It started the way any normal, mundane trend in life does: without notice. The long, rough weekend preceding a particularly stressful work week. The night of sleep interrupted by the dog barking or a car backfiring as it passed by. The series of small, yet frustrating missteps in the routine that formed a gravely pathway downhill.
Caught up in the everyday requirements or her existence, she did her best to ignore the grains of sleep in her eyes that no amount of rubbing could remove. She stifled the yawns in meetings and drank extra cups of coffee. She went to bed early, leaving the to-do list undone so she would have the time to finally catch up. But the promise of a good night’s sleep continued to elude her and her mind began to lag behind the events of the day.
The e-mails she had read and planned to respond to but forgot in the shuffle of an answered phone call and questions about papers on her desk. The questioning expressions on the faces of those she talked to when she lost the words she’d been speaking. The letters that got half composed and the confusion that flooded her when she tried to remember what she’d been saying.
Home life refused to grant her a reprieve. Dinner got burned and ingredients went missing leaving her with a bad taste in her mouth and queasiness that lingered. The dog got walked multiple times as she couldn’t remember when she’d last performed the task. Time slipped by unnoticed and she’d startle as if waking up from a dream, then wonder how it had gotten so late without the vital chores getting done.
The moments that didn’t match up, the gaps in her narrative, the spaces in-between the normal details of her life. They started to build-up; sticking to each other like so many half-chewed pieces of gum. Each uncompleted task, each non sequitur moment building up and clouding her mind. She existed on auto-pilot, the monotony of her days propelling her forward, moving her from place to place without her input or direction.
Until the moment that she awoke, and found herself staring at a face in the mirror which she did not recognize.
Showing posts with label psychosis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychosis. Show all posts
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Awake
There were voices in the hallway, just
beyond the door. Whispering like mice in the attic, the sound of tiny
footsteps in dust. She tried to make out words, form some structure with
the sounds. But all her ears could pick up were the sharp S noises and elongated
vowels.
She stared at the space under the door,
the crack of light bleeding into the room. Willing her mind to zoom in on
the space like a camera lens. She held her breath and the constraints
pulled against her inflated chest as she strained her neck forward.
Fragments of the conversation filtered
through. Words like “disorganized” and “cognitive fluctuations” and, the
one that came out most clearly, “delirium”. Her brain stuck on the word as
if it were made of flypaper and she rolled it around in her mind, hoping it
would stick to something else that made sense.
Footsteps drew her
attention back to the noises coming from behind the door. There were more words she didn’t understand
punctuated with numbers and measurements like “milligrams”. She heard the door knob turn and watched
strangers approach her.
“How are you
feeling this morning Ms. Morris?” a man with white hair and small, rectangular
glasses asked her as he walked in. A
short, squat man with a projecting bottom lip and furrowed brow followed him
in.
She stared at the small man with the
face of a bulldog and a memory nibbled at the edge of her awareness. It evaporated like dew on patio furniture when
she concentrated.
“Ms. Morris?”
the older man asked, raising his eye brows and smiling condescendingly.
She looked
at him and tried to remember what he had asked her. Her face itched and she lifted her hand to
scratch it but her wrist caught on something.
She was instantly aware that her whole body was bound to the bed in safety
restraints, the realization hitting her like a tidal wave.
“Ms. Morris, do you know where you are?”
She looked
up at the men, their starched white coats, their neckties and leather
belts. She pulled against the straps.
“Do you know
what day it is?” the older one tried again.
She fought
against the restraints, her body trying to arch upwards. Her back made a tent with her wrists and arms
strapped down and she pushed upwards against the large strap across her chest. She could feel the heavy fabric strain
against her, holding her in the confines of the small hospital bed.
The men were
talking again but her panic drowned them out.
She thrashed violently, struggling to break free. She noticed for the first time how much her
wrists hurt, how her head ached.
Her focus
narrowed down, blocking out the sound of people running in from the hallway,
the scuffle of sneakers on the linoleum floor, the shouts and instructions. She existed only in the strain of her body
against her restraints. And then, in the
needle in her arm.
Monday, April 8, 2013
G is for Garden
Source: The Atlantic Cities
There were voices in the darkness. He could hear them whispering. Like a thousand overheard conversations where all he could make out were the S sounds.
He picked up his pillow and cradled his head with it, then pulled the covers up and tried to block them out. But he could still hear them.
He threw the covers off in one violent motion and kicked his legs out. The bed squeaked and he liked the sound. He bounced on it a couple of more times to repeat the noise then threw his legs over the side and pushed himself off from the bed. He tore open the drawers of his dresser and grabbed the newly laundered pants and t-shirt his mother had brought him. The noise and motion quieted the voices.
He clomped downstairs like a Clydesdale, making the pictures on the wall rattle with each step he took.
“Walter? Is that you?” he heard his mother call.
“Of course it’s me, no one else lives here!” he yelled as he rounded the banister and went into the kitchen.
“Alright darling, there’s no need to shout. Here, I made you some toast and jam,” she said, offering him a plate.
“I don’t want it!” he snapped at her.
“Darling, you need to eat so you can take your pills,” she said, gently.
“I don’t want it!” he yelled, then grabbed the plate and raised it above his head.
He breathed in and started to rip his arm down but her hand was on his wrist before he could make the throw and she gently pried his fingers apart. He snapped his arm out of her grip and hit himself in the face with his palm. He liked it. He hit himself a few more times.
“No, no- darling,” she said, grabbing at both of his hands and pulling them in so that he was sort-of hugging himself.
He fidgeted, hating her and the voices and their incessant whispers. But she held him, cradled him, and hummed the same lullaby he’d heard since as long as he could remember. He calmed in spite of himself and settled back against the warmth of her blouse.
“There now,” she said, freeing him. She picked up a piece of toast, covered it with raspberry jam and placed it on the plate which she cautiously slid in front of him.
“Are you going to work in the garden today?” she asked as she poured his medications out of the Monday morning slot and placed them on the plate next to his toast.
“Of course I am” he said and two-handedly popped the pills into his mouth.
She said a silent ‘thank you’ as she watched him swallow them.
He ate his toast in large, angry bites then stood without further explanation and pulled open the kitchen door.
“Here darling,” she said, handing him the sun hat she’d bought after he’d burned his head last time.
He grumbled as he took it from her, jumped down the stairs and went out. As soon as his feet touched the ground he felt better. He immediately set to work, pulling slugs off the plants and plucking weeds from the soil.
The brown soil, the green leaves, the sounds were all real. The sunlight chased the darkness full of whispers away. He settled inside as he worked his trade and forgot about the voices for now.
In the kitchen she picked the phone up and dialed.
“John? Yes it’s me… he’s fine… well, you know- mornings are always a bit rough for him… yes, I got him to take his medications and he even ate a piece of toast… no, I think he’s going to stay in the garden until sun down so we should be fine until then… I got him to wear the new sun hat, I’ll see if I can sneak some sunblock on his arms later… Oh it is? Well then he’ll get a little wet… no, I’m not going to fight him on that again, a little dampness never hurt anyone… He loves his garden, John- you should really see him. What? Ok, I’ll take a picture. Yes, we’ll see you later,” she said, and placed the phone back on the receiver.
She stood in the doorway and looked down on him, smiling.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Silent Night
She didn’t know it- she was never told or taught. But she’d discovered it like everything else she knew. There was simply a limit to how much one could take. Everyone was different and there was no way to measure what would mark one’s capacity. But she’d reached hers.
She didn’t feel it coming, she thought the pain would never end. But one day she’d woken up, prepared for the drudgery her life had become- and it was gone. It simply wasn’t anymore. She felt nothing. There was no relief, no release. There was just an empty space where her emotions had once been.
Love, jealousy, desperation, anger and the need for revenge- none of these drove her actions. She performed them with the same simple meticulous calculations she’d come to be known for in everything she did. But as she moved through the motions in preparation for the biggest holiday she felt none of strains that had previously defined the time. She simply did, performed, executed.
The meal was perfect- not only in preparation but presentation. And the house looked as beautiful as it ever had. More so because of the quiet that fell over the scene when the meal was finished.
She went through the house room by room, making sure everything was in order. The clothes hung in the closet like sterile instruments. The bed clothes were tucked in place. Each item place perfectly. All was immaculate.
Downstairs the large room beckoned. She sat there for a time, watching the lights glow softly from the tree. The holly hanging over the mantle place was dark and still. The colors of the table spread blended together- each item placed so as to convey an overall wholeness. The empty faces of her company were the only objects out of place. But they would be gone soon.
She looked into her husband’s eyes, now large and unfocused. The frothy drool coming from the corner of his mouth reflected the candle light from the table, letting her know the job was done. His mouth would emit no more lies. She looked at him, waiting to feel something- one of the familiar emotions that had been the last years of their marriage. But the empty space remained.
His parents evoked a similar lack of response, their silence deepening the calm of the scene. There would be no more manipulations, criticisms, evaluations of her shortcoming as the wife of their perfect son. As she looked at them feeling nothing she knew they would not be missed. The world would move on without them. And although it might not be a better world, she knew that at least she would no longer be a part of the game.
She took one last look around the picturesque home that had been the lie of her existence and sighed. Not from regret, nor loss, nor anything else that might mark such a departure. She sighed because it fit the scene, which was perfect.
