6 years? It's been 6 fucking years?
Almost 6 years since I've been throwing random crap at this blog? Thinking back, I wonder if anything I have said has made sense to anyone? Did anyone connect with my words? Did it inspire anyone? Did it re-wire someone's brain? Did I bring forth any epiphanies? Was that even the point?
My posts usually lean towards the earnest and the melancholy, right? Why, though? Why do I come here and vomit out all this text? Is it an effort at expression? If it is, then why can't I express what I want to directly? Or is it not an expression at all; but if it isn't what is it? Do I just want to make people think?
Have I gotten you to think? Has anything I've written made you reassess a situation? Has it gotten ME any closer to whatever I was trying to do, regardless of whether I knew what it was in the first place? Is my subconscious appeased? Tell me - do you glean insights about my life when you read this? Do you sit and ponder why I wrote something, what I was thinking, what I was doing then? Do you make up little stories to substantiate the parts that you understand? Do you have vivid characters in the play that you direct in your own heads, my words being a mere catalyst to your feldgling masterpieces?
Hell, I don't even know where the hell I am going with this post.. but then, have I ever? Is this just another random smattering of text that I'm throwing out because I felt like writing? Should I just shut up now?
Did I just write a post full of fucking questions?! (I know you're going to come to a lot of conclusion based on that.. aren't you?)
Friday, March 05, 2010
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
what the fuck...
Uncle J always was the funny one. The kind of man that could crack a joke at the drop of a hat, that could make light of any situation no matter how dire, that could poke fun at things that most people would never get away with. He'd make fun of plane crashes, emotions, bad coffee and the next person's dress sense.
But right now in this hospital room he was genuinely happy. He had to ask a few times, but they finally relented and passed him - very gently - the source of all the excitement. Holding his brother's newborn baby in his arms, he gazed at the little runt. Pulling the covers aside, he glanced at his sleeping face. Everyone looked over at the two, half expecting some joke about how ugly the baby is, or how he'd like to quickly check if babies can bounce off linoleum floors. That was J. He could, and he'd get away with it.
And right on cue, a look of mock horror on his face he exclaimed - "Woah! What ARE you?!"
---
B was excited. Very excited. He always was excited on Results Day and today the results of the 5th grade annual exams were being announced. He was a good boy, who always got good grades. Hell, he was always top of the class. Uncle J used to call him 'Nerdzilla', but then Uncle J was always making jokes. Sometimes those jokes hurt... He pushed those thoughts out of his head as they reached his class room. He was nervous, yes. But excited. Very excited. He knew the drill; inside the teacher would be waiting, but he wouldn't have to wait for her to speak - the top three students were always mentioned on the chalkboard and as soon as he walked in he glanced at it. And smiled.
Stepping out of the classroom, leaving his parents speaking with his teacher he met a group of fellow students; some happy and celebrating, some disappointed, some downright dejected. He was a good boy though, and even his jubilation was very subdued. That smile earlier would be the peak of his ecstatic celebrations of his achivement. A few of the kids crowded around him, asking him how he did - asking if he did it again. With a confident smile he nodded at their curious faces. Some gaves whoops of congratulations, other shook his hand, other still exclaiming that they KNEW IT! KNEW that he would be top of the class again!
But one of them, who may or may not have done to well, asked in a whisper, "Again? Aww man... what ARE you?
---
But right now in this hospital room he was genuinely happy. He had to ask a few times, but they finally relented and passed him - very gently - the source of all the excitement. Holding his brother's newborn baby in his arms, he gazed at the little runt. Pulling the covers aside, he glanced at his sleeping face. Everyone looked over at the two, half expecting some joke about how ugly the baby is, or how he'd like to quickly check if babies can bounce off linoleum floors. That was J. He could, and he'd get away with it.
And right on cue, a look of mock horror on his face he exclaimed - "Woah! What ARE you?!"
---
B was excited. Very excited. He always was excited on Results Day and today the results of the 5th grade annual exams were being announced. He was a good boy, who always got good grades. Hell, he was always top of the class. Uncle J used to call him 'Nerdzilla', but then Uncle J was always making jokes. Sometimes those jokes hurt... He pushed those thoughts out of his head as they reached his class room. He was nervous, yes. But excited. Very excited. He knew the drill; inside the teacher would be waiting, but he wouldn't have to wait for her to speak - the top three students were always mentioned on the chalkboard and as soon as he walked in he glanced at it. And smiled.
Stepping out of the classroom, leaving his parents speaking with his teacher he met a group of fellow students; some happy and celebrating, some disappointed, some downright dejected. He was a good boy though, and even his jubilation was very subdued. That smile earlier would be the peak of his ecstatic celebrations of his achivement. A few of the kids crowded around him, asking him how he did - asking if he did it again. With a confident smile he nodded at their curious faces. Some gaves whoops of congratulations, other shook his hand, other still exclaiming that they KNEW IT! KNEW that he would be top of the class again!
But one of them, who may or may not have done to well, asked in a whisper, "Again? Aww man... what ARE you?
