time. I look on my watch but the hands seem to be spinning. I don't know what time it is, either.
The street toughs flash by me as I forge ahead. Now I'm just walking to burn off the energy of worry. I almost welcome someone to try and rob me, as I have absolutely nothing to give them and the day couldn't get much worse.
On my drive back I watch how beautifully the clouds open up under the setting sun, sending beams of radiance upon this old, dirty city. How can something so beautiful shine on circumstances so miserable?
Back at my apartment, the same lonely walls. The stale smell of incense from the stick I burned last night, hoping somehow to fall into a peaceful slumber.
No calls. No answers. Just questions.
My mind recalls a number of tragedies to people too close. The brain. I don't want to think about it.
So badly wired. So prone to misfire.
I don't want to think about it. I've got to shut my own brain down for the time being. Stasis. Unfeeling.
Close my eyes. Think of landscapes. Think of lights. Think of the air. Think of clouds. Think of windows, and smiles, warm eyes, cars passing, people laughing, happy meetings and gentle embraces. The happiness of everyday life. Think of life, returned to normal. Think of the old world, the old world as a new world, the world as a good one.
Close my eyes and soar. You'll be fine. They'll take care of you. I'm here. Don't worry. You'll be fine. I'm here.
Currently
listening
:
It'll End in Tears
By
This Mortal Coil
Release date: 07 July, 1998
Once in a while there occurs such a day as one would rather not have repeated. Today was one of those days. I'm glad it's almost over. Though I'm not excited about what the next day holds.
I awoke this morning with many things on my mind. I was to start studying for my qualifying exams, coming up quickly in just three weeks' time. I was to go grocery shopping to get supplies for the week, as the dining halls are closed. I was to check up on my close friend, K, who complained of being sick yesterday.
It was well past 10 a.m. by the time I rolled out of bed, after doing a little light studying in bed. I took a quick shower and wrote a list of goods to buy.
Cereal. Soy milk. Yogurt. Bread. And cranberry juice, for K. She said the doctor had recommended it to her yesterday, but she didn't have any in her apartment.
The phone rang--it was K. "Hello? I feel even worse than yesterday... I don't know what it is. This anti-biotic medication is horrible. It's not working."
"Oh no! Maybe you need some anti-flu medication, and not anti-biotics. Would you like me to drive you to the hospital? Or would you like me to bring anything to you, like some cranberry juice or something?"
"No, don't bother. I'll just call the hospital and see what they think."
K always downplays things, and doesn't want to bother me. Yesterday she had called another friend and got a ride to the hospital. She didn't want to bother me, as she wanted me to get ready for my tests. Today was another one of those days. She was obviously not well, and though I am not good for much in such situations, I figured I could at least bring some cranberry juice and some warm soup or something.
So I set off.
It was a cold blustery day outside. For some reason, there was something strange in the air from the moment I stepped outside. There were many more people than usual walking around. There was much more traffic than usual. People were howling and yelling and cars were honking. Soon I began to notice a color scheme: green. It must be some sort of St. Patrick's Day celebration... (But St. Patrick's Day isn't for another 8 days...)
No matter, I had things to take care of. I bought some cranberry juice and a can of organic butternut squash soup--something easy for K to digest but nutritious, to give her a little bit of energy.
Food purchased, I headed back to my apartment amid the cries of revelers and a premonition that traffic would be awful and drunk driving would likely be a bit worse than usual today. Regardless, I had to get my meager care package to K. It was nearly 1 p.m., and I just had a short mile to drive.
I jumped in my car, started it up, and headed off down the street. There had been awful storms the night before, with relentless wind and rain. My power had nearly cut out twice, and I lost my internet once. Today, the sky was a clear, deep blue, but the wind was still strong. Tree limbs were strewn about, and trash was blown all over the road. And traffic was as bad as I expected.
But soon I had another worry. Turning out onto State Street, the engine cuts on me. Total loss of power. No gas, nothing. I tried to turn the key again, but it wouldn't work; the car was drifting and I needed to throw it into park to try and start it up again. Luckily I somehow drifted near a shoulder of the road, behind a van that was parked. It didn't really seem like a parking space, but within a minute of coasting to the spot, another car parked behind me. It seemed it was a parking space now.
I cranked the key, but to no avail. The engine was turning over, so it wasn't a battery problem, but the car would just not budge. I called my dad, who suggested it could have something to do with water in the gas line from the storm, and that I should put in a can of dry gas. I jumped out of the car, dodging the heavier-than-usual traffic of a Sunday afternoon on State Street and walked down to a gas station, about a 1/2 mile away. Dry gas in hand, I walked back and dumped it in. "Give it a few hours for the dry gas to circulate through, and then go back and try it again," my dad had suggested. I left the car where it was, thankful this happened on a Sunday and near an empty parking space on the side of the road--and one only about 5 minutes' walk from my apartment, no less.
