The circadian rhythm of my body is off.
Watch the tea bag dangle and twirl about itself,
winter washed fingers twist the thin white thread.
Puddles circle outwards as the bag hits the water;
they hit the barrier reef.
Can it sense this joy?
A short lived half hour depending on the sips.
Like dipping your lower half into a
continuously draining jacuzzi.
My eyes droop,
I cant remember thoughts anymore.
My muscles feel weak,
I can’t support my own weight anymore.
Should I sleep?
Or dangle this tea
above the yellow water
and know it craves a bath.
It won’t submerge, for fear of getting its hair wet.
What’s so bad about the bottom of a cup?
Awfully cowardly for something that’s attached to a string.
How many times has it ever drowned?
A bag without a string, that I can understand.
I’d be more apprehensive about soaks if I didn’t have arms.
And the worst part? The ever-draining cup.
Just where does the water go when the mug tilts?
They come packaged, sealed tight.
They live in water, boiling hot.
They’re left alone, just soggy leaves when the water drains.
Like fall.
Then it’s warm for just one second.
Warmth like pissing oneself which then turns into
Just
A
Frigid
Odor.
What then of the short life of a bag of tea?
One bath and then a moist cold eternity of uselessness.
I rather stay in the warmth of the womb then.
Keep me in my packaging if that’s what life holds.
At least then I can sleep,
and dream,
and safely bathe without a string,
gently bobbing around with potential.
And when I’m ready,
perhaps I’ll grace you.
Or continue to bob around untested,
never leaving the warmth and security of
a tin of tea.
-655321
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Childish Endeavors of Emily Sue
Little Emily Sue was only but two,
when off with her finger she decided to do.
It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,
after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.
She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,
with the pain dying out it was time to move on.
She sharpened her knife with childish glee,
after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.
Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,
sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.
With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,
she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.
The innocent child handed over her art,
it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.
“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,
“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."
Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,
she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.
She took a small knife and slid from the counter,
and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.
Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,
with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.
Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,
off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.
A devious smile spread from right to left ear,
as she went to the shed before father could hear.
Her father he worked alone in their shack,
tinkering at cars to get his youth back.
She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,
“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”
Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,
she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.
He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,
the timing was right and Emily knew.
He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,
and lost his ring finger before he could think.
He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,
back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.
Her mother and father so tense with fear,
shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”
They stumbled about mad, like lumbering giants,
rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.
Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,
not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.
She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,
tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.
She looked at his face peaceful and small,
then down at his fingers she wanted them all.
That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,
only take the one, save the rest for the needy.
She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,
sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.
The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.
his little body was tough and able to fend it.
She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,
right into open arms and her wildest fears.
Her mother and father with knife in hand,
held her down hard and took a stand.
With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,
not realizing how or what this taught her.
When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,
she felt a great pain and started to vomit.
She looked at her palms and saw they were round,
her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.
She looked at the mantle and started to smile,
there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.
She examined them closely and hummed a light song
all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.
She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,
her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.
She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,
no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.
She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,
she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.
As she got older she never missed these thirteen,
for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.
-655321
when off with her finger she decided to do.
It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,
after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.
She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,
with the pain dying out it was time to move on.
She sharpened her knife with childish glee,
after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.
Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,
sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.
With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,
she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.
The innocent child handed over her art,
it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.
“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,
“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."
Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,
she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.
She took a small knife and slid from the counter,
and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.
Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,
with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.
Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,
off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.
A devious smile spread from right to left ear,
as she went to the shed before father could hear.
Her father he worked alone in their shack,
tinkering at cars to get his youth back.
She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,
“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”
Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,
she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.
He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,
the timing was right and Emily knew.
He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,
and lost his ring finger before he could think.
He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,
back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.
Her mother and father so tense with fear,
shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”
They stumbled about mad, like lumbering giants,
rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.
Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,
not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.
She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,
tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.
She looked at his face peaceful and small,
then down at his fingers she wanted them all.
That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,
only take the one, save the rest for the needy.
She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,
sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.
The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.
his little body was tough and able to fend it.
She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,
right into open arms and her wildest fears.
Her mother and father with knife in hand,
held her down hard and took a stand.
With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,
not realizing how or what this taught her.
When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,
she felt a great pain and started to vomit.
She looked at her palms and saw they were round,
her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.
She looked at the mantle and started to smile,
there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.
She examined them closely and hummed a light song
all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.
She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,
her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.
She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,
no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.
She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,
she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.