---
She wiped the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She tried to regain her composure, tried to curb her seemingly uncontrollable sobbing. Grabbing a tissue out the box she wiped down her eyes, and then her nose. She was dimly aware that it'd go red, but that wasn't her concern right now. He had made her cry again. He always made her cry. It wasn't anything he DID... he was just being who he was. Or so he says. And like many a time before, she was wondering why she was still with him. She wasn't always like this, she was a happy girl. She had dreams, she had hopes. And THIS was not part of them.
Through her tears, she looked over at him staring out the window smoking a cigarette. He didn't CARE that she was crying. He didn't try and make her stop. He didn't even ACKNOWLEDGE that she was like this. He was so fucking concerned with being stoic. Always the cynic, always dissecting emotions, always rationalizing, always incorrigble. He was always smug, thinking he was all-knowing. Did he know what an asshole he was? Did he know that his thoughts, his opinions and his whole goddamned point of view was just so TWISTED?? The words he had just used, they cut at her - they made her hurt more. They made her want to hurt him. And he did that often. It was like.. he didn't care. He didn't know HOW to care. Like something was just fucking MISSING.
Steadying herself, she asked bitterly, "B, what the fuck ARE you?
---
He stood in that hospital room in a bit of a daze. They had gathered in the hospital room, as many that could fit into it. Quite a sizeable family, he thought to himself at that point. And everyone was focused on the bed that occupied the center of the room. On it lay the cold, now lifeless body of his grandfather.
His grandfather, easily one of the greatest men he ever knew. He was always his favourite. He was always at his side. He was the recipient of many a little gift like only a grandfather could give to an expectant little boy. The walks in the park, the snacks before bed. Hell the old man would refuse to travel anywhere unless he was with him. This man that showered so much attention, and even affection - he was now dead, his children scattered around him, all weeping. He was a man full of life, big broad with a solid unwavering nature - a man of principles. And now he lay there cold and pale. And surrounded by the mourning. Even Uncle J stood silently, tears dancing in the corners of his eyes. But He just stood there. He couldn't bring himself to feel the things his wailing relatives were feeling. They were touching him, stroking his forehead as they cried out their grief. Himself, though - he couldn't even bring himself to touch the feet that poked out from under the sheet covering the man. He stood there watching the scene like some bizarre play that he couldn't be sure if he was even a part of.
No tears ever brimmed in his eyes, no grief-stricken whimper. Nothing. One of his cousins looked to him, tears streaking her face - "B! He loved you the most! And look at you - it's like you don't care! What the fuck ARE you?"
Steadying herself, she asked bitterly, "B, what the fuck ARE you?
---
He stood in that hospital room in a bit of a daze. They had gathered in the hospital room, as many that could fit into it. Quite a sizeable family, he thought to himself at that point. And everyone was focused on the bed that occupied the center of the room. On it lay the cold, now lifeless body of his grandfather.
His grandfather, easily one of the greatest men he ever knew. He was always his favourite. He was always at his side. He was the recipient of many a little gift like only a grandfather could give to an expectant little boy. The walks in the park, the snacks before bed. Hell the old man would refuse to travel anywhere unless he was with him. This man that showered so much attention, and even affection - he was now dead, his children scattered around him, all weeping. He was a man full of life, big broad with a solid unwavering nature - a man of principles. And now he lay there cold and pale. And surrounded by the mourning. Even Uncle J stood silently, tears dancing in the corners of his eyes. But He just stood there. He couldn't bring himself to feel the things his wailing relatives were feeling. They were touching him, stroking his forehead as they cried out their grief. Himself, though - he couldn't even bring himself to touch the feet that poked out from under the sheet covering the man. He stood there watching the scene like some bizarre play that he couldn't be sure if he was even a part of.
No tears ever brimmed in his eyes, no grief-stricken whimper. Nothing. One of his cousins looked to him, tears streaking her face - "B! He loved you the most! And look at you - it's like you don't care! What the fuck ARE you?"
---
I sit here in this cold, dark room. I've turned down the lights. Some nights I prefer it like this. The song that is playing on my iPod is on repeat. It is a haunting song, very melancholic, very reflective. I take another puff of my cigarette, the bright, burning end illuminating the room a little bit, before sending up thick smoke. But I'm not very much aware of any of this. My thoughts have dwindled again - going back into the murky waters that are my memories.
When people look back at their lives, they see heartbreak, they see achievements, they see encouragement, they see despair. It's a wild heady mixture of everything. But when I look back, there is but on thing I see. One thing that revolves around my brain, like that fucking song on my iPod; on repeat. One thing that coils itself along every moment that I have lived, every encouter of mine worth remembering., like some enraged serpent.
Looking back through the despair, the broken promises, the pride I took in being stoic. Looking at the people I've wronged, the people I have tormented, the hopes I have burned, the expectations I have failed to meet. Seeing the raw but silent destruction, the insane havoc that I have caused, the relationships broken, the achivements belittled, the feelings hurt. Seeing my own ambitions, my own friends, my own aspirations run callously into the ground. Introspectively, I take another long drag, needing that black smoke to fill up and stain my lungs, whilst my own shortcomings, my own inexplicably warped outlook on life, my own failings - failing the people I cared for, and failing the people that cared for me.. that was all I saw. I saw them, and I knew that there was no apologizing to them. They didn't accept it then, and they wouldn't accept it now. I think of all the people I have fooled into believing I was such a good person. I think of those few people I actually wasn't fooling. And I tell myself again, that regardless the outcome remains the same. Some people are put here to fuck up, I guess.