It was about a mile to K's place, so I set out on foot, cranberry juice and soup in my backpack. On the way I stopped in to get a fresh bowl of warm potato and leek soup for K, just in case she was feeling well enough to have some right away.
When I reached her place, there was no answer from her room. Her roommate wasn't sure if she was there or not. Probably at the hospital again, I thought. I was secretly glad that she hadn't asked me to give her a ride--stalling out in the middle of trying to take her to the hospital wouldn't have helped things at all. Regardless, I hoped she could make use of the soups and juice, so I left them on the kitchen table and walked back to my place to wait.
2 1/2 hours into waiting, I got a message from K. She was at the hospital, she said, and would be staying there for the night.
Wait a minute...that means "hospitalized," right? This was no good. People--especially young people--don't usually get hospitalized for something like a cold or a flu. Could this be something really serious...?
Again, she was not very forthcoming, and told me she wanted to be by herself, so I shouldn't go visit. Knowing her stubbornness, I decided to acquiesce to this wish. There was nothing I could do in the meantime, so I decided I'd go back and check on my car.
It was still where I left it. I tried the ignition again, and after about three tries it started up, weakly. "Okay, I just have to drive this about 3 minutes to get home..." I thought to myself. I eased it into drive and pressed the gas gently. I was off...about 100 feet down the road, and...
Stall.
Twisting the wheel hard to the right, I managed to coast it back into a spot on the side of the road; another serendipitously empty parking space. My father's advice this time was to start it up, let it idle for about 10 or 15 minutes so that the engine could warm up to running temperature, and try again. It took a few tries before it was idling long enough. I eased on the gas, and it seemed to be catching. Okay, time to move again. I eased it into drive, stepped gently on the gas, got about 50 feet, and
Stall.
Again, I was barely able to coast it into an empty parking spot on the side of the road. It was pure luck that it was open. This was just not going to work.
Not wanting to risk another attempt--especially since there were no more empty spaces on the side of the road for another block or so, and there was likely an usually large number of drunken drivers--I called AAA, and waited an hour for the truck to come. It would have been smart to have brought some study materials with me, I thought.
around 6:25 the truck shows up. I tell the driver the problem. He starts it up, and it stalls out again. He starts it up one more time, flooring the gas pedal while he does so, and this time it catches. He backs it up, no stall. Drives it forward a little bit, no stall. It sounds good...but still, I shouldn't risk it, I think. He drives it behind the tow truck and hooks it up. Off we go, me in the passenger seat.
It's a short ride down the road to the repair garage. He drops my car and me off, and then he's off to tow a mini-van that was just totalled by a drunk driver. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
I fill out the form in the key drop box and leave my old, tired car there. I had thought I might get a ride back into town with the tow truck, but no luck.
I set off walking back to my apartment.
Never having spent much time up in the East Rock area, I always had the impression it was a nice neighborhood. Apparently not all of East Rock is that nice. Boarded up buildings, broken glass, and endless trash were my companions on this rather depressing road. A few shifty looking folks in broken-down cars pass by, and a couple of baggy-jeans-wearing young fellows saunter past. The sounds of cheerful gospel music on a dying PA drift out of one building as I walk by. It is Sunday after all, I remind myself.
As I get closer to town, the St. Patrick's Day revelers grow thick again. I pass by the smashed-in van; the tow truck driver is attaching the cables to drag its battered carcass somewhere. He doesn't notice me as I walk by.
30 minutes and I'm back at my apartment, but my stomach is starting to grumble. I think I had a bowl of cereal and a bowl of rice at some point during the day, but I'm obviously in need of more sustenance now. At any rate, I figure I must have walked at least 5 miles so far today, and I could use some hot food.
I headed to an ATM for cash first, anticipating that I'll need some on hand to pay for car expenses on the off chance that the garage folks are able to fix it sometime soon. The drunken revelers are still out in force. Two intoxicated bicyclers wobble past, one of them careening gently into a parking meter. He recovers and totters on.
As I withdraw money from the ATM, K calls.
"Hello. How are you?"
"Fine," I say. "How are you feeling? Do they know what it is yet?"
"No, they are still in the middle of some tests. They think it might be a kidney problem, though."
"Kidney???" I ask. What could that be...that doesn't sound good, I think.