As she got older she never missed these thirteen,
for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.
-655321
Friday, October 15, 2010
Victor and the Drain of Possibilities
Victor squeezes a handful of Barbasol into his open palm, he rubs his thick calloused hands together and runs them over his clean bald head with precision, like icing a beige cake. He looks into the mirror staring past into the dark invading green surrounding his dilated pupils. He gets lost in the circular forest searching for answers as if the next step in his routine task has somehow deceived him. He glances at the taut skin covering his cheeks and nose, admiring how very few blemishes and imperfections he has at nearly 50 years old, and quickly wonders if in another life he could have been a model. Nothing extraordinary really, just magazines or a commercial or two, but could it have happened? Are we as in control of destiny as the self-help books collecting dust by his bedside let on?
Victor turns on the hot water and his gaze fixes as it goes from an erratic drip to a steady stream. Steam permeates from the tiny waterfall as droplets bounce off the silver plug exploding like little crystal meteors landing in a nearly invisible Pollock on the unpolluted porcelain. The drain is a wormhole, an expansive stretch in time he wishes he could jump down. As a child he remembers reading Alice In Wonderland and wishing there was a pill that could shrink him down much like the fictional girl allowing him to dance in and out of peoples lives unnoticed. As a young adult he went in search of such a pill but what he found never shrank his physical being, only his perception. As a man he’s given up hope that such an escape exists, yet whenever the water is on he takes out the drain and stares into the darkness. He still wonders if it holds possibilities. He thinks of his regrets. He wishes he had studied Physics in college, he wishes he had gone to college. He wonders if it’s too late to live a life much like Einstein, is there an age when the creative and mental possibilities cease? If he wrote a letter to Stephen Hawking, would he find a way to respond? Perhaps he’d send a well thought out Podcast through the mail.
He opens up the sterile medicine cabinet leaving an oily thumbprint on the bottom left corner of the mirror. Without looking at its contents his fingers navigate towards a shimmering silver straight razor resting on the bottom shelf. He grabs the razor by its sharpest edge with ease, and closes the cabinet. This is part of the routine. While setting the razor down on the perfect glossed white sink he notices the thumbprint, a dried disease on the pristine glass. The razor pokes his pointer finger as he reaches for a tissue to clean the smudge. He doesn’t wince or let out a noise, you could hear a pin made out of feathers drop on the carpeted floor of every room in his home. Never leave a trail- that rules been ingrained, nothing he needed to institute in his own home but an obsessive intricacy from work he’s somehow taken with him after hours like homework.
Staring at the small red bead rushing to the surface of his finger he watches as the blood spreads, now the size of a ladybug. He wants to tell this little lady to flutter her wings and fly away as fast as she can, if she knew what was good for her she’d leave and take solace underneath a flower petal in the park. He’s afraid she will wait too long and dry up, she’ll be stuck to him, stuck with him; its happened before. After all his hands were guilty of everything, they told the stories of a past he’d like to lose down the drain of possibilities. Their complexity reminded him of his own wrongdoings as well as the wrongdoings of an entire culture. He would often sit for hours staring at them, wondering if he’d miss them if tragedy struck in the form of a rusty machete. He’d seen TLC specials on phantom limbs, would he still try and clench a can of Coke even though his fingers were long severed and forgotten? Victor watches as the blood breaks from it’s perfect circle and follows the detailed patterns and life lines on his pointer; much like veins taking blood away from a failing heart, like ants following trails in a cheap plastic ant farm, like painting with watercolors on a sheet of brail. Victor concentrates on his finger too long. The blood dries up, and he looks uncomfortable like a man at a funeral for someone he’s pretending he didn’t know.