Putting that cigarette out, I look up - taking in a deep lungful of the stale smoke-filled air of the room, I light up another one. And that one thing creeps right back up, the serpent digging in it's fangs and the sharp pain flowing once again - "I've ruined everything I have touched. What the fuck AM I?"
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
inspiration
I've been away for a year now. I still come back here to take a peek every now and then - and end up sitting there wondering why I haven't written anything. Maybe it's because I understand that noone wants to read just another blog. I have tried not to let this become just another blog - and I have failed.
Anyway, I came back to share this little piece with you - Head, Heart from Lydia Davis’s Varieties of Disturbance:
Heart weeps.
Head tried to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
Inspirational work. I wish I could write like this. Hell, I wish I could write.
Anyway, I came back to share this little piece with you - Head, Heart from Lydia Davis’s Varieties of Disturbance:
Heart weeps.
Head tried to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
Inspirational work. I wish I could write like this. Hell, I wish I could write.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
"you know we love you very much"
"Oh come on, say it!"
Father looks up from the report he is typing with a touch of impatience, but a smile on his lips - and stares into the pretty eyes of his daughter. She has her mother's eyes, he thinks.
"Just talk into this mic over here, it's really easy."
She continues trying to get her father to comply even though she knows that he doesn't like being disturbed when he is working. But this is important. Mother comes into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee, tea and biscuits.
"Leave your father alone, A - you know better than to interrupt his work."
"It's not going to take any time at all. He just needs to do what I'm asking him to. Please father?" She is looking at him expectantly. He smiles again thinking that she is just as persistent as her mother too! He pushes the laptop aside, and leans forward, taking the little voice recorder from his daughter's hand and clears his throat.
"Okay, all you have to do is say what I told your earlier Father and I promise I'll let you work!"
He looks at her now, rehearsing the words that his daughter wants him to recite in his head - he always was a little reluctant with words like these. Taking a deep breath, he begins
*Click* "I love you my darling little daughter, and I always will" *Click* "There? Happy now?"
She throws him a quick hug and giggles - Mother comes over, offering Father a cup of coffee (he doesn't care for tea that much). The girl hands the recorder over to her Mother
"And now you Mother. The same thing Father just said."
Humoring her indignant daughter, she takes the little recorder and hastily repeats the words too - before handing the little device back.
A turns, clutching the black box in her hand and skips over to the door - when Father calls out "But why do you want to record this darling - you know we love you very much?"
Turning to face her parents, the girl explains very matter-of-factly "Ofcourse I know that, papa - but this is just so I don't forget what your voice sounds like after you die."
Saying this she swings around on her heels, the hem of her frock twirling around her, and skips out , humming a tune to herself - a picture of young innocence.
..and they both sit there in stunned silence as their 5 year old daughter walks out the room.
Father looks up from the report he is typing with a touch of impatience, but a smile on his lips - and stares into the pretty eyes of his daughter. She has her mother's eyes, he thinks.
"Just talk into this mic over here, it's really easy."
She continues trying to get her father to comply even though she knows that he doesn't like being disturbed when he is working. But this is important. Mother comes into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee, tea and biscuits.
"Leave your father alone, A - you know better than to interrupt his work."
"It's not going to take any time at all. He just needs to do what I'm asking him to. Please father?" She is looking at him expectantly. He smiles again thinking that she is just as persistent as her mother too! He pushes the laptop aside, and leans forward, taking the little voice recorder from his daughter's hand and clears his throat.
"Okay, all you have to do is say what I told your earlier Father and I promise I'll let you work!"
He looks at her now, rehearsing the words that his daughter wants him to recite in his head - he always was a little reluctant with words like these. Taking a deep breath, he begins
*Click* "I love you my darling little daughter, and I always will" *Click* "There? Happy now?"
She throws him a quick hug and giggles - Mother comes over, offering Father a cup of coffee (he doesn't care for tea that much). The girl hands the recorder over to her Mother
"And now you Mother. The same thing Father just said."
Humoring her indignant daughter, she takes the little recorder and hastily repeats the words too - before handing the little device back.
A turns, clutching the black box in her hand and skips over to the door - when Father calls out "But why do you want to record this darling - you know we love you very much?"
Turning to face her parents, the girl explains very matter-of-factly "Ofcourse I know that, papa - but this is just so I don't forget what your voice sounds like after you die."
Saying this she swings around on her heels, the hem of her frock twirling around her, and skips out , humming a tune to herself - a picture of young innocence.
..and they both sit there in stunned silence as their 5 year old daughter walks out the room.
Monday, January 15, 2007
the prominent gloom
It's dark. It's very dark. The feeble light that he sees is coming from a single light bulb - one of those lamps dangling from the ceiling. He can't help but feel that it's fighting a losing battle, trying to brighten the prominent gloom.
The lamp sways horribly, and for a second he can see whats before him - another second the darkness envelopes him again. He doesn't know which is more comforting. In the oscillating light he looks down, dimly aware that the corners of his mouth are itching. He can't bring his hand up to scratch it though... because something tells him his hands are busy.