"Yeah, they don't know though. Anyhow, I'm feeling tired, and I don't want my cell phone battery to run out, so I will go to bed now. I'll call you when I get back to my apartment tomorrow."
She hangs up. Kidney problem. That's not a flu. But what the hell is it? I hope it isn't serious. I stuff the cash from the ATM into my coat pocket. (I never put much cash in my wallet, as one never knows when you could be mugged in this town.)
On my way to grab some cheaply priced and cheap quality Chinese food, I stop at a stoplight to wait for the traffic to move past. A low-riding car slides by, muffler scraping the pavement and leaving a shower of sparks behind it as it grinds down the road. Two drunken girls in ugly St. Patrick's Day attire walk past and ask where Anna Liffey's is. I point it out--about 20 feet down the street--and they stagger off, slurring "I love you!" I almost want to throw up.
Finally back in my apartment, a pungent Chinese meal is spread out in front of me. It's about 8 p.m. And I still have to start studying for my exams.
it feels like the world is falling apart in fragments
well, my world, anyway
The rest of the world doesn't care, or matter, in this particular instance.
but yet the pieces keep crumbling
and though I know that, somewhere, there is a glimmer of hope, a mirror reflecting the past times when the world seemed to be caving in, but it proved to be nothing more than a brief flash of pain, made all the more intolerable because of its fleeting existence within a garden of otherwise joyful bliss.
"Edward's calls now grew a trifle more frequent, and his hints occasionally became concrete. What he said was not to be believed, even in centuried and legend-haunted Arkham; but he threw out his dark lore with a sincerity and convincingness which made one fear for his sanity. He talked about terrible meetings in lonely places, of Cyclopean ruins in the heart of the Maine woods beneath which vast staircases lead down to abysses of nighted secrets, of complex angles that lead through invisible walls to other regions of space and time, and of hideous exchanges of personality that permitted explorations in remote and forbidden places, on other worlds, and in different space-time continua." --H.P. Lovecraft, "The Thing On The Doorstep" (1933)
It is the last week of school for 2007, and in true Finals form, it is quite intense. The intensity of the weather has helped contribute to this as well--two snowstorms within less than four days. (Wall St. on Thursday night)
(HGS courtyard, Thursday night)
Still, thanks to a warm apartment and hot coffee, things are progressing well. I turned in one paper on my research design for studying youth spirituality and religions in Japan. I have one paper due Wednesday on Weber's charismatic authority and the force of ideas in history, and then one more due Friday on the use of language in redefining religious organizations and in constructing polysemic worldviews.
At any rate, as the first semester of my second year draws to a close, my friends and I decided to go out in style, with good music and good company.
We threw the party in my friend's apartment. We transformed his room into the chillout room where I was manning my turntables with laid-back beats.
(???? (Sunahara Yoshinori)'s smooth beats on a sweet picture disc)
(Whispered conversations in the shadows)
The living room we turned into a more lively dancefloor, though it seems that most people were in the mood to relax, and so it remained relatively barren (to my djing friend's chagrin).
(Time lapse djing in the main room)
(Reflective spinning of a great Funkstar Deluxe club remix of Bob Marley's "Sun is Shining")
(A forest of controls)
The party is done and gone, however, and the realities of schoolwork and looming assignments have returned. Thus, until the last two papers are turned in, I must retreat into the cold solitude of academic work, waiting to escape through the door to winter break.
Outside my windows, the pools of rain on the eaves freeze quietly under a moon just past full.
The wind was biting today, as were my fears and concerns.
A day spent in isolation. Uttering nary a word to another flesh-and-blood person.
Alone in my apartment.
Alone in my head.
Alone in my heart.
Even my customary escape to the third space of the internet, often my sole conduit of connectivity to the rest of the world, to news, to friends, to confidants, to escape—it is missing on this cold, lonely night.
My beloved—she is missing on this cold, lonely night.
Retreated within herself, to replay memories of a past life.
A life without me, before I existed for her.
And I fear that she'll leave me here, in cold bitterness of the ever present, as she escapes to that other reality of the perpetual past.
And it's impossible for me to imagine being left again.
After scraping myself off of the floor of disappointments and degradation, I never thought I'd be down there again. She saved me from a hell that I didn't even know I was in.
Gave me a taste of heaven, a glimpse of a world that I didn't know was possible.
I can't stand to have that snapshot of Eden torn away again.
But I fear this is happening. Perhaps even against her own will.
Riding in the car last night—an uncomfortable midnight trip down forlorn highways of muted discomfort. She was somewhere else; I was riding alone that night.