Victor recounts a tiny dark room; it’s long been abandoned. The only light illuminating the sparse dwelling is moonlight tearing through the roofs of two buildings across the way. He thinks it could be a room in a motel down the street from his childhood home, but he knows that isn’t true at all. There is a small twin bed in the far corner and a dusty Admiral turntable sitting on the nightstand separating the bed and the lone window. The record player is on but the needle loops around the outer rim continuously like it’s stuck in an unsolvable labyrinth. Victor wishes Johnny Cash was playing, he can almost hear Willy Nelson crooning something about Laredo but he doesn’t, it’s silent. He looks to the floor and sees his dark leather boots shuffling across the uneven rotting wooden floorboards. He gets down on the ground and sniffs an off-colored board. What is that? Victor recounts his face and sees a much younger man, still handsome, but twenty years more spry. He sniffs the spot again; his nose grazes the discoloration and takes away a sticky souvenir. He touches his nose and rubs the war paint, it’s not an unfamiliar color and texture. He knows this part of the memory; he’s been here before. The sparkle of something metallic catches his eye underneath the lone unkempt bed. Vic crawls closer as the dark red from the floor stains his torn blue jeans. His eyes start to tear up as he crawls closer and closer to a dark mass under the bed. He is on the battlefield of a great world war crawling towards screams and confusion, he’s waking from a dream where he’s fallen from a building and paramedics have scraped his lifeless body from shattered concrete. He remembered reading once if you died in your dream you’d never wake in life, yet he still sees something shimmer in the corner of his conscious eye. Victor starts to bang the floorboards and scream. The sparkling object is a shiny old watch attached to a limp wrist, attached to the body of a man: a dead man. Blood leaks from the back of the man's head like milk from a smashed coconut, it follows the grooves in the wood. Victor looks down at his hands with guilt, he doesn't remember picking up or firing the sticky dark pistol . He pulls the fragile man out from underneath the bed. His white t-shirt is stained with the rich innards of a wasted life. Victor performs CPR, he smacks the lifeless body around, his tears fall into the dead mans open mouth. If this was a fairy tale his salty tears of life would revitalize the body long expired. Victor would wake this Frankenstein and laugh about the inciting incident; but this is no fairy tale. He looks into the mans open mouth, where there was once possibilities there are now none. He wants to crawl into the hole and disappear, how can he make himself that small?
Victor buries this dark memory. He blinks uncontrollably in the mirror observing the speed of his reflexes. His breath is heavy and fast. He focuses on his blinking and his breathing. Blink twice, breathe once, blink twice, breath once; he is prone to these panic attacks and the key is to focus on something that demands your full attention. He counts down slowly from ten and erases the now distant yet detailed memory. He takes his hands off the sink and stands upright. Beads of sweat wander around his now pale skin. It's difficult to stand and his eyes deceive him focusing on blotches of light that don't exist. He begins to run the razor through the mass of shaving cream on his baldpate. The little silver lawn mower cuts through snow covered grass. He continues to focus on his breathing and his expressionless face in the mirror. After all the Barbasol has been cleaned from his dome, he bangs the razor on the sink dirtying the etch-a-sketch. He takes a towel, runs it under hot water and cleans the dried remnants of cream from his scalp. He still continues to focus on his breathing. He takes his now scabbed pointer finger and traces a large tattoo invading the skin over his heart. It is apparent Victor has done this many times before and this nervous tic relaxes him. He continues to trace the shape of the Swastika with his pointer and unplugs the drain with his free hand. He stares into the endless void. He continues to trace the big blue ink. He reaches for the straight razor with his free hand and looks at the haunting rhythmic movement of the other. He breathes. He stares into the dark hole of possibilities. Where have they gone?
-655321
Victor turns on the hot water and his gaze fixes as it goes from an erratic drip to a steady stream. Steam permeates from the tiny waterfall as droplets bounce off the silver plug exploding like little crystal meteors landing in a nearly invisible Pollock on the unpolluted porcelain. The drain is a wormhole, an expansive stretch in time he wishes he could jump down. As a child he remembers reading Alice In Wonderland and wishing there was a pill that could shrink him down much like the fictional girl allowing him to dance in and out of peoples lives unnoticed. As a young adult he went in search of such a pill but what he found never shrank his physical being, only his perception. As a man he’s given up hope that such an escape exists, yet whenever the water is on he takes out the drain and stares into the darkness. He still wonders if it holds possibilities. He thinks of his regrets. He wishes he had studied Physics in college, he wishes he had gone to college. He wonders if it’s too late to live a life much like Einstein, is there an age when the creative and mental possibilities cease? If he wrote a letter to Stephen Hawking, would he find a way to respond? Perhaps he’d send a well thought out Podcast through the mail.
He opens up the sterile medicine cabinet leaving an oily thumbprint on the bottom left corner of the mirror. Without looking at its contents his fingers navigate towards a shimmering silver straight razor resting on the bottom shelf. He grabs the razor by its sharpest edge with ease, and closes the cabinet. This is part of the routine. While setting the razor down on the perfect glossed white sink he notices the thumbprint, a dried disease on the pristine glass. The razor pokes his pointer finger as he reaches for a tissue to clean the smudge. He doesn’t wince or let out a noise, you could hear a pin made out of feathers drop on the carpeted floor of every room in his home. Never leave a trail- that rules been ingrained, nothing he needed to institute in his own home but an obsessive intricacy from work he’s somehow taken with him after hours like homework.
