Archive for May, 2011
See? It was #13, and I titled it “life” instead of “day!” Title fixed!
Rilke is teaching me honesty.
I want to tell you things using decorous tools,
but Rilke says look for that middle.
I search around, listen to some swaggering music,
knowing I am nowhere near my truth.
I doubt I have any truth. I am a piece of watermelon,
turning brown and drying out. I read Rilke
and the center turns red. I inadvertently write well
and the outside also blazes red.
But when I write
like this, I float away in the dust storm
and wish for death. Is it right that honesty
is so easy for everyone else? Alcohol might as well
have been a giant gun pointed down my throat,
not just pointed but blown clear through my guts,
for it has left me with no more middle.
I walk around with sprinklings of Rilke,
nice and lilty without any middle.
My brother and I were hanging out in the basement more and more frequently, hustling and toiling stylishly with all of our paper constructions, mastering life in our Medicine World. Imagine the most elegant model train set and then multiply the beauty and the power by millions.
My brother was the most indurate and serious risk manager of the two of us, so my job was to show him the potentiality, the dynamism, and the blessings of our new world. I too hate taking any risks, but everything is relative and I suppose I am not 100% risk-averse.
The neighbors would get worried because we shut out the nasty world with our curtains and they wouldn’t see us for days, seeming like weeks, and they would think we might be rotting dead all over the hardwood floors, turning the wood black and smelling up the city’s water system. The neighbors would have been exhilarated if my brother and I had died because then they might have been able to get some brand new neighbors who like to chat about dog shit, the barometric pressure, and weeds, acting officious over the fence line while peeing in their pants.
In those days, I didn’t need to sleep, and importantly, I felt great! I used to have dreams, but of course, dreams are yet another thing that’s not required in Medicine World. Imagine if everything that happened in your day were perfectly in accordance with your wishes. That, friends, is Medicine World, and that is why there is no reason for dreams in Medicine World.
Some might also ask about nightmares, but we didn’t need those either. Nightmares may encourage us to have caution, to use care, to work through irrational fears, or to inspire logical fear of some things, but in Medicine World, you get do-overs at anytime for any reason – nothing bad happens that’s not completely reversible.
You got it: There was nothing to fear. It was a miracle, but my brother still worried. He bobbled his tummy about as if it were reacting to him twisting his ponytail as he ruminated over the unknown unknowns. My brother and I were great at picking out unknown unknowns and remediating or handicapping for known unknowns, but I kept telling him there were no unknowns, known or unknown in Medicine World. It was just pure, miraculous bliss.
One day, my brother could not take it anymore and he poisoned himself. I wanted to get him to the hospital, but his method was lethal and there was no chance. He only had time for a couple sentences. I asked him why the fear had driven him so, and he explained that the loss of time as a structural frame in his life had caused him to go insane.
In Medicine World, since everything can be fixed, time is of no consequence. There is no history by which to be troubled nor is there any future about which to be worried or hopeful. This had not disturbed me, but after he educated me, I started going insane too. I was not as sensitive as my brother, but it is my time now, and I plan to use the same poison. There are no regrets – I was able to experience heaven before the insanity and that fulfilled my only longing.
This is my trinket for Inspiration Monday XIII (I know, last-minute). I chose the prompt “I used to have dreams.” You’ll notice that I used the same wacko story set as with the “paper towns” prompt from last week, this this is Part II. Check out the other fine contributions at the be kind rewrite site – It’s a blast!
IT’S BEEN ALMOST A YEAR
It’s been almost a year, and at ten years old, Charlene has stepped in as the caretaker. She bursts with survival instincts, but underneath, I know she aches, perhaps more than I. How many years will the grief eat at our weak souls? Will we have relief by the time Charlene is thirty? Will we survive long enough?
Eric worries me. He’s only eight and he walks around dumbstruck. He’s helpful, and he carries my things, but he acts as if he just returned from the war zone in Afghanistan. I want to believe he is moving toward being able to live as a human. After all, he is not the most devastated casualty.
Timmy is only four. His disposition makes my anger rage at the dead woman and creates startling fears of the future, of his future. He constantly looks up, thinking that he might be able to see the moment when his mother incarnated wickedly as a psychotic ape and smashed the glass, jumping out of the ninth story window. I wonder if he thinks he might go back, 11 months in time, and he might save her by catching her with his tiny hands. I know he cannot process the permanent structures of a suicide. I can’t process those things either, but I know not to look up for her.
It’s been almost a year. It seems we won’t ever recover because time takes far too much time.
Indigo Spider has a picture prompt challenge called “Sunday Picture Press.” I’m not good at these, but the above picture haunted me, so I wrote a VERY SHORT story. Enjoy others at the prompt post. I am sure they saw the photo far differently!
Which, who knows?
visions blur longing for quick death.
duties, as pride swelled.
Praise me, Mother, from your stark urn.
There are two quite long stop lights on the way back home.
I feel victorious when they are red.
My spaces, not for staring, not for judging others,
but for spiritual transition
out of the deep graves of humankind’s laws.
My right arm with torn muscle
reaches for The Complete Anne Sexton.
She is sparked by the alert.
Passenger side air bag isn’t on.
I crawl under a mighty Northeastern Oak tree.
Anne holds my hand and her eyes tell me I’m good.
It’s my transition.
I want Anne to hold my hand forever.
But the light will change.
Hundreds of wicked symbols will shock me
back to hate. Back to detesting who I am
and how I see the messy chaos of unmixed disgust.
Anne sits back into the tan plush, lacking her air bag.
I hope Anne has left a drop of life in me from the transition.
I hope there might be life left in me when I get back home.