The lamp swings eerily and in that second of brightness he looks before him. His hands are busy, yes. His left hand is flat on the filthy table - fingers splayed out like a person inflicted with vanity, admiring their fingers. Puzzled at this, he turns his gaze - something glinting to his right.. and notices the light is sparkling off the surprisingly clean meat cleaver in his hand (what the fuck am I doing with a meat cleaver??)
The light swings away and suddenly there is a bright light that illuminates his surroundings - penetrating the encompassing darkness. And then thunder, loud and clear. But he is confused even more now - because he realises that he is in a shed (umm, but I don't have a shed.. where the fuck am I?)
Then he hears it - the voice in his head coaxing him. He lifts his right hand, and for a second gazes at the cleaver in curiosity. And then it begins..
..the glint of the tool descending.. sharply.. swiftly.. and the jolt of pain (HOLY FUCK) running through him right arm. His eyes go wide when the light swings his way - confirming the source of this pain... only four fingers staring back at him, with blood.. lots of red, thick blood pouring out from where his littlest finger was seconds ago.
..and the cleaver comes down again, the pain doubling, slamming into him with ferocity.. the pulse of light showing him a missing ring finger too. He wants to scream, but somehow he can't. He is an actor, and a spectator in this bizzare play.
..and as if to the tempo of the light the cleaver drops down again two more times in a grotesque, rythymic dance.. the pain wracking his brain.. the blood leaking.. dripping wetly onto the floor, fuck he can even hear the now useless stumps that were his fingers rolling off the table and falling limp onto the wooden floor.. the thumb now looking more out of his place on his mutilated hand that the missing fingers.. god he wants to scream, dizziness clutching at his consciousness "thats just because of the blood loss, boy. Nothing to whine about.. don't worry, we're not done yet.. look how its pumping out? Thats because this hand is closest to you heart. Don't be afraid boy.. like I said, we're not done yet" the voice no longer coaxing him, but commanding him.
..and the knife comes down again, the downward arc of the shining metal illuminating the way as it slices into the skin, the veins, the nerves and the bone.. severing his thumb cleanly. The soft thud as the clumsy stump lands on the floor. He sways now, like the light - the horror of what he has just done so calmly dawning on him. His stomach retches, digust and nausea fighting for a place in his pain-riddled brain.
..he drops the knife with a quickness that surprises even him, a making a soft splash on the blood-soaked table and brings his hand up to his lips in shock...but why are his lips wet? And as lightning strikes again, lighting up his life he sees himself. Clearly. And what he sees makes his mind just switch off - falling to the floor as his senses he leave him his only thought - resounding in his skull "..so thats why I couldn't scream..". His head hits the floor making a little cloud of dust puff up and settle over his face, over his cheek, over the lips that have been sewn together. Tight.
His eyes open suddenly, and even before he knows he is awake he wriggles the fingers on his left hand... feeling them, feeling the rush as they brush against his pillow. And he screams. He screams because he had the same dream again. AGAIN! He's had it for months.. and he throws his head back and screams because he had the same fucking dream again.
He screams because it's still a dream...
The lamp sways horribly, and for a second he can see whats before him - another second the darkness envelopes him again. He doesn't know which is more comforting. In the oscillating light he looks down, dimly aware that the corners of his mouth are itching. He can't bring his hand up to scratch it though... because something tells him his hands are busy.
The lamp swings eerily and in that second of brightness he looks before him. His hands are busy, yes. His left hand is flat on the filthy table - fingers splayed out like a person inflicted with vanity, admiring their fingers. Puzzled at this, he turns his gaze - something glinting to his right.. and notices the light is sparkling off the surprisingly clean meat cleaver in his hand (what the fuck am I doing with a meat cleaver??)
The light swings away and suddenly there is a bright light that illuminates his surroundings - penetrating the encompassing darkness. And then thunder, loud and clear. But he is confused even more now - because he realises that he is in a shed (umm, but I don't have a shed.. where the fuck am I?)
Then he hears it - the voice in his head coaxing him. He lifts his right hand, and for a second gazes at the cleaver in curiosity. And then it begins..
..the glint of the tool descending.. sharply.. swiftly.. and the jolt of pain (HOLY FUCK) running through him right arm. His eyes go wide when the light swings his way - confirming the source of this pain... only four fingers staring back at him, with blood.. lots of red, thick blood pouring out from where his littlest finger was seconds ago.
..and the cleaver comes down again, the pain doubling, slamming into him with ferocity.. the pulse of light showing him a missing ring finger too. He wants to scream, but somehow he can't. He is an actor, and a spectator in this bizzare play.
..and as if to the tempo of the light the cleaver drops down again two more times in a grotesque, rythymic dance.. the pain wracking his brain.. the blood leaking.. dripping wetly onto the floor, fuck he can even hear the now useless stumps that were his fingers rolling off the table and falling limp onto the wooden floor.. the thumb now looking more out of his place on his mutilated hand that the missing fingers.. god he wants to scream, dizziness clutching at his consciousness "thats just because of the blood loss, boy. Nothing to whine about.. don't worry, we're not done yet.. look how its pumping out? Thats because this hand is closest to you heart. Don't be afraid boy.. like I said, we're not done yet" the voice no longer coaxing him, but commanding him.