Staring at the small red bead rushing to the surface of his finger he watches as the blood spreads, now the size of a ladybug. He wants to tell this little lady to flutter her wings and fly away as fast as she can, if she knew what was good for her she’d leave and take solace underneath a flower petal in the park. He’s afraid she will wait too long and dry up, she’ll be stuck to him, stuck with him; its happened before. After all his hands were guilty of everything, they told the stories of a past he’d like to lose down the drain of possibilities. Their complexity reminded him of his own wrongdoings as well as the wrongdoings of an entire culture. He would often sit for hours staring at them, wondering if he’d miss them if tragedy struck in the form of a rusty machete. He’d seen TLC specials on phantom limbs, would he still try and clench a can of Coke even though his fingers were long severed and forgotten? Victor watches as the blood breaks from it’s perfect circle and follows the detailed patterns and life lines on his pointer; much like veins taking blood away from a failing heart, like ants following trails in a cheap plastic ant farm, like painting with watercolors on a sheet of brail. Victor concentrates on his finger too long. The blood dries up, and he looks uncomfortable like a man at a funeral for someone he’s pretending he didn’t know.
Victor recounts a tiny dark room; it’s long been abandoned. The only light illuminating the sparse dwelling is moonlight tearing through the roofs of two buildings across the way. He thinks it could be a room in a motel down the street from his childhood home, but he knows that isn’t true at all. There is a small twin bed in the far corner and a dusty Admiral turntable sitting on the nightstand separating the bed and the lone window. The record player is on but the needle loops around the outer rim continuously like it’s stuck in an unsolvable labyrinth. Victor wishes Johnny Cash was playing, he can almost hear Willy Nelson crooning something about Laredo but he doesn’t, it’s silent. He looks to the floor and sees his dark leather boots shuffling across the uneven rotting wooden floorboards. He gets down on the ground and sniffs an off-colored board. What is that? Victor recounts his face and sees a much younger man, still handsome, but twenty years more spry. He sniffs the spot again; his nose grazes the discoloration and takes away a sticky souvenir. He touches his nose and rubs the war paint, it’s not an unfamiliar color and texture. He knows this part of the memory; he’s been here before. The sparkle of something metallic catches his eye underneath the lone unkempt bed. Vic crawls closer as the dark red from the floor stains his torn blue jeans. His eyes start to tear up as he crawls closer and closer to a dark mass under the bed. He is on the battlefield of a great world war crawling towards screams and confusion, he’s waking from a dream where he’s fallen from a building and paramedics have scraped his lifeless body from shattered concrete. He remembered reading once if you died in your dream you’d never wake in life, yet he still sees something shimmer in the corner of his conscious eye. Victor starts to bang the floorboards and scream. The sparkling object is a shiny old watch attached to a limp wrist, attached to the body of a man: a dead man. Blood leaks from the back of the man's head like milk from a smashed coconut, it follows the grooves in the wood. Victor looks down at his hands with guilt, he doesn't remember picking up or firing the sticky dark pistol . He pulls the fragile man out from underneath the bed. His white t-shirt is stained with the rich innards of a wasted life. Victor performs CPR, he smacks the lifeless body around, his tears fall into the dead mans open mouth. If this was a fairy tale his salty tears of life would revitalize the body long expired. Victor would wake this Frankenstein and laugh about the inciting incident; but this is no fairy tale. He looks into the mans open mouth, where there was once possibilities there are now none. He wants to crawl into the hole and disappear, how can he make himself that small?
Victor buries this dark memory. He blinks uncontrollably in the mirror observing the speed of his reflexes. His breath is heavy and fast. He focuses on his blinking and his breathing. Blink twice, breathe once, blink twice, breath once; he is prone to these panic attacks and the key is to focus on something that demands your full attention. He counts down slowly from ten and erases the now distant yet detailed memory. He takes his hands off the sink and stands upright. Beads of sweat wander around his now pale skin. It's difficult to stand and his eyes deceive him focusing on blotches of light that don't exist. He begins to run the razor through the mass of shaving cream on his baldpate. The little silver lawn mower cuts through snow covered grass. He continues to focus on his breathing and his expressionless face in the mirror. After all the Barbasol has been cleaned from his dome, he bangs the razor on the sink dirtying the etch-a-sketch. He takes a towel, runs it under hot water and cleans the dried remnants of cream from his scalp. He still continues to focus on his breathing. He takes his now scabbed pointer finger and traces a large tattoo invading the skin over his heart. It is apparent Victor has done this many times before and this nervous tic relaxes him. He continues to trace the shape of the Swastika with his pointer and unplugs the drain with his free hand. He stares into the endless void. He continues to trace the big blue ink. He reaches for the straight razor with his free hand and looks at the haunting rhythmic movement of the other. He breathes. He stares into the dark hole of possibilities. Where have they gone?