My hand in hers, but what was she holding onto? I don't think it was me, but rather a memory already cold and dead. We were traveling at 80 mph down a highway of defunct relations, debunked dreams. And all I had wanted was to show her a piece of my past. In the process I showed her the impossibility of our future.
"I woke up this morning With a piece of past caught in my throat And then I choked. And I woke up this morning With the present in splinters on the ground And then I drowned" -Rites of Spring
I guess I just couldn't hold on to what I did not deserve, and in the end the time slipped through my fingers like golden dust. And now I'm sitting on ashes.
Shapes malformed in my brain now; I can only think in colors and prepositions.
All of these experiences—were they precious moments too urgently forced?
Walking along the windswept Atlantic coast in November. The cold bit us raw.
We huddled close as we walked, arm-in-arm, but did I somehow push her away?
Maybe we were just two souls walking in the cold, not one pair walking together in warmth.
Now we are just souls wandering alone in the dark.
Only memories are the common ground, but even these are fading to the blacks and whites of old lovers and fleeting desires of years gone by.
And I'm still sitting alone in this apartment. A bottle of absinthe is on the shelf.
Maybe that could be my release. To stop me from remembering. To help me forget.
A bottle of absinthe and the burn of familiar memories lost.
And always, the bitter aftertaste of wormwood and regret; the heat of guilt evaporates the tears, and I can collapse onto my bed for another night of nightmare delusions. Of brilliant, upsetting illusions.
And the dawn will bring another day of disappointments and lost time, another cycle of the sun and unproductive despondency.
And where is she…?
Fallen away from me, perhaps.
I can feel the cold wind blow across my fingers.
A spectre of the recurring past. Again.
A spectre to be dispelled with Holy Water and absinthe.
But then again, maybe I will awake to a day of clear burning oblivion, where these thoughts have melted away with a rising sun that greets me, cherubic and innocent, dispelling these mists like phantoms. A few powerful words, a spell of turning, is all it takes to change the dark into light.
31 Hours in New England--a visual snapshot when words fail me.
Category: Travel and Places
Leaving my apartment around 2 p.m. this afternoon, I noticed a peculiar scent. I had smelled it before, somewhere... I tried to match it to some memory, but I failed and continued on my way.
As I climbed the stairs back to my apartment some 30 minutes later, I suddenly remembered.
Durian. That odiferous, spiny fruit so beloved in southern China, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Southeast Asia.
Yes, I had smelled it on the street corners of Hong Kong, and in Taiwan. It seems that my neighbors have acquired one, and as is the nature of durian, its acquisition is swiftly known throughout the building. A little taste of the East in eastern New Haven.
A week or so ago I took a trip home to Maine. 31 hours in New England--my friends and I traveled through Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and ended in Maine.
Along the way we saw rolling hills and covered bridges. Sparkling rivers and placid lakes.
Canoing on Goose Pond near my hometown was a treat. The solitude and tranquility of that little slice of the Mousam was a welcomed break from the mind-numbing whirl of academic theorizing, and reminded me that it's good to get out and face nature once in a while.
Lobster and chicken dinner with blueberry dumplings and apple strudel pie for dessert that night was also a welcome respite from dining hall fare. In fact, even comparing the two is a disservice to the former. My apologies.
After the 31 hours were over, I was back in New Haven, and the days of studying, reading, writing, and unproductive thinking resumed.
But I have snapshots of memories to keep me going. Perhaps the inner dialog of my brain may look something like this....
Brattleboro, VT
Covered Bridge outside of Brattleboro
The longest covered bridge in Vermont
Canoing on Goose Pond
A ripple from my oar in Goose Pond
Nubble Light, Maine
My friend and the sea.
Seagulls in the sun.
Kicking back by the ocean.
Currently
listening
:
Sweet Spot
By
Yura Yura Teikoku
Release date: 24 May, 2005
So I left them, the two of them. It was late, it was dark, it was smoky, it was all of the many things it had been all of the many times before, but this time it was different--that path was closed to me, and I was a different person than before. At least I believed so. So I left them.
Part of me thought something would happen. Part of me thought it was ridiculous to even consider. And the rest of me just wanted to let it burn a little longer, wormwood and anis working as the catalysts for a year-old slow and searing pain that I wanted to rediscover. I knew it was still in there, somewhere. But I hadn't felt it for so long, and I kind of missed the itch.
I wonder what became of them. Perhaps I'll never know that it was absolutely nothing at all.
I found the pain again, though. That wound is still with me. It was comforting. It reminded me that I still feel sometimes. Good.
