Revolutions

A most inauspicious day - another revolution around that great celestial body only 8 seconds away (if you travel light).

That ball of nuclear fusion, often worshiped, perpetually misunderstood, stood still in the center of everything - as everything disintegrated and dissipated. 236,688 hours ago a completely uneventful day passed away, with many events - life-changing for some, forgetful for most - transpiring. One of these? I was born unto this world.

Born to a mother who, in her infinite folly, believed she birthed an idyllic son, and a father who couldn't be bothered, I was sent screaming and covered in bodily fluid into this world.

Arriving in a land I do not remember, my first touch being that of the cold surgical precision of a military doctor, I was set upon a course long ago written in the stars. Or, perhaps, I was given free-will, but who is to truly say? I had arrived that day, the only somewhat-certainty I can be sure of. To a point.

Wind the clock forward, throw away many expertly painted calendars, and here we stand - or, more to the point, here I sit. 27.

Expectations have sloughed off, like so much afterbirth. Hopes have degenerated into fears, love into longing, and faith into cynicism. Self-aggrandized and self-destructive, I yam what I yam, so to speak.

Artist.Lover.Optimist.Pessimist.Loner.FilmGeek.Geek.Romantic. I've worn many labels - all of which fit and misfit. We are all one, and one is all, after all.

27 years ago today I was born unto this world, which I have grown to love and despise. There have been beautiful days - beyond the beauty of the most transcendent poetry, and there have been the darker days, fewer in number but greater in meaning, at least in retrospect.

One son un-fathered. But this isn't Paris, and there was no happy end. Many "true" loves, loved passionately, and then forgotten in time. A few end-dates, expired, without the expected soliloquy. Self-centered, as all humans are at their core, I decided this woe-begotten day deserved a self-aggrandized look back.

A few published stories and poems later, my mark on the world could easily wash away with the next rain. My friends, few as they are, have loved me, and I them. But they went to the water, never making it down to the tavern.

My works go unadorned, shredded and torn, decomposing in a locker.

My loves have gone, dancing for the sun, and so I still run.

My family anchors me, a shifting weight at the bottom of the sea.

27 years is a long time to leave no true mark, other than the scars birth gives the world.

27 years, and I'm still not sure what they were for - or if they were deserved. A child born still - what if he were me? What greatness could he have brought to the world, what happiness, if the roles were reversed?

I am here, and he is not - and that is all there is. Perhaps there is no rhyme or reason - just one foot in front of the other, marching toward the dawn.

Cochrane

I wish I had said the words.

My hands slipped from the wheel, for just a second.  Hot tires losing grip on the cold, wet concrete for just a second, letting out a shriek before control was regained.

Rain blurred the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep pace.  Tears streamed down my cheeks, making matters worse.

Control regained, the yellow lines streaked by in a blur.

My hands gripped the wheel, longing for the feeling of losing control. 

In the rearview mirror, amidst the red glow, I almost saw her face, for just a second – haunting and beautiful, and then gone.

Mile marker 27 passed by, caught in the glow of my headlights, and then disappearing forever.

The CD skipped.  I wished I was in better shape.  I wished I was better looking.  I wished I was anyone other than me.

I wished I had said the words.

I let go of the wheel, relishing the feeling of letting go, of relinquishing control.  The steady thud of the warning strip matched my heart racing.

She said the words once, and I didn’t say them back – not because I didn’t feel it, but simply because i was afraid – afraid no one could ever feel for me the way I felt for her.

I pulled the car back into my lane, window down, feeling the rush of air surge past me, as the moment passed.

Regret, heavy and haunting, filled the car.

A curve loomed ahead.

I wished I had said the words.

I could smell the gardenias.

She was with someone else, then.  Someone who didn’t… feel the same for her as I did.

I wished I had said the words.

The curved edged closer, just ahead.

I wished I had said the words.

Beyond the curve, in the black, was nothingness. 

I let go of the wheel and closed my eyes. 

I wished I had said the words, but didn’t.  I only hoped she didn’t know – I wouldn’t want her to know, to miss the secret everyone knew.

The car slowly drifted to the right – an offspring of not getting standard maintenance .

The safety bumps slowly matched up with the music on my stereo. 

The curve ahead was no longer ahead, the safety bumps behind.  Dust flew behind, a cape of what was, a harbinger of what would not be.

I wished I had said the words.

Blackness enveloped the night, a peaceful serenity enveloped every fiber of my body.

The curve disappeared. 

The priest promotes war, and the soldier peace.

....Continued



The invaders came, with a swiftness the villagers could not foresee. The hum of the massive army's footsteps shook the earth.

