the longest days

There are days I fear I simply don't have poetry in my heart. Days I fear my soul is made of stone, and I can't dance. Days that I can glimpse soulfulness, movement and grace but it will forever remain out of reach, a tease. Days that my feet thud on the floor and my eyes are clouded with mud. Days I am sure that there is no art I can ever understand or experience. Days that I'm the slowest one in the room, the one who needs the obvious explained, the one who cannot appreciate beauty and creation, the one who cannot speak to it for everything comes out dumb. Days that I see the folly in everything I have created or tried to create. Days that I'm everything wrong and unnecessary.

These are the longest days.

These are the loneliest days.

departer

My original idea with this blog was to use it to post some of my stories, which I seem to have gotten away from with my odd rambles of late. So today I'm posting a story. I wrote this one four or five years ago, and I believe to date it is the last story I actually submitted somewhere (I never heard back and now I can't even find the email to remember where I submitted it.) It's probably not good enough, not polished enough to have submitted anyway but there you go. I really do mean to submit more of my stories but I never feel like they are quite good enough. It's a poor excuse...or maybe it's not. 

The emotions I attempt to catch in this story are very real to me--the fear of unexpectedly losing a loved one. Fiction too often makes this loss too neat, too easily boxed in, but the truth is that such a thing can happen in the most absurd, simple way and there's no way of laughing at the absurdity. I've worked with this theme a few times but this is the only story I feel I handled it, if not successfully, at least not embarrassingly. Of course such judgments are for the reader. Thank you for reading. 

She’s laughing at his impersonation of Frank and he can’t help but think how wonderful this night’s gonna be. Karen knows Frank gets under his skin at work, although he’s fairly harmless in the grand scheme of things. Earlier in the day, just minutes before the presentation to the client, Frank gave a pep talk to Kurt that managed to include a half dozen sports metaphors. Kurt, who has never been interested in sports, had no idea what Frank was going on about. Now, hours later and the presentation having been an unqualified success, Karen is in stitches as Kurt squeaks out sports jargon in a voice sounding like Rodney Dangerfield after sucking a balloon full of helium. If it weren’t for the seatbelt holding her back, she would be doubled over, she’s laughing so hard. No sound could ever ring so gloriously in his ears. They’ve both been under a lot of stress at work lately, crossing each other’s paths just long enough for a quick hello/goodbye, and maybe a kiss. It has been a long time since he’s heard her laugh.

                Yes, it’s going to be a good night. Scratch that, it’s gonna be a great night.

                As soon as the presentation was over he’d called and made reservations at their favorite Italian restaurant. Then he’d emailed her, telling her to prepare for a wonderful evening. It was a risk, which is why he’d hedged his bet by making the reservation first. But she did not complain that she had too much to do, that maybe they could go out this weekend but there were deadlines to meet first, and anyway should they be spending the money when they were trying so hard to save for a house. No, she’d been delighted at the invite, accepting immediately. She told him she was delighted for him and dinner was a fantastic idea. She smiled. He felt lighter than he had in months.

                So tonight it will be all about grand gestures, the first of which will be opening the car door for her and offering his arm like a true gentleman. He feels anticipation tingling throughout his body as he pulls the car into the parking lot. He is pleasantly warm, a little flushed. He gets out and walks slowly around the car to the passenger side, makes an exaggerated bow, and opens the door. Karen falls out, dead.

                Her body presses into him and the unexpected weight sends him sprawling onto the pavement. He feels wetness soaking his pants – the nicest pair of slacks he owns – and knows he has landed in a puddle. He sits in the puddle, stupid and shivering, unable to move or comprehend what has just happened. Karen’s body lies slumped in front of him, half in and half out of the car, like a partially spilled sack of coffee beans. There is no seatbelt around her, she must have taken it off before he’d gotten to the door. Whatever happened to her had happened in an instant.