..and the knife comes down again, the downward arc of the shining metal illuminating the way as it slices into the skin, the veins, the nerves and the bone.. severing his thumb cleanly. The soft thud as the clumsy stump lands on the floor. He sways now, like the light - the horror of what he has just done so calmly dawning on him. His stomach retches, digust and nausea fighting for a place in his pain-riddled brain.
..he drops the knife with a quickness that surprises even him, a making a soft splash on the blood-soaked table and brings his hand up to his lips in shock...but why are his lips wet? And as lightning strikes again, lighting up his life he sees himself. Clearly. And what he sees makes his mind just switch off - falling to the floor as his senses he leave him his only thought - resounding in his skull "..so thats why I couldn't scream..". His head hits the floor making a little cloud of dust puff up and settle over his face, over his cheek, over the lips that have been sewn together. Tight.
-x-
His eyes open suddenly, and even before he knows he is awake he wriggles the fingers on his left hand... feeling them, feeling the rush as they brush against his pillow. And he screams. He screams because he had the same dream again. AGAIN! He's had it for months.. and he throws his head back and screams because he had the same fucking dream again.
He screams because it's still a dream...
Thursday, September 07, 2006
trudging
And so they walked.
Step after painful step, like the minute arm of a broken clock slowly losing time, they walked. The desert heat scorched them, yet they encouraged each other on - patting backs, shifting bags, coaxing every next step out of each other. They knew their supplies were dwindling - there was no food, there was no water. The bags were empty. The bags were meals.
And they walked.
Their wanderings left footprints in the sand that lasted only a few hours. The wind then erased them and the desert looked untouched again. Makes you wonder if any of them noticed that it was a lot like their lives (our lives).. and that the wind was about to erase their footprints. No, I don't think they knew. All they knew was thirst, exhaustion, and the pain of their lips cracking and their skin going crisp.
And they walked.
They gave new meaning to the "dropping like flies" phrase.. their numbers dwindling as more and more succumbed to the unforgiving desert. And they tried not to count how many were being left behind. Some of them called to God, but only some. Only some.
And they walked.
And they couldn't recognize each other anymore. Their faces had been burnt away by the blazing sun. Sun-dried walking corpses. No, they couldn't tell who was who. Expressionless, skin-less faces not even turning to look over their shoulders. They couldnt. They were barely walking. Names, habits, scars all burnt to show the white bone beneath.
And the flies kept dropping. And they rest kept walking. Walking to the horizon, where the sun met the dunes and where the last two finally found solace. In death.
There are things far worse than dieing.
"I swear I saw the devil in an empty glass of Hennessey"
Step after painful step, like the minute arm of a broken clock slowly losing time, they walked. The desert heat scorched them, yet they encouraged each other on - patting backs, shifting bags, coaxing every next step out of each other. They knew their supplies were dwindling - there was no food, there was no water. The bags were empty. The bags were meals.
And they walked.
Their wanderings left footprints in the sand that lasted only a few hours. The wind then erased them and the desert looked untouched again. Makes you wonder if any of them noticed that it was a lot like their lives (our lives).. and that the wind was about to erase their footprints. No, I don't think they knew. All they knew was thirst, exhaustion, and the pain of their lips cracking and their skin going crisp.
And they walked.
They gave new meaning to the "dropping like flies" phrase.. their numbers dwindling as more and more succumbed to the unforgiving desert. And they tried not to count how many were being left behind. Some of them called to God, but only some. Only some.
And they walked.
And they couldn't recognize each other anymore. Their faces had been burnt away by the blazing sun. Sun-dried walking corpses. No, they couldn't tell who was who. Expressionless, skin-less faces not even turning to look over their shoulders. They couldnt. They were barely walking. Names, habits, scars all burnt to show the white bone beneath.
And the flies kept dropping. And they rest kept walking. Walking to the horizon, where the sun met the dunes and where the last two finally found solace. In death.
There are things far worse than dieing.
"I swear I saw the devil in an empty glass of Hennessey"
Friday, July 07, 2006
faith
All his friends just asked for toys. Darth Vader toys and Barbies. Scooters and skateboards and doll houses. At 7, that’s what he should have asked for too.
Its night, and it’s cold and he is snuggling up in his blankie. Mom tucks him in and kisses his forehead.
“Now be a good boy and shut those eyes. You have school in the morning”. And she leaves him. But he isn’t being a good boy – he is looking out the window to the many many stars. Simba said that they were the great kings of the past. He liked that better than what Timon said (fireflies) or Pumba did (balls of gas?? No way!!).
And there amongst all the sparkling little dots he finds the brightest firefly, the biggest king – and he gets an idea.
Shuffling quickly out of bed, he gets to his knees by the bedside. A little frightened he is that mom would come back to check on him, but she never comes back so quickly, so he knows he is safe. Besides, this is important. It always is in the movies and cartoons. The good children always pray. Maybe he IS being a good boy after all. Maybe mom just doesn’t understand.
Shutting his eyes, drowning out all the bad thoughts of the day he prays to that Great King. He prays vehemently, his little hands clenched in fists, his body stiff with concentration. He shivers a little because of the cold, but his fledgling belief keeps him steady in his prayer.