As she locked the door behind her the flames illuminated the windows. It would soon be the brightest Christmas scene on the block. And although the charred ruins would mar the perfection of the scene the bodies would be ash. Her memories would have nothing real to connect with.
As she walked down the dark street the falling snow threatened to chill her. But behind her the fire was spreading, crackling to life as it fed on the gas that had ignited it. She carried the warmth of it with her.
She didn’t feel it coming, she thought the pain would never end. But one day she’d woken up, prepared for the drudgery her life had become- and it was gone. It simply wasn’t anymore. She felt nothing. There was no relief, no release. There was just an empty space where her emotions had once been.
Love, jealousy, desperation, anger and the need for revenge- none of these drove her actions. She performed them with the same simple meticulous calculations she’d come to be known for in everything she did. But as she moved through the motions in preparation for the biggest holiday she felt none of strains that had previously defined the time. She simply did, performed, executed.
The meal was perfect- not only in preparation but presentation. And the house looked as beautiful as it ever had. More so because of the quiet that fell over the scene when the meal was finished.
She went through the house room by room, making sure everything was in order. The clothes hung in the closet like sterile instruments. The bed clothes were tucked in place. Each item place perfectly. All was immaculate.
Downstairs the large room beckoned. She sat there for a time, watching the lights glow softly from the tree. The holly hanging over the mantle place was dark and still. The colors of the table spread blended together- each item placed so as to convey an overall wholeness. The empty faces of her company were the only objects out of place. But they would be gone soon.
She looked into her husband’s eyes, now large and unfocused. The frothy drool coming from the corner of his mouth reflected the candle light from the table, letting her know the job was done. His mouth would emit no more lies. She looked at him, waiting to feel something- one of the familiar emotions that had been the last years of their marriage. But the empty space remained.
His parents evoked a similar lack of response, their silence deepening the calm of the scene. There would be no more manipulations, criticisms, evaluations of her shortcoming as the wife of their perfect son. As she looked at them feeling nothing she knew they would not be missed. The world would move on without them. And although it might not be a better world, she knew that at least she would no longer be a part of the game.
She took one last look around the picturesque home that had been the lie of her existence and sighed. Not from regret, nor loss, nor anything else that might mark such a departure. She sighed because it fit the scene, which was perfect.
As she locked the door behind her the flames illuminated the windows. It would soon be the brightest Christmas scene on the block. And although the charred ruins would mar the perfection of the scene the bodies would be ash. Her memories would have nothing real to connect with.
As she walked down the dark street the falling snow threatened to chill her. But behind her the fire was spreading, crackling to life as it fed on the gas that had ignited it. She carried the warmth of it with her.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Ear Worm
No one believed her but she knew- she knew they’d changed her somehow. It wasn’t just a simple medical procedure like they’d told her it would be. She’d never acted like this before- losing track of time, ending up in places she didn’t remember going to. And they’d never used words like “paranoid” or “delusional” to describe her before. No way a simple medical procedure would do that.
The first time it had happened she’d ‘woken up’ in a back alley. It wasn’t like she’d been sleeping- it was like coming back into conscious after fainting. Like her mind had just been somewhere else. She didn’t remember how she’d gotten there. All she could recall was the strains of a song that was familiar in a way she couldn’t place. It was stuck in her head but she couldn’t hum the chords when she tried- forever caught on the tip of her tongue without the finality of sound.
She tried to convince herself it was sleep walking or amnesia or something that would explain the memory gaps. She’d even contemplated the possibility that it might be a brain tumor but a CAT scan had eliminated that hypothesis. She couldn’t tell anyone- she knew they’d lock her up. But it was happening more and more often.
Then one day she finally ‘woke up’ in a jail cell and the police told her they’d found her standing over a body. They told her they suspected it was only the most recent of several they’d been finding. She’d had enough- she told them. Told them how they’d put something in her during the surgery. That none of this was her fault, that she wasn’t in control. That’s when they shipped her to the nuthouse and the doctors started using those terms. Idiots.
She didn’t have long to be scared though, only one day later she had a visitor. It seemed strange to have someone come see her when they’d deemed her a threat to both herself and others- especially considering that she had no friends or family or anyone else that might come to visit. But when she saw him it made sense. Plain suit, nondescript face. The kind of person you’d see a thousand times on the subway and never remember. She knew he had come from them- the ones that had made her this way.
He spoke to her in soothing tones, told her it would be ok, that he would get her out of there. Said he’d know this time had been difficult for her but that ‘testing’ was hard for everyone. He said the word as if it were standard operating procedure from some employee manual.
She tried to explain to him calmly that wherever he was from they had the wrong girl. But all of her protests were met with an air of calm disregard and hurried attitude like there was too much to do. She was getting ready to make a run for it when he started humming a familiar tune. She had just enough time to think “I wonder when I’ll wake up again”… then that strange haze fell over her vision again.
The first time it had happened she’d ‘woken up’ in a back alley. It wasn’t like she’d been sleeping- it was like coming back into conscious after fainting. Like her mind had just been somewhere else. She didn’t remember how she’d gotten there. All she could recall was the strains of a song that was familiar in a way she couldn’t place. It was stuck in her head but she couldn’t hum the chords when she tried- forever caught on the tip of her tongue without the finality of sound.
She tried to convince herself it was sleep walking or amnesia or something that would explain the memory gaps. She’d even contemplated the possibility that it might be a brain tumor but a CAT scan had eliminated that hypothesis. She couldn’t tell anyone- she knew they’d lock her up. But it was happening more and more often.
Then one day she finally ‘woke up’ in a jail cell and the police told her they’d found her standing over a body. They told her they suspected it was only the most recent of several they’d been finding. She’d had enough- she told them. Told them how they’d put something in her during the surgery. That none of this was her fault, that she wasn’t in control. That’s when they shipped her to the nuthouse and the doctors started using those terms. Idiots.
She didn’t have long to be scared though, only one day later she had a visitor. It seemed strange to have someone come see her when they’d deemed her a threat to both herself and others- especially considering that she had no friends or family or anyone else that might come to visit. But when she saw him it made sense. Plain suit, nondescript face. The kind of person you’d see a thousand times on the subway and never remember. She knew he had come from them- the ones that had made her this way.
He spoke to her in soothing tones, told her it would be ok, that he would get her out of there. Said he’d know this time had been difficult for her but that ‘testing’ was hard for everyone. He said the word as if it were standard operating procedure from some employee manual.
She tried to explain to him calmly that wherever he was from they had the wrong girl. But all of her protests were met with an air of calm disregard and hurried attitude like there was too much to do. She was getting ready to make a run for it when he started humming a familiar tune. She had just enough time to think “I wonder when I’ll wake up again”… then that strange haze fell over her vision again.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N' Jim (VI)
Notes On How To Make a Wing Man
It was strange how quickly two strangers could fall into such relaxed, comfortable conversation. Then again, it was a strange setting and the rules of normalcy showed no signs of applying here. Perhaps this was normal in life when people weren’t trying so hard to fit the norm.
"Were you ever a bouncer?" Tom asked. It was an obvious question but one he couldn’t help but ask. When someone is built like a brick wall you can’t help but want the comfort of knowing that they’re using the talent. Cartoonish images of a giant, lumbering form tucked behind a tiny desk in a tiny cubicle depressed Tom and he wanted verification that Jim lived elsewhere in life.
"Maybe in a past life," Jim answered with what might have been a grin.
Tom looked at him for a second, trying to gauge if he was joking. "Oh.. really?”
"Nah, that stuff's crazy," Jim laughed. He was the kind of guy who talked in short words. Words that had been clipped of extra syllables. Not because he was stupid and didn't know they were supposed to be longer, but more because he knew he could get the point across without them. Or at least that's how it seemed.
Tom smiled at him, relieved.
“Then again, crazy fits right in here,” Jim said with a hand to the side of his mouth. Just then, as if to illustrate the point, one of the patients- the one Jim had called ‘Ben’ when he’d handed him his fruit cup- let out a large yelp and jumped up from his chair as if it’d bit him. He then turned to it and began kicking it repeatedly whilst yelling at it in the same nonsensical language Tom had heard him use earlier.
Without a prompt, Jim pointed to the old man in front of the tv with the drool on his check saying, "That Teigs, he's been messed up ever since Vietnam."
"Then he shouldn't he be in a VA hospital?" Tom asked.
"Ah, nah- he wasn't no soldier- he was a conscientious objector," Jim answered, as if that was a perfectly good reason to be screwed in the head.
"That Cheryl,” Jim said, waving a hand towards the woman by the window. “She don't say much. Or anything, really. Just sits there all day, staring out that window."
"Why? Or is that a stupid question?"
"Thinks she's a bird, flying around out there."
Tom looked at her there, her head tilted slightly upward as if trying to get the best view of the sky. It made sense.
"So, got any advice?"Tom asked, ignoring the interruption.
"Yeah, keep to yourself, don't talk too loud and get as much sleep as you can,” Jim rattled off the list as if it were the standard orientation speech he’d prepared earlier. “Oh! And don't eat the broccoli."
"Why?" Tom asked, generally interested in this new advice.
"Why do you think everyone around is here so wonked out?" Jim asked him, eying the inhabitants of the room like they were prisoners in some POW camp.