                He rises. He reaches to her, touches her auburn hair, hair that always made him think of a lazy fall afternoon, leaves and sun rays filtered through the trees, time slowed to a crawl. Crouching, he wraps both arms around her torso stands back up, pulling her upright. The movement is awkward, like two junior high kids stumbling through their first dance. He feels a twinge in his back and winces. His face so close to hers, no breath coming from her mouth, no movement to counter his own. She is lifeless. He shifts her body back into the seat. His hands become a blur, touching her warm skin, shaking her, slapping her once across the face—anything to wake her. Anything.

                But she’s not asleep. She is dead.

                In his chest, the panic bird rises. He chokes it down. He mentally races through his options. A hospital. Call 911. He doesn’t have his cell phone (stupid stupid stupid it is sitting on top of the dresser in their bedroom what good does it do there he just didn’t want to be interrupted tonight didn’t want it even near him stupid stupid stupid.) Does Karen have hers? He feels time slipping by and he’s not reacting fast enough, he should just drive to the nearest hospital. He has no idea where the nearest hospital is. How does one find out such things? The restaurant. There must be a phone inside the restaurant. Go inside and call an ambulance go go go!

                He spins away from her corpse, out of the car, the panic bird free. Lurching towards the restaurant, an ominous-looking building that seems vast and far away, his feet tangle up with each other and he goes down into a puddle for the second time. And this time it hurts, even through the shock, the pavement tearing away the fabric of his best pair of slacks and peeling back the skin on his knees. Tears in his eyes but the pain has at least driven away the panic bird and he realizes:

                There is no point in going to the hospital. Karen is dead.

                No one at a hospital is going to help her. They’ll take her away, pronounce her dead, change her clothes, change her into someone else.

                They never got a vacation.

                He pulls himself to his feet and makes his way back to the car. He closes the passenger door, shuddering at the finality of the sound. He walks around to the driver’s side and gets in. He leans across her, thinking of all the times he’d leaned over her before and how she’d been aware of his movements every time but this time she will not know. He grabs the seatbelt and drags it across the front of her black dress, his favorite, the dress he’d been looking forward to seeing all afternoon. He clicks the seatbelt in place, envious that it gets to hold her while he is now alone. He starts the car and drives away from the worst five minutes of his life.

                The hum of the engine is soothing, the warmth of the car fostering the illusion that no death is present. Just the road and their life together. Quiet Sunday mornings when neither of them had to get up early for work, sharing coffee and cooking breakfast together. Even those had become rare. Karen had been working too hard, he was worried about the stress of her job. He never said anything, she would have pointed out it was the pot calling the kettle black, and she would have been right. His thoughts drift to the little oceanfront inn they used to go to in their early years together. Cheap rooms when they wanted to be away from everything and alone. Bring your own food, no TV reception. The sound of waves ever present, like the hum of the engine. Had it really been four years since they’d last been there? They were pushing too hard, both of them. The inn was all of two hours away; what excuse did they have?

                Drive.

                Traffic thins out as the city is left behind. This is good, this driving. They should drive like this more often. A glance at the gas gauge informs him there is slightly less than a quarter of a tank left. Within a few miles he sees a large yellow and red Shell sign looming against the grey sky. He exits the highway. He is listening for Karen’s voice. Ever since he’d learned how to drive, he’s been paranoid about running out of gas. He never, ever lets the tank get lower than a quarter full, and sometimes he’ll gas it up when it’s still half full. Karen thinks this is an endearing quirk and enjoys giving him grief about it. Good-naturedly, of course.

                Today, though, she is silent. There is no teasing, no “Oh no, you’d better gas up because we are within two hundred miles of running out!”

                He pulls up next to the first empty pump and gets out of the car. The air smells of oil, gas and the coming rain. The aroma is usually one of his favorite in the world, but he is subdued this evening, trying to keep a desperate melancholy at bay. As he fills the tank he watches the sky. Maybe an hour of daylight left. It will be dark when they reach the ocean, especially the heavy clouds rolling in. Ten minutes until it rains, fifteen at the longest. A native of the area, he can sense the rain, he can time its very arrival. Karen thought this knack uncanny. She’d told him so many times.