Mumbling out his sincerity and his hopes, he ends with a little praise – promising his new deity that he will be the bestest good boy on the planet if The King accepts his prayer. Unable to mask his childish and pure expectance he looks up again to the shining light in reverence.
A n d t h e s p a r k l i n g l i g h t g o e s o u t
-x-
“All systems are go, Captain”, says the Lieutenant – nodding to the man in charge.
The captain takes one last sweep of the cockpit, and briefly shuts his weary eyes. It’d been a long day. “Alright, I’m going to get some shut-eye. We have a lot of tests to run tomorrow. Keep us in orbit and turn off all unnecessary auxiliary power. We won’t need the lights out here in space either. It’s not like a drunken spacecraft pilot will crash into us. I hope they’re having fun on the ground.”
The Lieutenant grins, and offers a small salute as the Captain wanders off to his quarters.
Reaching out, he flips a switch and the outer hull of the craft goes dark leaving only the soft glow of the many switches and screens in the cockpit.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
paying his last respects
It was raining hard again. He remembered the last time it was raining this hard, but decided not to delve into those memories. He always hated things like that - recollections, pictures, 'trips down memory lane'.. didn't know why though.
Well, actually he did. Because he just didn't like memories. Even at his age, he had come to despise so much. He blamed television and the news in general for his disillusionment
"Just like every other cynic" he thought dully.
But not really.. he knew it was a lot more than that. He knew it was a lot deeper. Vaguely, he wondered if every other cynic knew the same.
The droplets came pelting down like a thousand tiny bullets, drenching the sombre gathering. It was an unusal turn up at the graveyard. The sleep of the dead was disturbed though not by the surprising number of black-adorned men and women, standing in the pouring rain with their umbrellas - braving the weather.. no, the distubance was more of a buzz. They were excited because another was joining, being put into the earth. A young one at that - just 24! Atleast he thought they were waiting for the dead one - for his friend, for his worst enemy, for the person he begrudgingly grew up with, for the person he thought he'd die with.
Under the heavy, cloudy sky - ignoring all those around him... all these people that came to say good-bye to their 'beloved' - he knelt by the grave. He was dimly aware of R reading out the eulogy but ignored it - gazing intently on the Dead One's face. Still. Peaceful. Peaceful? You could never tell with Him - the bastard was a scorpio. Looks usually were decieving with him. Yet there he lay in His black suit, not breathing. And he just kept staring at His face for a while - disconnected, flooded with emotion - anger, hatred, admiration, even a little envy.
"..and he was handsome - everyone called him that.. even the kids.."
"No you weren't, you ugly bastard. You were ugly. Even on the inside.. inside you were ugly like me." he said with a choked whisper, wondering if the Dead One could hear him.
"..a lively person that went around making freinds, making everyone happy.."
"Happy? you don't even know how much grief you have caused. You and I can't even begin to measure how many people we have made miserable over the course of your fuck-up of a life." leaning in closer, bringing his lips to the corpse's ears.
The rain came down even harder, and he was completely soaked - dripping wet - yet he didn't feel it. Didn't feel wet at all, didn't even feel those drops splashing rudely against him.
"..a great brother, a wonderful son, the perfect friend - always understanding, always supportive.."
"Thats rich.. supportive? Understanding? You selfish little shit - if only these people knew you like I did. But now they never will get to.. thank god for that! Thank him personally for me."
The women sobbed respectfully, the men shuffled their feet - everyone now hoping R would just finish so they could get the fucking hell out of the rain. Finally R did - and with a sigh, scooped up a handful of the freshly dug mud and tossed it onto the coffin. This is when he realised it was finally happening. Looking up at R for a second - registering the pained, broken look in the man's eyes he turned back to the grave.. the lid shut now, Dead One's face completely shut from the world.
He remained at the graveside as more and more people tossed their handful of dirt onto the filling-up grave - some stepping right through him as they shuffled to stand by the graveside - others just flinging the rich earth right through him.. his eyes fixed on the spot where His face was moments ago. And thus He was buried, the darkness in the grave increasing with each handful, in an increasingly big mound of dirt and sand and rubbish.. a befitting destiny for you, he thought. And the rest of us.
Long after everyone else had left he just sat there alone, staring at the gravestone. Rising, he dusted himself off, mumbling something about people's audacity to shovel dirt right through him - fuck, didn't they think they'd fuck-up my suit? Assholes.
Straightening, he spit loudly onto the fresh grave - there.. paid you my last respects, you fuck. He looked up at the sky wiping his chin, and was pretty sure in all 24 years of his life he had never seen a sky so dark. Shaking his head, he wandered aimlessly out of the graveyard leaving Himself buried alone - the darkness increasing with each step he took just like my grave did.
Well, actually he did. Because he just didn't like memories. Even at his age, he had come to despise so much. He blamed television and the news in general for his disillusionment
"Just like every other cynic" he thought dully.
But not really.. he knew it was a lot more than that. He knew it was a lot deeper. Vaguely, he wondered if every other cynic knew the same.