The women scrambled to the hiding places within the jungle - but most were too late. The Japanese soldiers captured some - the most attractive and youngest - and killed the rest. The soldiers didn't waste any bullets or time, striking down most with bayonets while hanging over the edges of their caravans.

His wife was one of the unlucky few - from his vantage point of his rooftop he saw the soldiers grab her, pull her to the ground.

Smoke filled the streets. Blood soaked into the dirt, turning the brown soil black.

He watched from his roof, unloading his rifle into the trucks of invaders. The shots echoed out, but were swallowed by the cacophony accompanying the oncoming army. He killed three soldiers before emptying his ten-round clip.

Tears streaked down his cheeks, the cries of his love being taken away reverberated through his soul. His shaking hands threw down his rifle, and he made his way down from the roof and into the maelstrom of the street.

He could still hear her screaming, through the gunshots and terror.

The Japanese soldiers shouted curses in a tongue he did not understand. They flowed out of their vehicles, killing men, women and children with an indiscriminate hatred he could not understand.

Through billowing smoke he ran, hearing only her shouts for mercy. He was getting closer. Somewhere off the road he heard her cry, sobbing, begging for them to stop.
He was getting closer.

His neighbor - and best friend - lay in a pool of his own blood.

Turning away, tears and smoke stinging his eyes, he ran as fast as he legs would carry him. He ran, bullets flying by, life-long friends dying all around him.

He ran, through the smokes and the screams, through the bloody mud and the hailing bullets.

A shard of shrapnel tore through his leg, sending muscle and sanguinary fluid flying. He stumbled to the ground, face first.

Her screams echoed, calling for him, calling for mercy.

He pulled himself up, struggling against his body's desire to just collapse.

He watched as soldiers throw torches into his home - the home he built with his own hands, the home he built for his betrothed, when they were barely more than children.

Leaning against a tree, blood flowing like sap down the bark, he limped into the jungle, and to the love of his life - and towards the end of his own.


......to be continued......

To end is to start, to surrender is to know.

The refrigerator rattled.

He sat next to her, hands in his lap, feeling the warmth of her shoulder against his. He could smell her perfume, dancing in the air gingerly, mixing with the scent of her hair. The faint aroma, vanilla and innumerable spices, was intoxicating.

He couldn't concentrate on the movie playing - some jejune "indie" comedy about a group of pampered, self-indulgent post-teens. All he could remember was the disdain he felt, watching those absurdly attractive kids pretend to be depressed, knowing they would return to their lives of luxury and endless love.

He stole a glance at her - she was watching the movie in utter rapture.

Down the hall, in the apartment across the way, their neighbor shouted at her baby in Spanish, uttering curses simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching.

The movie cut away to a slow motion montage, set to some underground indie pop song.

His roommate lit a cigarette and made a joke - something not even remotely witty or funny. She laughed, shaking him with her. His heart dropped, suddenly turned to lead. His head, filled with unease, bitterness, and spirits, felt light.

Something funny happened in the movie, apparently. Everyone in the room - his roommate, the girl he fell in love with, but could never tell, and his roommate's friend - laughed gleefully. Everyone except for him. He understood their joy, but not first-hand. He understood it as a scholar - only from afar, as if it was some foreign idea. Because for him it was.

Music started to play in the apartment next door, thumping base lines and squealing guitar.

He summoned what little courage was available to him, reached his left hand out, and gently touched her leg, feeling the warmth and softness extend through his arm and directly into ever fiber of his being.

But only for a moment.

Feeling her so close, the physical distance completely conquered, only served emphasize the truth.

He closed his eyes, trying to stay in that moment - his hand on her thigh, her letting it rest there. If it was out of pity or kindness, he didn't know - and tried not to care. Sweat formed on his brow, and tears in his eyes.

The movie played on.

He watched her watching it. She didn't look at him, never looked at him.

The movie played on.

His roommate made another joke, and she laughed, locking eyes with him. They held the gaze, her and the roommate.

The movie played on.

He took his hand off her lap - she didn't react - and folded it back into his own.

The movie played on.

Everyone laughed.

The movie played on.






The movie played on.

I thought it was a dream, but who's to say

She sat on the steps to the library, so tiny framed against the monolithic building.
A stack of books sat on a step to her left. She was writing in a notebook, not looking up at anyone or anything.

He wouldn't learn it until later, but her name was Angela. She lived in an area where all the streets were named after prestigious colleges, and none of the neighbors knew each other's name. She was beautiful - at least to Crispin. She was smart - brilliant, scary smart. She didn't belong at a community college, sitting alone on the cracked steps to the library, but there she was. Amazing and alone.