                The station is offering a free 8 oz. coffee for buying $20 or more of gas, and he takes them up on it. Driving late in the day makes him sleepy. Karen, a night owl, normally does the evening driving when any distance is involved. But not this evening. They are making this journey together but he is driving alone. Soon they are back on the highway.

                Right on time, the rain comes. The windshield swipes badly need replacing. Through the smeared windshield the taillights of the cars in front of him look like blurred Christmas lights. Water on his lashes. He wipes it away and presses down harder on the gas pedal. Forget visibility, forget the rain. He tries to talk to Karen but can’t think of anything appropriate to say. He reaches for her hand, clasps it. There is warmth there, still. He thinks of turning the radio on, decides against it. His fingers tighten around hers. He marvels at the coldness of her wedding ring in contrast to the warmth of her skin. The car heat is turned on as high as it will go and she has not complained nor cracked a window.

                Yes, they should have gone to the ocean long ago. They need more time away.

                The miles pile on and he keeps his focus on the road. The city is far behind now, a definition of far that is new to him, that has less to do with measurement and more to do with distance. Distance is something that he is part of. This is no longer happening to him. Karen does not shift in her seat. The car has never been this quiet.

                Eventually the population thins and the distance between lights is greater. It’s not that people don’t live out here. They are just harder to find. He can sense the ocean, a slight rumble inside his bones that makes him squirm restlessly. Just shaking out the stiffness in his leg, that’s all. The headlights are on and he worries about being too late to check in. They should have left earlier, perhaps, but it will do no good to stress about such things now. It’s the offseason and they should be able to get in even without a reservation. He clears his mind, focuses on the hypnotic sureness of the road. He doesn’t talk to Karen; there’s not much to say.

                Finally the lights catch the carved wood sign: they’ve arrived at the Butterfly Inn. Karen always comments on the name: “There aren’t any butterflies at the ocean! Butterflies stick to the land!” He has never known if this is true, but it sounds right and that’s enough. The Butterfly Inn presents the same weather-beaten, sea-smacked look that all buildings whose fate it is to sit on the edge of the ocean feature, but the garish orange paint sets the building apart from its surroundings. The sharp orange color has faded since their first visit some six years ago, but illuminated by the car’s headlights, it is still a shock against the darkness of the evening.

                It takes him only a few minutes to check in, the lack of reservation not a problem. Key in hand, he takes the rickety steps two at a time and unlocks their second story room. Room 7, the one they always stay in. They’ll have the place to themselves, according to the proprietor. “Some of it is the season, of course, and I guess some of it is the economy.” Had he shown up half an hour later, he would have found the place locked for the night. But he didn’t and they are here now, where they should be. He unlocks the room, shoves the key in his pocket, and returns to the car and Karen.

                He unbuckles her seat belt and crouches until he is at equal height with her sitting body. He reaches around her back with one hand and between her thighs with the other, the intimacy of the act warming his ears. He drops one knee to the ground for better balance and removes her from the car. She is heavy and he is short of breath. His back protests and his knees holler as he rises. He manages to carry her up the stairs, convinced with each step that the battered wood will give away, until he is in front of the door to their room.

                He had not thought to flip the light on when he unlocked the room but it doesn’t matter, the room has changed not all and he is able to make his way around to the couch. He sits Karen down on the couch. When he extracts her hands she slumps forward. He quickly reaches out and catches her. He repositions her so she leans into the back of the couch at an angle. When he is satisfied she is comfortable, he runs back outside to lock the car. The cool damp air is a welcome visitor to his flushed face.

                He returns to the room and sits next to her on the couch. If there was any daylight left, they would be watching the ocean outside the large window. There is not, but it is enough to simply sit with Karen and listen as the water, not so far away, rises and falls in a low rumble symphony full of emotion. Deep and rich and not part of everything else. He picks up her hands, holds them in his and rests his head on her shoulder. His heart flutters. She is not as warm as she was in the car, and very still. They sit together like this, alone at the edge of the world.