Tom followed his companion’s eyes around the room, surveying the patients. The outburst from Ben had subsided and he’d returned to sidling along the corridor at a snail’s pace, his lopsided hospital gown hanging almost to his ankles on one side. Tom looked with suspicion now at the drool coming from the corners of lips, the glazed expression on so many frozen faces.
“But… isn’t that just the psych meds?”
“Some of it,” Jim said, still looking out at the patients with a hardened expression as if regretting not being to change what he saw. “But if anyone ever asks you, I didn’t say nothing, ok?” he jumped, looking at Tom with an imploring bend of his lower lip.
“Uh, yeah- sure.” Tom said. He looked at Jim with a new emotion now- curiosity. He was obviously more than just a friendly orderly. He found himself going through the normal mental process of judging- trying to concluded whether or not working in a nut house had, by proxy, made him nuts. But there was something in his face that made him stop. Logical conclusions seemed like something that just weren’t a good idea in a place like this. Besides, who was he to judge?
“So, how, uh… how do I get out of this place?” Tom asked, not wanting to pursue the touchy subject of broccoli any further.
“You gotta convince them you’re not nuts,” Jim said, brushing a piece of lint from his pants.
“How?”
“Talk to the doctor, tell him you did whatever you did cause of something other than being crazy.”
“Uh, huh,” Tom said, letting his voice carry the doubt that it was all that simple. “And when do I get to see the doctor?”
“When’d you get in here?”
“Yester-“ Tom stopped himself. He went over his internal clock and tried to categorize the stops in his journey- the ambulance, the hospital, the cops, this room. As hard as he tried to benchmark his progress based on the few moments that stuck out with clarity he couldn’t formulate a time and date. It all bled together as if he’d been on a bender and blacked out huge amounts of time. “I… I don’t know,” he finally concluded.
“Broccoli,” Jim said, giving him a heavy pat on the back as he stood up from his chair. Then without another word he walked off without so much as a backward glance.
It was strange how quickly two strangers could fall into such relaxed, comfortable conversation. Then again, it was a strange setting and the rules of normalcy showed no signs of applying here. Perhaps this was normal in life when people weren’t trying so hard to fit the norm.
"Were you ever a bouncer?" Tom asked. It was an obvious question but one he couldn’t help but ask. When someone is built like a brick wall you can’t help but want the comfort of knowing that they’re using the talent. Cartoonish images of a giant, lumbering form tucked behind a tiny desk in a tiny cubicle depressed Tom and he wanted verification that Jim lived elsewhere in life.
"Maybe in a past life," Jim answered with what might have been a grin.
Tom looked at him for a second, trying to gauge if he was joking. "Oh.. really?”
"Nah, that stuff's crazy," Jim laughed. He was the kind of guy who talked in short words. Words that had been clipped of extra syllables. Not because he was stupid and didn't know they were supposed to be longer, but more because he knew he could get the point across without them. Or at least that's how it seemed.
Tom smiled at him, relieved.
“Then again, crazy fits right in here,” Jim said with a hand to the side of his mouth. Just then, as if to illustrate the point, one of the patients- the one Jim had called ‘Ben’ when he’d handed him his fruit cup- let out a large yelp and jumped up from his chair as if it’d bit him. He then turned to it and began kicking it repeatedly whilst yelling at it in the same nonsensical language Tom had heard him use earlier.
Without a prompt, Jim pointed to the old man in front of the tv with the drool on his check saying, "That Teigs, he's been messed up ever since Vietnam."
"Then he shouldn't he be in a VA hospital?" Tom asked.
"Ah, nah- he wasn't no soldier- he was a conscientious objector," Jim answered, as if that was a perfectly good reason to be screwed in the head.
"That Cheryl,” Jim said, waving a hand towards the woman by the window. “She don't say much. Or anything, really. Just sits there all day, staring out that window."
"Why? Or is that a stupid question?"
"Thinks she's a bird, flying around out there."
Tom looked at her there, her head tilted slightly upward as if trying to get the best view of the sky. It made sense.
"So, got any advice?"Tom asked, ignoring the interruption.
"Yeah, keep to yourself, don't talk too loud and get as much sleep as you can,” Jim rattled off the list as if it were the standard orientation speech he’d prepared earlier. “Oh! And don't eat the broccoli."
"Why?" Tom asked, generally interested in this new advice.
"Why do you think everyone around is here so wonked out?" Jim asked him, eying the inhabitants of the room like they were prisoners in some POW camp.
Tom followed his companion’s eyes around the room, surveying the patients. The outburst from Ben had subsided and he’d returned to sidling along the corridor at a snail’s pace, his lopsided hospital gown hanging almost to his ankles on one side. Tom looked with suspicion now at the drool coming from the corners of lips, the glazed expression on so many frozen faces.
“But… isn’t that just the psych meds?”
“Some of it,” Jim said, still looking out at the patients with a hardened expression as if regretting not being to change what he saw. “But if anyone ever asks you, I didn’t say nothing, ok?” he jumped, looking at Tom with an imploring bend of his lower lip.
“Uh, yeah- sure.” Tom said. He looked at Jim with a new emotion now- curiosity. He was obviously more than just a friendly orderly. He found himself going through the normal mental process of judging- trying to concluded whether or not working in a nut house had, by proxy, made him nuts. But there was something in his face that made him stop. Logical conclusions seemed like something that just weren’t a good idea in a place like this. Besides, who was he to judge?
“So, how, uh… how do I get out of this place?” Tom asked, not wanting to pursue the touchy subject of broccoli any further.
“You gotta convince them you’re not nuts,” Jim said, brushing a piece of lint from his pants.
“How?”
“Talk to the doctor, tell him you did whatever you did cause of something other than being crazy.”
“Uh, huh,” Tom said, letting his voice carry the doubt that it was all that simple. “And when do I get to see the doctor?”
“When’d you get in here?”
“Yester-“ Tom stopped himself. He went over his internal clock and tried to categorize the stops in his journey- the ambulance, the hospital, the cops, this room. As hard as he tried to benchmark his progress based on the few moments that stuck out with clarity he couldn’t formulate a time and date. It all bled together as if he’d been on a bender and blacked out huge amounts of time. “I… I don’t know,” he finally concluded.
“Broccoli,” Jim said, giving him a heavy pat on the back as he stood up from his chair. Then without another word he walked off without so much as a backward glance.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N' Jim (V)
The Tall, Dark Stranger
The sound of large, heavy doors being unlocked distracted him from his maze of disjointed thoughts and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Through the split doors came a metal cart filled with small, paper cups. The shadows of different colors behind the folded paper made him think they were pills but then he caught the scent of fruit. Fruit cart. The very thought unsettled him further. Then he looked up to see the person pushing the cart and his breath actually caught in his throat.
He was an imposing, giant redwood of a man with skin almost the same color as the giant Oregonian trees. His biceps swelled so large and supported such huge shoulders that his head seemed to be hiding between the two giant stumps of muscles. He looked like the kind-of guy who could pin his entire body down with one arm while yawning and flipping through channels on tv as if bored. It made perfect sense for him to be an orderly. Or a bouncer.
“Fruit time, everybody!” he called out to the room joyfully. “Time for some sweet, tasty fruit,” he sang, more to himself than to anyone else. He wheeled the cart to the corner first, handed the fruit cup to the man who had been yelling in another language. The man stopped his rant instantly and took the cup happily, as if the angry man who’d been yelling was instantly gone, replaced by a 12 year-old happy to have his snack. “There ya go, Ben- I knew you’d feel better once ya got your snack.”
He wheeled the cart over to the crew by the tv and began dispensing cups. “Sally, eat some fruit- gotta get some meat on these ol’ bones,” he said, handing the cup to the frail girl rocking in her seat. She released her grip on her knees and took it from him without looking up to acknowledge him in any way, but stopped rocking just a little and spooned out a large chunk of some soggy, orange mass. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.
“Come on Al, fruit time,” he called to the drooling man. He reached down and took the man’s hand and folded it around the cup. He didn’t respond in any way, his remained on it side, drool coming out like a slowly growing mold.
“Jerry, can’t we don nothing ‘bout this?” he said, straightening up and looking over to the other orderly who’d follow’d him in.
“Wish we could man, but Doc Brown put him on the dose for a reason. It is not for anyone else to question.” Came the answer from a tall, thin man who’d been on the outskirts of the room watching.
The redwood man sighed and the sound of the air coming out his lungs sounded like a strong breeze- the kind that could break off a tree branch during a storm. “Alright, then- can we at least get her upright then,” he said, bending to the double over figure.
The man he’d spoken to earlier, Jerry was the name he’d responded to, came over and knelt before the double frame, trying to see the eyes that must have been looking at the underside of the chair. “Mrs. Corning? Jim has brought you some fruit. You want to have some fruit?” he asked. A small, muffled came from the figure and Jerry reached around them carefully to help them straighten up.
As he straightened her it became apparent that she was, in fact, a woman. And in addition to weighing no more than 80 or so pond she also looked like she was on the later side of 70, perhaps even older. The man straightened her back in the chair with the delicacy of a cook placing the final flourish on a temperamental soufflé, careful not to disturb her in any way. It was no wonder the giant didn’t want to touch her, he’d probably snap her in half is he used any more than a finger worth of pressure.