He made his way past the maze of hipsters and gangsters, geeks and jocks, dodging the smokers and the spitters and the people who thought they were his friends. Head down, greasy, unkempt hair hanging as a shroud, a heavy bookbag slung over one shoulder - always just over one shoulder for easy access to its contents - he ambled onward.

She didn't know, and would never find out, that his name was Crispin. He was from broken homes across the country. Smart, sometimes funny, and painfully average. And already in love with her.

They shared a class. And in that class they occassionally shared words. And outside of the class, they occassionally shared time. Never enough for him. Every second awkward for her.

They were grouped together once, early in the year, quite on accident. He said something that sounded like a line, but wasn't meant to be. She asked him about his writing, and why it sounded so lovelorn.
He said every story he told was a love story, because that was all that mattered.

He fell in love with her. Not because she was beautiful. Not even because she was brilliant. He fell in love with her because she saw him.


She sat on the steps, the sun drenched afternoon. Other students flowed around her, going to classes or home or to meet friends or to nowhere in particular. Crispin saw her from across the quad. Her golden hair was shining, beautiful. She never saw him, and he never said hello.


She stopped going to class one day, with no explanation or warning. An assignment was handed out - to write a story about something sad or amazing or terrible that happened in their lives. Angela wrote the story, but never turned it in. When Crispin asked her what hers was about, she wouldn't say - she just turned white and silent. He didn't ask again.

She stopped going to class one day, and only Crispin noticed. The professor, who was too caught up in his own delusions of grandeur, never took attendance. Crispin just asked him one day, what happened to her. The professor shrugged and said she just wasn't there.


She sat on the steps, writing, alone. Crispin watched, surrounded by strangers, thousands of blurred faces, and he was alone with her. His skin broke out in goose bumps, defying the summer heat. He stopped, just for a moment, the air leaving the world.

She hadn't been to class in a month. He hadn't spoken to her in just less than that.

He stopped, just for a second.

Angela sat on the steps, writing in her notebook. She was beautiful and alone. And Crispin walked away.

no one knows how far i've driven in the dark*

I heard it before I saw it - the roaring of an engine, shattering the quiet Sunday air.

The service was as it was every Sunday and Wednesday - fire and brimstone, force-fed guilt and discreet shame, followed by someone being dunked into a pristine pool of water, supposedly symbolizing the cleansing of sin, but really just resulting in the need of extra towels and perhaps a ruined billfold.

I held her hand, much to the chagrin of the old men and women who loathed any open expression of affection. Feeling the warmth of her flesh pressed against mine, remembering the feel of her body against my own, anticipating the feeling again.

The engine roared - screamed - deafening and beautiful, the way only a street-illegal-bike could.

We walked from our pew in the back of the tiny church, relishing the looks stabbing in our direction. There was bliss in their derisiveness, knowing they hated our love, and loving nonetheless.

It was a perfect day.

The summer sun, hot and giant in the pale blue sky, showered its rays on the vacant street.

We made our way to the door, patiently waiting behind an old woman with blue hair - a sweet old woman who, when alone with us, would tell us how much we reminded her of how she was with her dead husband. In public, though, she would not speak to us, or even look our way - the fallout from the bible-belted community would be far too much for her to take.

Outside, the roar of the engine grew louder, then faint, as the bike crisscrossed the unpaved street in front of the church.

Holding my war-torn bible in one hand, her hand in the other, we said hello to the preacher and his wife. My grandparents were in line behind us, not acknowledging us. Her parents were at home, not partaking in the bi-weekly ritual - her mom too medicated to care, and her dad too drunk to face daylight.

Outside, on the steps, we said our hellos and goodbyes monosyllabically - Hi, How are you? Thanks. Bye. K. Hi. Bye.

Blinded by the sun, I didn't even see him, but I heard him.

It took a few seconds to adjust to the world's light. I saw the dust before I saw him - popping a wheelie, showing off.

He just received his dirt-bike a few months prior, and had become a pro at it, as he was apt to do. J.R.* was always a savant of sorts - given access to anything, he could learn how it worked, and how best to use it in the impressing of open-minded lasses.

His front wheel hung in the air, motionless. The back wheel kicked up a cloud of dirt, as the motor shouted at us, demanding our attention.

A half-smile slapped itself onto my face, involuntary. J.R.* was ever the showman. That's why we loved him - despite him being a few years my minor, he was a major part of my small circle of friends.

The entire congregation watched him go. Some hearts burst with the joy of seeing such happiness let loose upon the earth, others hesitant, and most derisive.

I let go of my love's hand to shake the pastors, as J.R.* reached the intersection.

In such a small town, traffic lights weren't needed, and stop signs were just suggestions most ignored.