               

               

sunday afternoon thoughts

Kelly Link is the best living short story writer. I've so far only read two stories in her most recent work, Get in Trouble, and they already rank among the best things I've read in the last few years. I want to walk down the street quoting lines from her stories. So magical, and such an inspiration.

Re-reading House of Psychotic Women and I remain stunned at what a great work it is. Kier-La Janisse depicts a relationship with cinema I completely understand. My experience is, clearly, quite different than hers, but the love is the same. I don't think most people in my life understand my need for cinema that pushes beyond the boundaries and knocks you out so you can't function for hours afterwards. It is not an experience for everyone. But it is the core of cinematic experience for me (with a bit of nostalgic room for Indiana Jones, of course.) While it would take pages to explain, I just have to state how vital her voice is--reclaiming both experience and intellectual inquiry from the academic safety. I relate strongly, though I'm sadly nowhere near as articulate as she is.

I need recovery time when I've been very social, particularly within a family setting, and I'm in the midst of an extended stretch of social activity right now. I've taken this Sunday afternoon to read and listen to music and just not talk. Or solve problems. Next weekend I hope to have some true recovery time. Introverts need it.

My writing is not where I want it to be right now, but I keep working. Lots of false starts. Something will come through. The important part is to keep pushing. There are ideas I very much want to explore that I do not have the talent to pull off. It's frustrating, but it is still no excuse to stop working. Creative work is sacred.

You know what I would love? The ability to talk about the cinema and books I love with friends who share similar interests around a table with a couple of beers. I often feel like I'm the only one that really enjoys the weird stuff I dig. Square peg in a round hole.

Whenever I'm stuck, I remind myself that as long as I am truthful and honest to my own weird soul, everything will be what it will be and I can sleep at night. Compromise is part of being an adult, but you need not bury your core being under a heap of falseness. We each sing our own song, no? I've never been skilled at cover versions.

This Dio record needs to be flipped. Thus, this post now ends.

83rd dream

What does the crow have to say?

Nothing. He is just watching.

When I was a senior in high school, I got an opportunity to take the inaugural “College English” class offered by my high school. This was a big deal as never before had my small rural school been able to offer a class that counted towards college credit. I mean, it cost extra money. I can’t recall the sum today—it would seem trifling, I’m sure, but such things were huge considerations in a community where pretty much no one had more than enough to just get by (and many didn’t have even that.)

To provide some context: the summer before my senior year I lived with my sister in the city due to some painful personal circumstances. I started out that summer assuming I’d never be able to go back and finish high school and I’d need to pursue a GED. I got a crappy job cleaning a deli at nights and I spent my days writing. I took my writing very seriously—it was pretty much all I had. Pages and pages, drafts and drafts. By the end of the summer I’d mended enough fences to go back and finish high school. When I found out about College English, I signed up immediately. It felt like a turning point; I was coming back to town a more worldly, experienced person (not nearly so much as I thought, of course) and my high school was actually providing opportunities. I was excited to attend a class for the only time in my high school career.

I remember walking in to class that first day and seeing a couple of the artistic, misfit and fun girls I’d attended a few parties with before leaving the prior year. One of them looked up, saw me, and said: “Alright, Paul’s back in town! This year is going to be fun!” It was the first time I’d ever received that kind of validation—someone actually glad to see me? People wanted to hang out with me? Strange how going away to the big city for a while changed things. In any case, I was thrilled. Already this class had paid dividends!

I don’t remember much else about that first day of class, but I clearly remember the assignment at the end of the day: write a single page about whatever you wanted. That was the only criteria—that it be a page long. Such freedom! If this is what college is about, I thought, then sign me up! I went home that night and started writing. But I didn’t like anything I wrote. Too forced, as though the very freedom was stifling. I went on a walk around the farm, smoked some cigarettes, stared at the stars. Then I went back to my bedroom and 83^rd Dream came tumbling out of me.