“Thanks, Jerry,” the giant said as he placed the fruit cup on the arm rest of the chair the woman now sat back in.
“Just doin’ my job,” jerry said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Oh my goodness, what have we have here?” he boomed jollily as he beheld the newcomer. “What your name, champ?”
He had to think about it for a second before he could answer and that bothered him. “Tom- uh, to-“ he choked on the word as if something were stuck in his throat and coughed to get it out. He hadn’t remembered when his mouth had turned to sand paper.
“Tom- ‘sok. It’ll wear off in a day or two, no worries,” the giant said, wheeling the cart toward him. “Here, have some fruit- it’ll help.”
Tom waved the cup offered away and continued to choke on his own saliva. The coughing worsened and he actually had to straighten his back to keep his lungs filling up with air to continue the coughing fit. A small plastic cup grippe by a giant hand appeared in front of hi and Tom grabbed it without even looked up. He started the down the water like a dying man in a desert.
“Woah, woah- slow down there or you’ll choke even worse,” he said. Tom forced himself to slow and lengthen the next gulp. “There ya go- that’s better. Now sip that slowly and you should feel better.”
“What- was that?” Tom managed to sputter, still trying to get his chest back in order. He tried to clear his throat and struggled.
“Keep sipping. Don’t worry about it- we all come out looking worse for the wear our first day here,” he said, grabbing a chair near him and turning it to Tom. “They give everybody something when they first come in- whether they need it or not. All the heavy duty ones’ll give that mouth rot.”
Tom swallowed gingerly and then looked at the man sitting next to him. “Mouth ‘rot’ you said? What is that?”
“What you got- the dryness and stuff,” he said.
“Oh. Never heard that term before,” Tom said.
“That’s cause I think I made it up- no doctor’d call it that.”
“Oh,” Tom said weakly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll pass. Anyways- Tom. I’m Jim,” he said offered his baseball glove-sized hand to him.
“Hey, Jim,” Tom said, shaking. “I’d say it’s nice to meet but given the circumstances it would seem insincere.”
The sound of large, heavy doors being unlocked distracted him from his maze of disjointed thoughts and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Through the split doors came a metal cart filled with small, paper cups. The shadows of different colors behind the folded paper made him think they were pills but then he caught the scent of fruit. Fruit cart. The very thought unsettled him further. Then he looked up to see the person pushing the cart and his breath actually caught in his throat.
He was an imposing, giant redwood of a man with skin almost the same color as the giant Oregonian trees. His biceps swelled so large and supported such huge shoulders that his head seemed to be hiding between the two giant stumps of muscles. He looked like the kind-of guy who could pin his entire body down with one arm while yawning and flipping through channels on tv as if bored. It made perfect sense for him to be an orderly. Or a bouncer.
“Fruit time, everybody!” he called out to the room joyfully. “Time for some sweet, tasty fruit,” he sang, more to himself than to anyone else. He wheeled the cart to the corner first, handed the fruit cup to the man who had been yelling in another language. The man stopped his rant instantly and took the cup happily, as if the angry man who’d been yelling was instantly gone, replaced by a 12 year-old happy to have his snack. “There ya go, Ben- I knew you’d feel better once ya got your snack.”
He wheeled the cart over to the crew by the tv and began dispensing cups. “Sally, eat some fruit- gotta get some meat on these ol’ bones,” he said, handing the cup to the frail girl rocking in her seat. She released her grip on her knees and took it from him without looking up to acknowledge him in any way, but stopped rocking just a little and spooned out a large chunk of some soggy, orange mass. “Good girl,” he cooed to her.
“Come on Al, fruit time,” he called to the drooling man. He reached down and took the man’s hand and folded it around the cup. He didn’t respond in any way, his remained on it side, drool coming out like a slowly growing mold.
“Jerry, can’t we don nothing ‘bout this?” he said, straightening up and looking over to the other orderly who’d follow’d him in.
“Wish we could man, but Doc Brown put him on the dose for a reason. It is not for anyone else to question.” Came the answer from a tall, thin man who’d been on the outskirts of the room watching.
The redwood man sighed and the sound of the air coming out his lungs sounded like a strong breeze- the kind that could break off a tree branch during a storm. “Alright, then- can we at least get her upright then,” he said, bending to the double over figure.
The man he’d spoken to earlier, Jerry was the name he’d responded to, came over and knelt before the double frame, trying to see the eyes that must have been looking at the underside of the chair. “Mrs. Corning? Jim has brought you some fruit. You want to have some fruit?” he asked. A small, muffled came from the figure and Jerry reached around them carefully to help them straighten up.
As he straightened her it became apparent that she was, in fact, a woman. And in addition to weighing no more than 80 or so pond she also looked like she was on the later side of 70, perhaps even older. The man straightened her back in the chair with the delicacy of a cook placing the final flourish on a temperamental soufflé, careful not to disturb her in any way. It was no wonder the giant didn’t want to touch her, he’d probably snap her in half is he used any more than a finger worth of pressure.
“Thanks, Jerry,” the giant said as he placed the fruit cup on the arm rest of the chair the woman now sat back in.
“Just doin’ my job,” jerry said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Oh my goodness, what have we have here?” he boomed jollily as he beheld the newcomer. “What your name, champ?”
He had to think about it for a second before he could answer and that bothered him. “Tom- uh, to-“ he choked on the word as if something were stuck in his throat and coughed to get it out. He hadn’t remembered when his mouth had turned to sand paper.
“Tom- ‘sok. It’ll wear off in a day or two, no worries,” the giant said, wheeling the cart toward him. “Here, have some fruit- it’ll help.”
Tom waved the cup offered away and continued to choke on his own saliva. The coughing worsened and he actually had to straighten his back to keep his lungs filling up with air to continue the coughing fit. A small plastic cup grippe by a giant hand appeared in front of hi and Tom grabbed it without even looked up. He started the down the water like a dying man in a desert.
“Woah, woah- slow down there or you’ll choke even worse,” he said. Tom forced himself to slow and lengthen the next gulp. “There ya go- that’s better. Now sip that slowly and you should feel better.”
“What- was that?” Tom managed to sputter, still trying to get his chest back in order. He tried to clear his throat and struggled.
“Keep sipping. Don’t worry about it- we all come out looking worse for the wear our first day here,” he said, grabbing a chair near him and turning it to Tom. “They give everybody something when they first come in- whether they need it or not. All the heavy duty ones’ll give that mouth rot.”
Tom swallowed gingerly and then looked at the man sitting next to him. “Mouth ‘rot’ you said? What is that?”
“What you got- the dryness and stuff,” he said.
“Oh. Never heard that term before,” Tom said.
“That’s cause I think I made it up- no doctor’d call it that.”
“Oh,” Tom said weakly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll pass. Anyways- Tom. I’m Jim,” he said offered his baseball glove-sized hand to him.
“Hey, Jim,” Tom said, shaking. “I’d say it’s nice to meet but given the circumstances it would seem insincere.”
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N' Jim (IV)
Sunbeams and Psychotics
He sat in the main ‘livingroom’ surveying the scene. Lacking the hallmark card childhood that you see in so many different commercials he wasn’t used to a homey, comfortable “living area” but even to him this seemed like a stretch.
Cold linoleum floors that reflected the light pouring in through the screened windows, cheap vinyl seats scattered throughout the room, a single clock high up on the wall ticking away the day. If felt like the sort of place you’d go to die- empty, sterile, lifeless.
The inhabitants of the place did nothing to boost his confidence. There was a small, bearded man in the corner yelling loudly and animatedly in a language he couldn’t make out. Every now an again he’d bang his hand on the arms rest of his chair as if to illustrate his point, whatever it might be.
There was a small assortments of outcasts gathered around the television set- a large, monstrous box that looked like it would’ve been the latest technology in home theater viewing back in 1967. All of them were in some stage of comatose excitement.
There was an old man that looked like he hadn’t been bathed or shaven in longer than could be easily deduced sat staring in the general direction of the TV with drool warming his lip and cheek. There was a young woman with her hospital gown draping open in the back, revealing her bare buttocks resting on the chair as she help her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth gently. He couldn’t quite make it out over the sound of the television but she might have been humming to herself. And then there was the slight frame bent over onto itself. He couldn’t figure out from the back if it were a man a woman, how old they were or what other distinguishing characteristic they might have. All of his attention was trapped on the giant bulge of spine popping out of the person’s back, curled over like the remnants of a demolished building. The skin stretched as if the person it belonged to hadn’t eaten food since the last presidential election and he felt himself cringe internally at the thought of how bad the food here must be if they were that diminished.
Of all the inhabitants in the room- those shuffling back and forth in hospital slippers, those yelling or mumbling to themselves (or to people only they could see and hear) and the candy box assortment of half conscious ghosts there was one person who attracted his attention more than any of them. Her platinum blond hair seemed to glow like a white halo around her head, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window in front of her. Her arms showed the scars of a from of self injury he wasn’t familiar with- the cabs might’ve been from an instrument or her finger nails, there was no easy way of telling. She sat as still as a statue, her head tilted upward towards the sky, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
He didn’t know why she attracted his attention so much, she didn’t seem any more in touch than anyone else in the room. But there was something about the way she sat, gaze transfixed and unmoving, that interested him. She didn’t ignore the disturbances of the room like her more comatose brethren, something about her made it seem like she heard it and just chose to ignore it. And her stance wasn’t the relaxed calm of a person too drugged up to experience regular muscle movement- it was the calm, reclined position of someone in a genuine state of relaxation. And perhaps that was what was so odd about her- that she couldn’t be detached in that… normal of a way. It made him wonder what she was looking at.