-655321
Thursday, September 23, 2010
His Shadowy Side
Let’s just call this an adventure of the third person. Mostly.
You know his exterior. It’s a simple charm most find pleasant. You know his
character, his style, his nice eyes and smile. Oh, what a nice guy.
You don’t know his interior. It’s a complicated web most would find foul. You don’t
know his dark tangled core, a mess of emotions he can’t control anymore. Oh, what a
troubled soul.
The story you’ve heard is of Jekyll and Hyde, but that story is fiction, where this
is true life. You meet him, you know him. You see how he lives. What a life, what a
world, what you wouldn’t give.
In real life real people do real with their lives. He imagines great intentions but it
rarely survives. The black ghost, the black cloud, the black mist, the black shroud,
the black news, the black night the black howl the black spite. It defeats the real, the
good, the light. It’s a dark hidden secret he’s trying to fight.
A ‘how do you do’ while his thoughts of a knife plunge through salutations and take
a life…I’ve felt your blood before meeting you. I’ve seen your fear before eating you.
I’ve seen you dead while greeting you. I’ll tell you all this while I’m treating you…to a
nice dinner at my home. So lovely isn’t it? I’ve got paintings on the wall, records and
candles and knick-knacks and all. You’d trust me…even open your heart…Here, let
me help, I’ll break your sternum and ribs to start.
I like to date, but I’m not into long-term relations. I’d take you, for sure, on a long-
term vacation. Let’s have a drink, a date, a screw. I’m a good guy…when I have my
good eye on you.
C’mon I’m a sweetheart! Allow me to show! I just have a dark side…but, who doesn’t,
you know?
-Seven-Butter
You know his exterior. It’s a simple charm most find pleasant. You know his
character, his style, his nice eyes and smile. Oh, what a nice guy.
You don’t know his interior. It’s a complicated web most would find foul. You don’t
know his dark tangled core, a mess of emotions he can’t control anymore. Oh, what a
troubled soul.
The story you’ve heard is of Jekyll and Hyde, but that story is fiction, where this
is true life. You meet him, you know him. You see how he lives. What a life, what a
world, what you wouldn’t give.
In real life real people do real with their lives. He imagines great intentions but it
rarely survives. The black ghost, the black cloud, the black mist, the black shroud,
the black news, the black night the black howl the black spite. It defeats the real, the
good, the light. It’s a dark hidden secret he’s trying to fight.
A ‘how do you do’ while his thoughts of a knife plunge through salutations and take
a life…I’ve felt your blood before meeting you. I’ve seen your fear before eating you.
I’ve seen you dead while greeting you. I’ll tell you all this while I’m treating you…to a
nice dinner at my home. So lovely isn’t it? I’ve got paintings on the wall, records and
candles and knick-knacks and all. You’d trust me…even open your heart…Here, let
me help, I’ll break your sternum and ribs to start.
I like to date, but I’m not into long-term relations. I’d take you, for sure, on a long-
term vacation. Let’s have a drink, a date, a screw. I’m a good guy…when I have my
good eye on you.
C’mon I’m a sweetheart! Allow me to show! I just have a dark side…but, who doesn’t,
you know?
-Seven-Butter
Friday, September 3, 2010
A Letter to Lucious
To my dear, dear, dear Lucious,
(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)
The day you were born was the day I died.
Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.
The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.
I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.
As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”
Vs.
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”
I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.
Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.
You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.
I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.
Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.
There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.
A life of Love,
Daddy
Poppa
Dad
Pops
Emmet Whitmore
9/24/89
-655321
(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)
The day you were born was the day I died.
Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.
The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.
I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.
As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”
Vs.
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”
I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.
Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.
You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.
I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.
Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.
There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.
A life of Love,
Daddy
Poppa
Dad
Pops
Emmet Whitmore
9/24/89
-655321
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