The droplets came pelting down like a thousand tiny bullets, drenching the sombre gathering. It was an unusal turn up at the graveyard. The sleep of the dead was disturbed though not by the surprising number of black-adorned men and women, standing in the pouring rain with their umbrellas - braving the weather.. no, the distubance was more of a buzz. They were excited because another was joining, being put into the earth. A young one at that - just 24! Atleast he thought they were waiting for the dead one - for his friend, for his worst enemy, for the person he begrudgingly grew up with, for the person he thought he'd die with.
Under the heavy, cloudy sky - ignoring all those around him... all these people that came to say good-bye to their 'beloved' - he knelt by the grave. He was dimly aware of R reading out the eulogy but ignored it - gazing intently on the Dead One's face. Still. Peaceful. Peaceful? You could never tell with Him - the bastard was a scorpio. Looks usually were decieving with him. Yet there he lay in His black suit, not breathing. And he just kept staring at His face for a while - disconnected, flooded with emotion - anger, hatred, admiration, even a little envy.
"..and he was handsome - everyone called him that.. even the kids.."
"No you weren't, you ugly bastard. You were ugly. Even on the inside.. inside you were ugly like me." he said with a choked whisper, wondering if the Dead One could hear him.
"..a lively person that went around making freinds, making everyone happy.."
"Happy? you don't even know how much grief you have caused. You and I can't even begin to measure how many people we have made miserable over the course of your fuck-up of a life." leaning in closer, bringing his lips to the corpse's ears.
The rain came down even harder, and he was completely soaked - dripping wet - yet he didn't feel it. Didn't feel wet at all, didn't even feel those drops splashing rudely against him.
"..a great brother, a wonderful son, the perfect friend - always understanding, always supportive.."
"Thats rich.. supportive? Understanding? You selfish little shit - if only these people knew you like I did. But now they never will get to.. thank god for that! Thank him personally for me."
The women sobbed respectfully, the men shuffled their feet - everyone now hoping R would just finish so they could get the fucking hell out of the rain. Finally R did - and with a sigh, scooped up a handful of the freshly dug mud and tossed it onto the coffin. This is when he realised it was finally happening. Looking up at R for a second - registering the pained, broken look in the man's eyes he turned back to the grave.. the lid shut now, Dead One's face completely shut from the world.
He remained at the graveside as more and more people tossed their handful of dirt onto the filling-up grave - some stepping right through him as they shuffled to stand by the graveside - others just flinging the rich earth right through him.. his eyes fixed on the spot where His face was moments ago. And thus He was buried, the darkness in the grave increasing with each handful, in an increasingly big mound of dirt and sand and rubbish.. a befitting destiny for you, he thought. And the rest of us.
Long after everyone else had left he just sat there alone, staring at the gravestone. Rising, he dusted himself off, mumbling something about people's audacity to shovel dirt right through him - fuck, didn't they think they'd fuck-up my suit? Assholes.
Straightening, he spit loudly onto the fresh grave - there.. paid you my last respects, you fuck. He looked up at the sky wiping his chin, and was pretty sure in all 24 years of his life he had never seen a sky so dark. Shaking his head, he wandered aimlessly out of the graveyard leaving Himself buried alone - the darkness increasing with each step he took just like my grave did.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
i miss you when you're here
Silence.
It's that time of day when the electric lamps across the streets and in the many segragated houses are yet to light up - but the sky has already dimmed. She stands by the window, smoking and staring quietly.
He sits at a small dining table in the center of the room... watching her watch nothing.
"Why do you come here?" he asks her.
"I miss you when I'm gone." her first words.
"I miss you when you're here." is his reply.
"And yet you ask me to come back?"
He rises slowly, making his way over to the window - by her side - and looks out to the dark, cold city. Slowly, he turns to face her, something tugging at his heart, and says quietly "How could I not?" He reaches for her shoulder - pauses as if conflicted - withdraws his hand - then reaches out again letting his fingers pass through her ephemeral body which shimmers in the wake of this slight gesture.
"Why do you do that? You know we can't touch.."
"Yes, I do.. but I don't - can't - believe it.. still.." comes the anguished reponse.
She turns from the window, facing him finally, looking into his eyes and says "Im sorry, I don't mean for this to hurt you. I..." and as the moonlight spills into the room, her whispered words dry up. In the growing silence she walks through the wall into the gloom as he watches her from the window.
Watches her fading away - like the smoke from the cigarette - to invisibility.
It's that time of day when the electric lamps across the streets and in the many segragated houses are yet to light up - but the sky has already dimmed. She stands by the window, smoking and staring quietly.
He sits at a small dining table in the center of the room... watching her watch nothing.
"Why do you come here?" he asks her.
"I miss you when I'm gone." her first words.
"I miss you when you're here." is his reply.
"And yet you ask me to come back?"
He rises slowly, making his way over to the window - by her side - and looks out to the dark, cold city. Slowly, he turns to face her, something tugging at his heart, and says quietly "How could I not?" He reaches for her shoulder - pauses as if conflicted - withdraws his hand - then reaches out again letting his fingers pass through her ephemeral body which shimmers in the wake of this slight gesture.
"Why do you do that? You know we can't touch.."
"Yes, I do.. but I don't - can't - believe it.. still.." comes the anguished reponse.