He observed all of this from the back and sat, wondering what would happen next. It had seemed to him lately that he’d become a second class passenger in own life, watching his life fly by without any control of where it would go next. And although he didn’t know who was in charge, he knew that they had absolutely no interest in making his journey anymore pleasant for him. He should’ve been upset about that, on some level. But he wasn’t. He was only vaguely irked as if it didn’t really matter all that much.
And that reaction, or lack thereof, more than anything else he’d gone through lately made him think that maybe he wasn’t as out of place here as he’d like to think.
He sat in the main ‘livingroom’ surveying the scene. Lacking the hallmark card childhood that you see in so many different commercials he wasn’t used to a homey, comfortable “living area” but even to him this seemed like a stretch.
Cold linoleum floors that reflected the light pouring in through the screened windows, cheap vinyl seats scattered throughout the room, a single clock high up on the wall ticking away the day. If felt like the sort of place you’d go to die- empty, sterile, lifeless.
The inhabitants of the place did nothing to boost his confidence. There was a small, bearded man in the corner yelling loudly and animatedly in a language he couldn’t make out. Every now an again he’d bang his hand on the arms rest of his chair as if to illustrate his point, whatever it might be.
There was a small assortments of outcasts gathered around the television set- a large, monstrous box that looked like it would’ve been the latest technology in home theater viewing back in 1967. All of them were in some stage of comatose excitement.
There was an old man that looked like he hadn’t been bathed or shaven in longer than could be easily deduced sat staring in the general direction of the TV with drool warming his lip and cheek. There was a young woman with her hospital gown draping open in the back, revealing her bare buttocks resting on the chair as she help her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth gently. He couldn’t quite make it out over the sound of the television but she might have been humming to herself. And then there was the slight frame bent over onto itself. He couldn’t figure out from the back if it were a man a woman, how old they were or what other distinguishing characteristic they might have. All of his attention was trapped on the giant bulge of spine popping out of the person’s back, curled over like the remnants of a demolished building. The skin stretched as if the person it belonged to hadn’t eaten food since the last presidential election and he felt himself cringe internally at the thought of how bad the food here must be if they were that diminished.
Of all the inhabitants in the room- those shuffling back and forth in hospital slippers, those yelling or mumbling to themselves (or to people only they could see and hear) and the candy box assortment of half conscious ghosts there was one person who attracted his attention more than any of them. Her platinum blond hair seemed to glow like a white halo around her head, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in from the window in front of her. Her arms showed the scars of a from of self injury he wasn’t familiar with- the cabs might’ve been from an instrument or her finger nails, there was no easy way of telling. She sat as still as a statue, her head tilted upward towards the sky, gaze fixed on something in the distance.
He didn’t know why she attracted his attention so much, she didn’t seem any more in touch than anyone else in the room. But there was something about the way she sat, gaze transfixed and unmoving, that interested him. She didn’t ignore the disturbances of the room like her more comatose brethren, something about her made it seem like she heard it and just chose to ignore it. And her stance wasn’t the relaxed calm of a person too drugged up to experience regular muscle movement- it was the calm, reclined position of someone in a genuine state of relaxation. And perhaps that was what was so odd about her- that she couldn’t be detached in that… normal of a way. It made him wonder what she was looking at.
He observed all of this from the back and sat, wondering what would happen next. It had seemed to him lately that he’d become a second class passenger in own life, watching his life fly by without any control of where it would go next. And although he didn’t know who was in charge, he knew that they had absolutely no interest in making his journey anymore pleasant for him. He should’ve been upset about that, on some level. But he wasn’t. He was only vaguely irked as if it didn’t really matter all that much.
And that reaction, or lack thereof, more than anything else he’d gone through lately made him think that maybe he wasn’t as out of place here as he’d like to think.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (III)
In Transition
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Over the next few days he found himself in flux, like a fish caught in a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware of passing through a lot of different locations, sitting in front of a lot of different people, answering a lot of different questions about things that he couldn’t connect to himself or his life. But he couldn’t control it. He was shipped from place to place, person to person like a package no one wanted to open.
He had only vague memories of the hospital, drifting into and out of consciousness to find new tubes sticking out of him, gauze put on and removed from his face, nurses in brightly colored scrubs checking his fluids and attaching new IVs from time to time. He would have thought his recovery was fast, though he had no idea of how much time was passing. It might’ve all been a few hours, it might’ve been days. He was getting more sleep than he’d gotten in longer than he could remember and his mind had lost the skill of making sense of the waking landscape around him.
He almost wished they’d stop drugging him so he could try to get a grip on the reality he was drifting in and out of, but then again he probably wasn’t missing anything that worthwhile. He wasn’t concerned enough to really expend the effort until the same cops he’d seen before showed up and started asking questions about his car, the lot they’d found him in, the drugs they’d found in his blood. Having virtually no idea what they were talking about he had few answers to give. But cops never like it when you don’t answer their questions.
He was discharged into police custody, taken to the station. They wanted to book him on a number of charges, told him he’d be going to jail for attempted robbery, destruction of public property, possession of narcotics. They told him he’d steered his car into an armored truck right after a pick up, thus why his car was totaled. He disagreed with them. They told him he’d had a stash of crack on the back seat of the car where they found him, he said no. They said he’d cost the city thousands of dollars. He accused them of making up stories, said he’d been at home, asleep.
It wasn’t that he was trying to be a smart ass, he wasn’t stupid. It was just that the story they were telling him wasn’t his. He didn’t do stuff like that. Ever. Even in his sleepless, drug-induced haze his mind hadn’t come up with ideas like robbery, and no one was stupid enough to think they’d be able to break into an armored truck by running their Sedan into it. The story they were telling didn’t make sense, and he refused to acknowledge it as reality.
Cops deal with denial, lies, manipulation, and excuses. They sniff those tools of the trade out like hungry dogs, wagging their tails when they smell it. But when a guy comes in refusing to acknowledge reality as reality- not because he’s using those tools but because he honestly doesn’t believe you, they smell something else. And they don’t like that smell. So as soon as some one posed the idea that maybe the guy wasn’t stupid or lying, maybe he really was just crazy, the cops dropped him like a hot pan.
No one told him where he was going, explained why he was no longer being held, told him what the next step in the process would be. As soon as they’d ‘figured him out’ they acted like Americans in front of an illegal alien who doesn’t speak the language- having conversation just out of ear shot which obviously involved him without actually acknowledging his existence.
He found himself in the back of a van watching the urban landscape grow more industrialized and less populated. He would’ve asked where he was being driven but he figured the driver wouldn’t offer any more information than the people in the station had. So instead he sat, watched the concrete give way to gravel, then dirt, then eventually grass and trees. He watched it with the detachment of a person looking out at the landscape of a place they knew they wouldn’t go and didn’t care enough to wonder where he’d end up.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (II)
After the Fall
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
It wasn't the sirens or the wail of the fire truck or even the idling of his own car that woke him up- it was his snoring. He heard it and wondered who was making that noise with no thought of what it was or concept that it might be coming from his own throat. He went to open his eyes and a wave of pain so sharp and so powerful crashed over his head that he would’ve fallen over if he weren't already reclined.
He managed to pry one eye open and the thick, sticky liquid that had sealed it shut yanked the eyelashes off with a renewed burst of blood. The added red around the blackness framing his vision confused him further and he wondered if he’d fallen into a vat of oil or something. The rest of his shirt was covered in the same, thick liquid and his brain struggled to make sense of it all.
He should’ve of recognized the back seat of his own car, his own pair of legs, his own chest covered in blood with one of his own ribs making an unnatural bump in the expanse. But he didn’t.
And he didn’t recognize the sound of the police sirens as they drew closer to the mechanic’s lot where he’d parked his car among the others waiting for body repairs. Nor did he recognize the paramedics that pulled him out of the vehicle and strapped him to a board while shining small flashlights in eyes and asking questions about who he was, what had happened, if he knew what was going on. He didn’t recognize the look of disgust on the cops faces he saw in his peripheral vision as they watched the paramedics cut off his shirt and survey the damage. He didn’t recognize the street light overhead as his forehead was strapped down and neck secured. And he didn’t recognize any of the words directed at him in the chaos of noise and lights.
No, he was too distracted by one simple, thought in all the madness. That noise he heard- had it been snoring? Had he actually been asleep? ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought to himself.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Ballad of Tom N’ Jim (I)
Prelude to a Fall
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t even pretend to call it insomnia anymore because that wasn’t the right word. The moments of confusion between falling asleep and waking up had become so brief and fleeting that they didn’t count anymore. And he’d seen Fight Club way too many times not to wonder what sort-of havoc that might be wreaking on his mental health. But he tried not to think about it.
In general weaving in and out of the lanes of traffic was enough to keep him distracted. In a city of so many languages, technologies, forms of music and just plain noise it seemed like the only universal mode of communication left was the car horn, so he used it frequently. Not that anyone would be able to distinguish his from the mass pollution clogging everyone’s ears, but he didn’t care. He accelerated and honked, braked and honked, swerved in between the cars and trucks and cabs in a sea of traffic as if he were a swimmer in a stream of trout- brushing up against others briefly, but never lingering long enough to do any real damage.