83^rd Dream (named after a Cult song, though I knew no one would catch the reference) is simply about a man dying by next to a fencepost while a crow watches. We don’t know why the man is dying or anything about his circumstances. He implores the crow to grant him relief or at least give his death meaning. The crow looks at him impassively until he dies, then flies off. That is the entirety of the story. Not even a story, really, just a scene. It was overwrought, as all writing by eighteen year-olds must be, but it felt like the most powerful thing I’d ever written. I couldn’t shake it.

83^rd Dream came back a couple of days later with an A+ (or whatever the numeral equivalent was) and a comment from the teacher that I still remember: “I’ve never read such startling imagery from a student. This is amazing.” Let me tell you, I was on cloud nine. But it wasn’t just the validation. It was the fact that this was something deeply personal in a way I couldn’t explain, straight out of my subconscious that also felt somehow part of my waking life. It wasn’t just a dream.

The crow is always watching, you know.

I think of that story—that scene—often. It is part of my internal makeup in a way I still can’t explain, and I guess as I get older it’s less important to do so. About ten years ago I had a dream that I’m going to relate here (forgive me for writing something as banal as a description of a dream I had. This piece is about truth, if nothing else.) In the dream, I hiked a mountain. In my backpack was 83^rd Dream. I met a man about three-quarters of the way up the mountain. He built a fire and I warmed myself by it, for I was very cold. Before I could say anything, the man was gone. I looked down and saw a murder of crows circling the treetops. The sky was so blue, so clear! The fire was still burning. I pulled out 83^rd Dream and burned it. The ashes floated gently into the air. The feelings I had I can’t describe: sadness, wonder, beauty, death, rebirth, the ancient and the new.

A few times over the years I’ve thought about revisiting that story, writing it from a different perspective in my life. But I’ve never done it. If it happens, it has to happen naturally. It cannot be forced. The words, if they are meant to come, will come. And probably when I’m least expecting it. (The goddamned ego is always in the way.) When I’m feeling worthless as a writer, I remember 83^rd Dream. It reminds me that creativity is, above all, a sacred thing. All of the rest of the crap around it is just that—crap. Fun crap, sometimes, but crap nonetheless.

As for that College English class? Well, nothing compared to the rush of that first story but it was exciting to be able to write creatively for a class—to this day, the only time I ever got to experience that. Plus the teacher, who would later wind up in jail for murdering her husband (I’m not joking), introduced me to Raymond Carver, who has had a profound effect on my life. In fact, the teacher hated Carver’s story so much she gave me the book she had by him. (“I can’t stand it all but I think you may enjoy it.”) The story was “Cathedral” from the book of the same name and I’ll never forget the visceral reaction I had at reading a story that made sense. I’ve never, ever had a reaction that strong to reading something for the first time. As the year wore on, I skipped many classes (or showed up to them in various altered states) but I can honestly say I never, ever missed College English. The crow was watching, after all.

I will never unlock 83^rd Dream. It’s not meant to be unlocked. I choose to honor it. 83^rd Dream and the class that it came from—that class of the (not yet) murderer teacher, the artistic misfit girls excited to have me coming to parties, the desperate valedictorian doing everything he could to escape the circumstances around him, the kid missing a finger who showed up drunk as often as not, the asshole who told me only faggots liked to read the kind of books I liked—represented the very possibility of a creative life. A life with meaning. A life with meaning is a tumultuous, confusing and sometimes frightening thing. But it also offers a chance to witness beauty and experience transcendence. To create a different reality and then go there.

The crow’s very indifference is his lesson, I think. He isn’t going to do it for you. If you want to die by a fencepost, that’s your business. But if you want to fly, you can. And if you need to leave your body behind to do it, well, we all need to escape the meat wagon now and then, no?