J.R.* barreled through the 4-way stop, still on only one wheel, still looking back to make sure we all saw his fantastic antics.

With the pastor's cold hand in my own, I saw it. The flash of light, cold steel glinting in the summer sun.

The roar of his engine died suddenly, the beauty of his freedom replaced by a cold crack - metal on metal.

As a group, we all looked, and vacated our lungs of air, simultaneously.

He, dressed in black shorts and long-sleeve black shirt on his blue bike, his greasy, too long (by the church-goers standards) hair - and the truck - pale green with little clean enough for the sun to cling to - collided in a sickening thud.

I saw him flying, an angel waiting for his wings. The driver of the truck stayed emotionless, both hands on top of the steering wheel, as his rear wheels locked up, billowing black smoke and gray dust.

J.R. flew out of view, hidden behind the abandoned building on the corner. My heart stopped, my hand stuck in the pastor's, cold sweat on cold flesh.

All thought was lost. I heard nothing, though there must have been some shouting and quiet words exchanged.

Crushing metal on youthful flesh silenced the world around it

J.R. flew through the dry air, his eyes wide and aware.




-----



A wreath of flowers marked the spot, along with a cardboard cross.
We walked past the spot daily, despite it being out of our way, asking ourselves - what do you do with pieces of a broken heart?

At school, an meeting was held. Teachers and administrators racked their brains, looking for some meaning in tragedy. An assembly was held, prayers lead.

His friends abstained.

J.R. was not there, not in that dirty, age-cracked building, watching people pretend to pour their hearts out.

No, J.R. was outside, in the summer air, feeling the freedom of a world that wasn't ready for him, a world not good enough for his energy.



















*names and details changed due to broken memory and to protect some semblance of anonymity

herlihy

He lay on the floor, curled into a ball, a mass of nerves on fire, cold sweat and a bitter taste on his tongue.

shespokesosoftlythen

The icy tiles pressed on his cheek, grid lines forming. His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything and latching onto nothing.
gavemeherdolltorememberher
His sweat-soaked hair fell, draped upon the dirty floor, cleaving patches of cleanliness.
hediedaloneinthestreetnotknowinghewasloved
Slowly, achingly, he forced himself up and towards a porcelain respite.
whydidshecrysomuchthatnight
Flashes of light, of his life, passed through his mind, transient thoughts and half-formed
wrappingpaperlitteredthegroundnoonesmiled
memories danced in and out of view.
He reached the toilet, clinging to the rim
almostdrownedmybrothersavedme
looking into the dirty bowl, into his own reflection.
His hair dangled, draping his face, matted with white chunks of vomit. The burning in his stomach, the sharp, stabbing pain in his side faded in and out and back in again.

His eyelids closed
thecarwasonitsside
and his eyes started to roll
thewindshieldgone
to the back of his head.
icouldntseehimicouldntfindhim
He began shaking, his teeth digging into his bottom lip
therewassomuchsmoke
and a drop of blood slipped down his chin
somuchsomuchsomuch
and fell into the bowl
andthendarkandthennothing
spreading like a rose in the water.

Footnote

1942

The heat was stifling - a hot, humid heat that hung over the air like a blanket. The ocean air made breathing an excercise, like having a blanket covering every inch of you, when all you want is the cold crispness of a fresh breeze, a breeze you know won't come.

A sick energy buzzed through the villages, filling every nerve with nervous anticipation. Dark smoke flowed through the trees to the north, growing closer daily.

There were no phone lines to carry the news, but it traveled anyway - war was coming, the slow death march.

Stories traveled from village to village, too horrible to be true. Soldiers were killing civilians for no reason, slitting a dozen throats with bayonet from the back of a moving truck. No one dared to believe it could be true.

But the smoke moved closer, no more than a day away, and this village was in the middle of the warpath.


He stood outside of his home, a beautiful two-story structure built with his own hands, built for the love of his life. She stood at the second story bedroom window, the tropical sun shining through lace curtains. Beautiful - she was unbearably beautiful.

He had to turn away, not able to look at her, knowing the dangers that were down the road, not wanting to let the tears sting his eyes, knowing they would.

They had a plan - the women would hide in a cellar, while the men and boys old enough to fight would make their stand. They did not hope for victory - there was no room for such futile thoughts. There was also no room for surrender. The village was built by hand, the stones paved with the blood and love of generations, and it would not be given freely to the coming barbarians.


... to be continued

Disclaimer

*Everything, once written, becomes fiction, no matter how much truth is meant to exist within. Everything here has some grain of truth, but seen through the lens of time and perspective, the story changes. Memory mixes with imagination, contorting and distorting, creating something that is neither truth nor fiction.