At least, not that he knew. If any of the angry horns were meant for him he was too drugged up to notice. He’d started with No Doze and coffee, the usual tools of the trade. But the bathroom breaks were a nuisance he couldn’t abide. He’d moved up to prescription stimulants he found on the internet- ones that truck drivers used cause the FDA hadn’t discovered them yet. Eventually he settled on crack because it was easy to find and ridiculously cheap, at least in comparison to the other street drugs.
He was a good drug user. He knew it was un-PC to think that, but he did. He paid more attention, got more done and just plain lived more in a minute than most other people did. And sure, he might be a little paranoid- but all that was doing was keeping him alive and getting another delivery under his belt. And, as he like to mutter under his breath, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. It made him smile.
So he sped through the traffic of the city streets, jogged in an out of elevators to make his deliveries, took home the good cash pay of a courier and ignored the activity of his brain, the irregular heartbeat, and the other side effects. Logic would have told him it was only a matter of time, but logic was a mental capacity that’d gone out the window with a good’s night’s sleep a long, long time ago.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
My Apologies
I have to apologize for this entry. It isn't what you want to read. It isn't what I want to read. I want to read what happens next in my sick murder story. I'd like to be able to write what happens next in my sick murder story. I live on the delusion that someone, somewhere, might read it and enjoy it for some random reason I don't know or care.
But instead I'm siting here, alone in my room, feeling a billion different emotions that circle over and over in my mind like a whirlpool, sucking me down as I try to swim. Every positive thought I have is pushed down by a handful of reminders that I've thought that before and it didn't work then so why would it work now?
This is the breakdown I referred to earlier. The downfall and destruction of my previous belief system. I find it pitiful that it's such a common story it's not even worth telling, except that it's happening to me so I can't help but repeat it.
It's the story of the dreamer who opens their eyes and becomes disillusioned. The true believer who loses faith. The excited, curious child finding out about what fake is. The thing that happens to people when they become "adults"- something I always swore I would never become.
It's the realization- the factual, reality-based understanding that my life is never going to match the dreams I had as a child, a young adult, or an artistic college student. That real life actually is that- and here's the killing judgment- bad.
I don't mean to paint it so bleakly. I'm not seeing a one-sided world of never ending pain and damage- that I could reality check and talk myself out of.
No, this is worse. This is the realization that a job is just a job- whatever pleasure you get from it you create, if you feel like you're fulfilling a dream it's because you're convincing yourself of that. That a relationship is just a relationship and that happily ever after isn't a reality- it's a belief that we hold onto because it's too painful to realize the truth. That relationships are lives- they begin, and they end. There are no guarantees of happiness and there is nothing you can do to secure them from pain.
I asked recently why those around me still believed that their jobs, their marriages, their lives would work out the way they want them to. I think I figured out why. It's isn't that they're stupid, it isn't that they don't see what I see. It's because seeing what I see is entirely too unpleasant to do on a daily basis and they need to believe in something- as fictitious as it may be- or they wouldn't be able to keep going as we all we have to. Day in and day out life has to go on, so we do what we have to to make that happen.
I've been thinking for a while now that I could get over this whole breakdown if I could accept life for what it is without that judgment that it isn't good enough. If I could look at things as they are and instead of constantly comparing them with the dreams I grew up with (which real life will never, ever match because they weren't real) and instead just say that whole "it is what it is" slogan and move on I could be happy again. I could be the person who I thought was myself again.
My favorite movie (Garden State) which I think of often comes to mind. One line in-particular: "I know it hurts. That's life. If nothing else, It's life. It's real, and sometimes it fuckin' hurts, but it's sort of all we have." That line always struck me as so wise, so profound. Like "Yeah, I know it sucks. But that's what it is." No judgment, no disappointment, no soul-crushing letdown. Just acceptance.
I have none of that tonight. Tonight I look at my life and even with logic pointing out that I feel hopeless right now because of the 7 going on 8 month long (and so far fruitless) job search and the issues in my personal life I still can't escape one, painfully strong question: If this is all there is then what the hell's the point?
It sucks me down into the whirlpool and I can't seem to get my head above water.
But instead I'm siting here, alone in my room, feeling a billion different emotions that circle over and over in my mind like a whirlpool, sucking me down as I try to swim. Every positive thought I have is pushed down by a handful of reminders that I've thought that before and it didn't work then so why would it work now?
This is the breakdown I referred to earlier. The downfall and destruction of my previous belief system. I find it pitiful that it's such a common story it's not even worth telling, except that it's happening to me so I can't help but repeat it.
It's the story of the dreamer who opens their eyes and becomes disillusioned. The true believer who loses faith. The excited, curious child finding out about what fake is. The thing that happens to people when they become "adults"- something I always swore I would never become.
It's the realization- the factual, reality-based understanding that my life is never going to match the dreams I had as a child, a young adult, or an artistic college student. That real life actually is that- and here's the killing judgment- bad.
I don't mean to paint it so bleakly. I'm not seeing a one-sided world of never ending pain and damage- that I could reality check and talk myself out of.
No, this is worse. This is the realization that a job is just a job- whatever pleasure you get from it you create, if you feel like you're fulfilling a dream it's because you're convincing yourself of that. That a relationship is just a relationship and that happily ever after isn't a reality- it's a belief that we hold onto because it's too painful to realize the truth. That relationships are lives- they begin, and they end. There are no guarantees of happiness and there is nothing you can do to secure them from pain.
I asked recently why those around me still believed that their jobs, their marriages, their lives would work out the way they want them to. I think I figured out why. It's isn't that they're stupid, it isn't that they don't see what I see. It's because seeing what I see is entirely too unpleasant to do on a daily basis and they need to believe in something- as fictitious as it may be- or they wouldn't be able to keep going as we all we have to. Day in and day out life has to go on, so we do what we have to to make that happen.
I've been thinking for a while now that I could get over this whole breakdown if I could accept life for what it is without that judgment that it isn't good enough. If I could look at things as they are and instead of constantly comparing them with the dreams I grew up with (which real life will never, ever match because they weren't real) and instead just say that whole "it is what it is" slogan and move on I could be happy again. I could be the person who I thought was myself again.
My favorite movie (Garden State) which I think of often comes to mind. One line in-particular: "I know it hurts. That's life. If nothing else, It's life. It's real, and sometimes it fuckin' hurts, but it's sort of all we have." That line always struck me as so wise, so profound. Like "Yeah, I know it sucks. But that's what it is." No judgment, no disappointment, no soul-crushing letdown. Just acceptance.
I have none of that tonight. Tonight I look at my life and even with logic pointing out that I feel hopeless right now because of the 7 going on 8 month long (and so far fruitless) job search and the issues in my personal life I still can't escape one, painfully strong question: If this is all there is then what the hell's the point?
It sucks me down into the whirlpool and I can't seem to get my head above water.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Losing Faith
I was ten years old when I found out there was no Santa Clause. I used to be terribly embarrassed by that fact because all of my wiser, more mature friends had known long before they hit double digits. But now I look back at that- that ten years of believing so fiercely that whatever doubt may have been introduced in my mind by my peers was almost instantly dismissed because I refused to let go of something so magical- and I am proud of who I was. I was a little girl who didn't just love fairy tales and magic creatures and science fiction and fantasy and all the other things of that nature. I was a little girl who believed.
I believed in magic. Maybe not with wizard hats and magic wands- but in the quiet, invisible kind. That electricity underneath the static of life that you could only hear humming if you stopped listening to all the people telling you to pay attention. That possibility of something extrodinary, something oustide the bounds of reality that only the true believers can see.
I believed in love. Maybe not TRUE LOVE like in The Princess Bride or love at first site. But in the humble, almost unnoticeable kind that exists between two people who choose to spend their lives together. Who grow and change together. Who become better people because of each other.
I believed in greatness. Maybe I wouldn't grow up to become the famous author I dreamed of being when I was really young. The one who would write a book so good that not only would it remain famous for centuries after its publishing, but it would even crack its way into High School lit class cause no one could argue that it didn't need to be taught. But I would do something. Something important. Something that would last in some way long beyond my years of life and have a bigger impact than I could foresee while living.
I believed in these things so wholeheartedly that I refused- vehemently, passionately, rebelliously refused- to give up on them. Even after my family started to unravel when I entered adolescence. Even after High School proved far more rejecting than any of my childhood imaginings could have possibly prepared me for. Even after my first relationships proved that all the ideals I held about being in love had nothing- NOTHING to do with reality. Even after life got hard.
I still believed, I still held out hope. Partially because I went to a college that encouraged its students to hold onto those beliefs. We were supposed to be great. We were supposed to be artistic. We were supposed to be revolutionarily creative. SO many that had come before us were, why couldn't we be?
I entered my adult life with some fear, but a lot of hope. Hope that my dreams could still come true. Not the way I imagined them. More real somehow. But that they could come true.