She turns from the window, facing him finally, looking into his eyes and says "Im sorry, I don't mean for this to hurt you. I..." and as the moonlight spills into the room, her whispered words dry up. In the growing silence she walks through the wall into the gloom as he watches her from the window.
Watches her fading away - like the smoke from the cigarette - to invisibility.
Monday, February 06, 2006
on life and the darkness within
"Melancholy. As any Elizabethan could tell you if they all weren't dead, melancholy is a far richer and more complex ailment than simple depression. There is a generous amplitude of possibility, chances for productive behavior, even what may be identified as a sense of humor. . . . Humor in these conditions leans toward the anti-transcendent -- like jail humor and military and rodeo humor, it finds high amusement in failure and loss, and it celebrates survival one day, one disaster, to the next."
"What happened?" "Why are you always depressed?" "Did she say something?" "Is everything okay?" "Oh come on - don't be sad, it was just a game" "Having a bad day?" "Is he being an asshole again?"
Right - first, let's get our terms straight. For simplicity's sake, we can order the blues into three general categories of increasing severity:
(1) "sadness," which is the short-term grief one feels after a loss,
(2) "melancholy," which is a long-term state of being characterized by pensive reflection, sometimes accompanied by wistfulness, sadness and even gloom, and
(3) "depression," which is a disorder that strips all pleasure and initiative from one's mind, replacing it with a monochromatic anhedonic stasis.
Sadness usually has a specific cause. Sadness is temporary, "fixed" by the passage of time. Sometimes you can fix sadness by replacing what was lost.
Another tidbit - the funniest people I know are invariably the most melancholic people I know. Something about blending the sunny light with the gathering dark produces that skewed take on life we call "humor." Happy people and depressed people are rarely funny people.
At root, a melancholic temperament seems the logical next step after one's youthful optimism is jaded by the cares, responsibilities and hard-learned lessons of adulthood. One can face one's losses, and one's mortality, with happy denial, with melancholic serenity or with depressed paralysis.
So to end this missive... if I were melancholic, chances are it my melancholy would be with me for much of my life - and it wouldn't be due to any external cause like an argument, or an election result. If I were melancholic, the outcome of a conversation or the result of a cricket match wouldn't do much to cheer me up, or let me down. If I were melancholic, I'd be living a life without illusions (or delusions) that get inflated when "a" happens, or deflated when "b" does.
IF I were melancholic, that is...
Right - first, let's get our terms straight. For simplicity's sake, we can order the blues into three general categories of increasing severity:
(1) "sadness," which is the short-term grief one feels after a loss,
(2) "melancholy," which is a long-term state of being characterized by pensive reflection, sometimes accompanied by wistfulness, sadness and even gloom, and
(3) "depression," which is a disorder that strips all pleasure and initiative from one's mind, replacing it with a monochromatic anhedonic stasis.
Sadness usually has a specific cause. Sadness is temporary, "fixed" by the passage of time. Sometimes you can fix sadness by replacing what was lost.
Depression pretty much has a specific cause as well -- something in the brain chemistry gets fuckered in a seriously wrong way. Depression can be fixed through medication, may be fixable by the passage of time, and (according to therapists) can be fixed by therapy.
Melancholy does not have a specific cause. It also cannot be fixed. Even if it could be fixed, if you are melancholic, chances are you wouldn't want it fixed.
If you're melancholic, you don't understand the need to "Have a Nice Day!" You simply don't smile on command. You're never giddy. You're not a fucking cheerleader for anything. You value introspection over sensation. You flatter yourself that you see the world with a clear-eyed, unstinting, shit-and-sunshine vision. Although you think of yourself as pretty balanced, seeing both the good and the bad, the "shiny happy people" think you're just fucking gloomy and listen to Linkin Park while staring at a razorblade (The depressed people might think of you as a crazy optimist, but they're usually too lost in their own problems to notice you or anyone else.)
When you're melancholic, people ask you "what's wrong?" and try to cheer you up, not realizing that nothing's wrong, that's just the way you are. You're allergic to cheer for cheer's sake. When you're melancholic, your lack of unbridled enthusiasm will be interpreted as a bad attitude. When you're melancholic, people will assume you're depressed, ignoring the fact that you manage to experience a wide range of emotions, you manage to see the humor in life, and you manage to stay productive, all while being followed about by your own personal black rain cloud. That's quite a fucking feat, let me tell you.Another tidbit - the funniest people I know are invariably the most melancholic people I know. Something about blending the sunny light with the gathering dark produces that skewed take on life we call "humor." Happy people and depressed people are rarely funny people.
At root, a melancholic temperament seems the logical next step after one's youthful optimism is jaded by the cares, responsibilities and hard-learned lessons of adulthood. One can face one's losses, and one's mortality, with happy denial, with melancholic serenity or with depressed paralysis.
So to end this missive... if I were melancholic, chances are it my melancholy would be with me for much of my life - and it wouldn't be due to any external cause like an argument, or an election result. If I were melancholic, the outcome of a conversation or the result of a cricket match wouldn't do much to cheer me up, or let me down. If I were melancholic, I'd be living a life without illusions (or delusions) that get inflated when "a" happens, or deflated when "b" does.
IF I were melancholic, that is...
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