I'm losing that hope now. I'm losing those beliefs. Magic? Only in the movies, only in stories and books and graphic novels. That's why that fierce creativity is so damned important- because being able to live in that world long enough to write it takes a willful forgetting of everyday life. Love? Sure, it happens. But it happens with palimony agreements and mortgage payments and years without sex while you raise kids and lots and lots of therapy. And that's if you're lucky. Greatness? Read my past few blog posts and you'll see that that belief is firmly dead, replaced by a generalized moroseness that I can't seem to shake.
Sometimes when I'm walking out among the trees, listening to the wind, feeling the hairs on my arms pick up the temperature so I can feel it deeper than skin level I remember that little girl. So full of dreams, so firm in her beliefs, so full of potential. I remember her, but I don't feel her anymore. I can't lose myself in that childhood world view and allow myself to fantasize the way I used to. There's always something pulling me back to reality and a voice chastising me for being so silly and wasting time when there's work to be done.
I work with crazy people. Not neurotic "I have relationship issues" or "I drink too much" people but "I think you have a camera implanted in your forehead to record my thoughts" kind-of people. My boss talks about how scary it must be for them. To lose touch with reality, to be unable to distinguish what is real. Part of me- the logical part- agrees with her. I can't imagine how frightening it is. But another part of me can't help but wonder if maybe, in some ways, they're the lucky ones. Sure, they'll never have what we call a normal life- jobs and mortgages and marriages and teacher conferences. But they don't have that voice telling them that this can't be real, either. They can be lost in that other world. Scary at times, isolated, uncontrollable. But maybe, just maybe, magic.
I believed in magic. Maybe not with wizard hats and magic wands- but in the quiet, invisible kind. That electricity underneath the static of life that you could only hear humming if you stopped listening to all the people telling you to pay attention. That possibility of something extrodinary, something oustide the bounds of reality that only the true believers can see.
I believed in love. Maybe not TRUE LOVE like in The Princess Bride or love at first site. But in the humble, almost unnoticeable kind that exists between two people who choose to spend their lives together. Who grow and change together. Who become better people because of each other.
I believed in greatness. Maybe I wouldn't grow up to become the famous author I dreamed of being when I was really young. The one who would write a book so good that not only would it remain famous for centuries after its publishing, but it would even crack its way into High School lit class cause no one could argue that it didn't need to be taught. But I would do something. Something important. Something that would last in some way long beyond my years of life and have a bigger impact than I could foresee while living.
I believed in these things so wholeheartedly that I refused- vehemently, passionately, rebelliously refused- to give up on them. Even after my family started to unravel when I entered adolescence. Even after High School proved far more rejecting than any of my childhood imaginings could have possibly prepared me for. Even after my first relationships proved that all the ideals I held about being in love had nothing- NOTHING to do with reality. Even after life got hard.
I still believed, I still held out hope. Partially because I went to a college that encouraged its students to hold onto those beliefs. We were supposed to be great. We were supposed to be artistic. We were supposed to be revolutionarily creative. SO many that had come before us were, why couldn't we be?
I entered my adult life with some fear, but a lot of hope. Hope that my dreams could still come true. Not the way I imagined them. More real somehow. But that they could come true.
I'm losing that hope now. I'm losing those beliefs. Magic? Only in the movies, only in stories and books and graphic novels. That's why that fierce creativity is so damned important- because being able to live in that world long enough to write it takes a willful forgetting of everyday life. Love? Sure, it happens. But it happens with palimony agreements and mortgage payments and years without sex while you raise kids and lots and lots of therapy. And that's if you're lucky. Greatness? Read my past few blog posts and you'll see that that belief is firmly dead, replaced by a generalized moroseness that I can't seem to shake.
Sometimes when I'm walking out among the trees, listening to the wind, feeling the hairs on my arms pick up the temperature so I can feel it deeper than skin level I remember that little girl. So full of dreams, so firm in her beliefs, so full of potential. I remember her, but I don't feel her anymore. I can't lose myself in that childhood world view and allow myself to fantasize the way I used to. There's always something pulling me back to reality and a voice chastising me for being so silly and wasting time when there's work to be done.
I work with crazy people. Not neurotic "I have relationship issues" or "I drink too much" people but "I think you have a camera implanted in your forehead to record my thoughts" kind-of people. My boss talks about how scary it must be for them. To lose touch with reality, to be unable to distinguish what is real. Part of me- the logical part- agrees with her. I can't imagine how frightening it is. But another part of me can't help but wonder if maybe, in some ways, they're the lucky ones. Sure, they'll never have what we call a normal life- jobs and mortgages and marriages and teacher conferences. But they don't have that voice telling them that this can't be real, either. They can be lost in that other world. Scary at times, isolated, uncontrollable. But maybe, just maybe, magic.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Vital Information
You know that feeling that you have when you're absolutely sure that there is vital information that you need to know if you have any chance of surviving and you're not sure what it is or how to get it but you're positive you don't have it? That feeling of doom that comes from the understanding that not having this knowledge is guaranteed to make you incapable of either performing the duties you're expected to perform or successfully navigating a tricky situation? That old metaphor of the lack of instruction manual when it comes to life?
Well that's the feeling I've had for the duration of my adult life.
When I was growing up, I lived with the assumption that someday, somehow, I would become an adult. There would be some transition wherein I would become a capable, independent, intelligent woman who was able to successfully navigate difficult life situations with wisdom and acceptance rather than stupidity and panic. I would learn, perhaps magically, to balance a checkbook, to hold my temper, to take charge of a chaotic situation, to respond calmly to people who were out of control, to do basic household maintenance by washing the dishes and doing the laundry and going grocery shopping on a timely, regular schedule.
This was what being an adult was to me. And I believed, whole heartedly, that it would happen. I didn't know how or why exactly, but I trusted that if I made responsible choices I would reap the rewards of an organized lifestyle.
Nearing the end of my twenties I can no longer make the excuse that perhaps I'm just in prolonged adolescence. The belief that I was just like everyone else because so many people nowadays do not accomplish basic adult milestones until later in life. The hope that I was simply a little late in gaining an understanding of the rules I need to play by. I don't think that anymore, it's just been too long.
Especially because, unlike a lot of other people from my generation, I didn't take time off from school to backpack around Europe or move to an exciting city to "discover myself" or take so many drugs that it took me a few years to emerge from the haze and start living. No, I was responsible. I went straight to college after high school and straight from college to grad school and straight from grad school to a job. I studied a skill, started my career- no pause, no break. I had one big trip- after grad school, and I did back pack around Europe. But my job was already set in stone with a return date before I left and that three weeks passed by far quicker than I could have realized it would.
Now, five years later with an educational background that firmly places me in the felid that I've been working in I feel more lost than ever before.
This is not the life I thought I was working towards. I hate my job on a level I thought was reserved to those who burned out after twenty years in the field. After only five years I have become so jaded that I no longer believe in my career path. I would happily go back to working in a boring office if it meant more money and less stress and the saddest thing is that despite 6 years of college and over $40K in student loans and five years of work experience I think that I could easily make more as an administrative assistant and have a fuck of a lot less stress.
And that naive belief that I had before that the money meant nothing in comparison to the knowledge that I was helping people? I don't have that anymore. I've become so cynical that I would happily say "Fuck off" to every client I've ever had if I could earn a decent living and go home at night without a billion worries on my mind.
And all those adult skills I thought I'd have learned by now? Balancing a checkbook, staying calm and rational in chaotic situations, handling drama with wisdom and composure, maintaining a household? I don't have any of them. Am I as bad as I used to be? Hell no. But am I nowhere near what I envisioned? Ions away from it, it seems.
And I don't think there are any other adult milestones that might suddenly bring that knowledge I seek. A career? We've already covered that disaster. A relationship? I'm with the man I'm going to stay with for the rest of my life. We just went to a wedding (not ours, obviously). People talked about the bride groom like they were "adults" now because they were considering another person's needs as importantly as their own. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for them to become as dysfunctional and miserable as most married couples. I certainly don't think they're any less stupid than I am, probably a lot more so because they actually believe it'll work out. And kids? If my belief system isn't jaded enough to convince me that bringing a child into the world would be the biggest mistake I could possibly make then I don't know what is. I'm messed up enough, I don't need to mess up anyone else. So there's no other milestones I'm expecting to magically transform me into a responsible adult.
And that thought- that I don't know something I really need to know in order to survive- it plagues me. I feel more naive now- with my years of experience and lessons learned- than I did before college.
Then again, maybe that's what's wisdom is. Knowing enough to know that you really don't know anything. That you're only as smart as the smart people you parrot. That you only have half a chance of any given situation ending well, despite how many times you've done it before. That no matter how hard you try to prepare and organize there will always be a billion factors beyond your control that can easily fuck things up irrevocably and all you can possibly do is try not to drown in the mess left over.
I don't know. I'd like to think not. I'd like to think that that wisdom, that composure, that ability to handle the things that come my way will grow over time. Maybe it's not an "adulthood" thing. Maybe it's a "mid life" thing or even a "senior" thing. I don't know. All I know is if I lay on my death bed many, many years from now and I still have that feeling that I didn't know vital information I really needed- I'm going to be pissed.
Well that's the feeling I've had for the duration of my adult life.
When I was growing up, I lived with the assumption that someday, somehow, I would become an adult. There would be some transition wherein I would become a capable, independent, intelligent woman who was able to successfully navigate difficult life situations with wisdom and acceptance rather than stupidity and panic. I would learn, perhaps magically, to balance a checkbook, to hold my temper, to take charge of a chaotic situation, to respond calmly to people who were out of control, to do basic household maintenance by washing the dishes and doing the laundry and going grocery shopping on a timely, regular schedule.
This was what being an adult was to me. And I believed, whole heartedly, that it would happen. I didn't know how or why exactly, but I trusted that if I made responsible choices I would reap the rewards of an organized lifestyle.
Nearing the end of my twenties I can no longer make the excuse that perhaps I'm just in prolonged adolescence. The belief that I was just like everyone else because so many people nowadays do not accomplish basic adult milestones until later in life. The hope that I was simply a little late in gaining an understanding of the rules I need to play by. I don't think that anymore, it's just been too long.
Especially because, unlike a lot of other people from my generation, I didn't take time off from school to backpack around Europe or move to an exciting city to "discover myself" or take so many drugs that it took me a few years to emerge from the haze and start living. No, I was responsible. I went straight to college after high school and straight from college to grad school and straight from grad school to a job. I studied a skill, started my career- no pause, no break. I had one big trip- after grad school, and I did back pack around Europe. But my job was already set in stone with a return date before I left and that three weeks passed by far quicker than I could have realized it would.
Now, five years later with an educational background that firmly places me in the felid that I've been working in I feel more lost than ever before.
This is not the life I thought I was working towards. I hate my job on a level I thought was reserved to those who burned out after twenty years in the field. After only five years I have become so jaded that I no longer believe in my career path. I would happily go back to working in a boring office if it meant more money and less stress and the saddest thing is that despite 6 years of college and over $40K in student loans and five years of work experience I think that I could easily make more as an administrative assistant and have a fuck of a lot less stress.
And that naive belief that I had before that the money meant nothing in comparison to the knowledge that I was helping people? I don't have that anymore. I've become so cynical that I would happily say "Fuck off" to every client I've ever had if I could earn a decent living and go home at night without a billion worries on my mind.
And all those adult skills I thought I'd have learned by now? Balancing a checkbook, staying calm and rational in chaotic situations, handling drama with wisdom and composure, maintaining a household? I don't have any of them. Am I as bad as I used to be? Hell no. But am I nowhere near what I envisioned? Ions away from it, it seems.
And I don't think there are any other adult milestones that might suddenly bring that knowledge I seek. A career? We've already covered that disaster. A relationship? I'm with the man I'm going to stay with for the rest of my life. We just went to a wedding (not ours, obviously). People talked about the bride groom like they were "adults" now because they were considering another person's needs as importantly as their own. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for them to become as dysfunctional and miserable as most married couples. I certainly don't think they're any less stupid than I am, probably a lot more so because they actually believe it'll work out. And kids? If my belief system isn't jaded enough to convince me that bringing a child into the world would be the biggest mistake I could possibly make then I don't know what is. I'm messed up enough, I don't need to mess up anyone else. So there's no other milestones I'm expecting to magically transform me into a responsible adult.
And that thought- that I don't know something I really need to know in order to survive- it plagues me. I feel more naive now- with my years of experience and lessons learned- than I did before college.
Then again, maybe that's what's wisdom is. Knowing enough to know that you really don't know anything. That you're only as smart as the smart people you parrot. That you only have half a chance of any given situation ending well, despite how many times you've done it before. That no matter how hard you try to prepare and organize there will always be a billion factors beyond your control that can easily fuck things up irrevocably and all you can possibly do is try not to drown in the mess left over.
I don't know. I'd like to think not. I'd like to think that that wisdom, that composure, that ability to handle the things that come my way will grow over time. Maybe it's not an "adulthood" thing. Maybe it's a "mid life" thing or even a "senior" thing. I don't know. All I know is if I lay on my death bed many, many years from now and I still have that feeling that I didn't know vital information I really needed- I'm going to be pissed.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Kinemortophobia
So, i've been trying to read Max Brook's World War Z. If you're not afraid of zombies, I suggest you pick it up. It's sort-of fascinating. Not the living dead part, that's sort of been done. The cinematic landscape is littered with apocalyptic visions of swarms of the living dead, those nightmares are already in place. No, what's fascinating is the way he describes the breakdown of contemporary human functioning. The politics, the social landscape, the international business break downs, the money to be made. I'm just starting to get into the post-war landscape and how the U.S. government went about winning the war and rebuilding. It's interesting to find myself picking up the book and not feeling the weird physical sensation that is fear.
Because for the last month, that's all there was. The stomach clenching, the increased heart rate which you don't notice until after you've put the book down, the hyper-awareness of the floor creaking or a dog barking or god forbid, an unexplained noise. Every time I would go near the book i'd feel that physical sensation, Yet I kept going back.
I started out reading first thing in the morning with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, reassuring me that it was just a book and I was safe afterall. I'd read a few chapters, then go down stairs, have my breakfast and put something stupid on the television while I ate. Before you knew it zombies were no longer on my mind. That worked fine. Get scared, distract myself, move on.
Then, stupidly, I read it before going to bed. Don't ask me why i'm only afraid of the dark when thinking of zombies. Show me every Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, and Friday the 13th movie ever made and i'm fine. I'll sleep like a baby. Michael, Freddy and Jason combined and I snooze away. But one zombie and i'm a goner.
Looking over the dresser to see if the closet door has creaked open, compulsively looking behind me at the corner to see if the shadow has changed at all, pulling the covers up tight around my neck so nothing can bite me and listening like a dog for any noise. And I lay there thinking "This is insane. You are bat-shit insane. Zombies don't freaking exist! What is wrong with you?!?" And then the floor creaks downstairs and I jump under the covers.
And here's what I don't understand: why World War Z? These are the old school zombies. The slowly walking, moaning, arms outstretched, limping along at a snails pace zombies. What real threat do they pose? The rage-virus zombie from the 28 Days/Weeks Later movies, those I understand. They run faster, jump higher, and bite harder than the old school zombies. Plus the second you're bit you turn into one of them. That's fucking scary! But these guys? They're slow and shambly. They're undead- decaying, easily shot in the head from a distance. So why so scared?
Maybe because of how Brooks describes it- no where to hide, no way to escape. Entire cities being taken over in days. Miles of land littered with a slowly marching army of the undead invading every safe zone, every highway, every home. The idea that you're not gonna be up in a clock tower picking them off with a rifle for more than few weeks before your supplies run out and there's no way to get more. The idea that there's no help arriving, you're trapped. The idea that the vast majority of the human population is either dead or undead and coming to make you dead. The idea that they don't die- ever- until you destroy the brain. Freeze 'em, they'll thaw out and start walking again. Shoot 'em anywhere but the head, they keep coming. Chop off their legs, detonate them, disassemble them- any part left over will keep crawling along. The end of the world, with zombies.
I guess my point is it's a good read. It's gotta be if somebody as bat-shit crazy scared of zombies as I am will keep reading it.
Because for the last month, that's all there was. The stomach clenching, the increased heart rate which you don't notice until after you've put the book down, the hyper-awareness of the floor creaking or a dog barking or god forbid, an unexplained noise. Every time I would go near the book i'd feel that physical sensation, Yet I kept going back.
I started out reading first thing in the morning with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, reassuring me that it was just a book and I was safe afterall. I'd read a few chapters, then go down stairs, have my breakfast and put something stupid on the television while I ate. Before you knew it zombies were no longer on my mind. That worked fine. Get scared, distract myself, move on.
Then, stupidly, I read it before going to bed. Don't ask me why i'm only afraid of the dark when thinking of zombies. Show me every Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, and Friday the 13th movie ever made and i'm fine. I'll sleep like a baby. Michael, Freddy and Jason combined and I snooze away. But one zombie and i'm a goner.
Looking over the dresser to see if the closet door has creaked open, compulsively looking behind me at the corner to see if the shadow has changed at all, pulling the covers up tight around my neck so nothing can bite me and listening like a dog for any noise. And I lay there thinking "This is insane. You are bat-shit insane. Zombies don't freaking exist! What is wrong with you?!?" And then the floor creaks downstairs and I jump under the covers.
And here's what I don't understand: why World War Z? These are the old school zombies. The slowly walking, moaning, arms outstretched, limping along at a snails pace zombies. What real threat do they pose? The rage-virus zombie from the 28 Days/Weeks Later movies, those I understand. They run faster, jump higher, and bite harder than the old school zombies. Plus the second you're bit you turn into one of them. That's fucking scary! But these guys? They're slow and shambly. They're undead- decaying, easily shot in the head from a distance. So why so scared?
Maybe because of how Brooks describes it- no where to hide, no way to escape. Entire cities being taken over in days. Miles of land littered with a slowly marching army of the undead invading every safe zone, every highway, every home. The idea that you're not gonna be up in a clock tower picking them off with a rifle for more than few weeks before your supplies run out and there's no way to get more. The idea that there's no help arriving, you're trapped. The idea that the vast majority of the human population is either dead or undead and coming to make you dead. The idea that they don't die- ever- until you destroy the brain. Freeze 'em, they'll thaw out and start walking again. Shoot 'em anywhere but the head, they keep coming. Chop off their legs, detonate them, disassemble them- any part left over will keep crawling along. The end of the world, with zombies.
I guess my point is it's a good read. It's gotta be if somebody as bat-shit crazy scared of zombies as I am will keep reading it.
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