My mind reels…I’ve resigned myself to these consequences…this fate…this reason beyond reason that the universe forces me to accept. Fate is a bitch. She’s an unforgiving temptress poised at the helm of the universe, dictating its ultimate course through the lives of everyone under her control…a control that is as absolute as it is limitless. Unwittingly we become soulless drones and slaves to the paths she has chosen for us. We cater to unwarranted whims, birthed in secrecy – her motives cloaked in divine mystery. The meaning remains only what we make of it – the truth is hidden forever…or perhaps it doesn’t even exist. Perhaps the truth is that there is no reason. Perhaps the mystery is solved in its conception. But if this is true, then there is no purpose in life to which we may grasp beyond what truth our minds make of destiny. Thus purpose, fate, destiny and reason become arbitrary words with only the meanings we give to them.
Snow on the Wind
There’s this song…and when you hear it, suddenly there’s this smell too. It’s like winter, driving with the windows down – snow on the wind. Quick glimpses of faces and little fragments of conversation float around on the ice. They’re all simultaneously jagged and blurry: little memory-colored smudges marring a frozen mirror that you can’t quite focus on, like objects in the dark that you can just barely make out in your peripheral vision, but when you try to look directly at them, they disappear…coarse little sensory ghosts, virtual memory particles fading in and out of existence in time with the music.
This is how we remember…without clarity, without organization. But there is a subtle purpose in this chaos that is unappreciated in its eloquence and effectiveness: it forces us to dwell. It forces us to try pasting the smudges together; to make sense of what we can’t see, coaxing the ghosts out of the corners of our eyes, and convincing them they exist. And we do this for ourselves; for our own entertainment and misery, to relive and regret. To pretend we remember. Self-inflicted brainwashing that sharpens the faces, smooths the jagged parts, and fits the smudges together into shapes we recognize but can’t quite complete – puzzles with missing pieces, islands apart. We jump from one to the next, searching for edges that aren’t there – just more mirrors and more smudges. More snow on the wind.
Hiding Under the Bed
I lift the skirt of the bed
And I find my dog hiding there in a terrified lump.
A heap of nerves – he’s shaking and he can’t stop,
And I move close to him,
And I put my hand down to slowly stroke his head,
And I say “It’s ok.”
I say it’s ok because sometimes,
Sometimes I’m scared of the vacuum cleaner too.
And I think he understands,
At least for a dog.
And I think that’s what love is:
Pretending you’re scared of something really silly,
So that the person you’re with doesn’t feel alone,
Or ashamed,
Or embarrassed,
And you both feel scared together -
Two souls in one terrified lump,
Hiding under the bed,
Until you’re both ready to come out
And face the vacuum cleaner, together.
Dog and Pony Show
I read this piece at the Dean’s luncheon during my time in the Kennesaw Mountain Writing Project. It’s a critique on education reform.
“Dog and Pony Show”
I was invited to the show; told to sit down and listen and watch as they paraded Learning in front of me in chains; displayed Learning like King Kong – some sort of foreign wonder that had been captured and domesticated to serve our purposes.
“This is what we do” they told me, “This is how it is.”
Smiley Face Hocus-Pocus
I remember shaving my mother’s head.
It was in her bathroom, early in the morning. Like it does, the chemotherapy was causing her to lose all her hair, but she decided to beat it to the punch. I was terrified that I might slip and cut off her ear or something – it’s not like I’d ever held a razor before – and then instead of cancer, the cause of death might read “blood loss due to gross incompetence with a razor.” My mother laughed genuinely at the reflection of our efforts in the bathroom mirror. I pleaded with her to stop moving. She laughed harder, and I couldn’t help laughing too.
Lobsters and Frogs
I’m in third grade. We’re learning about frogs in science, and how if you put a frog in a pot of cold water and slowly heat the pot, the frog will boil to death.
“He doesn’t know he’s dying. It happens too gradually for him to notice” the teacher says.
Stair Climbing and Potty Training
I’m running around the house.
I cut left around the wall toward the upstairs half-bath, then switch right real fast to avoid hitting the little table with the stupid bowl that my mom bought because it matched the bathroom’s décor. I hate that stupid bowl. It’s completely useless. It just sits there in the middle of the hallway, taking up space and begging to be put to use. My mother won’t allow it. She says it’s for decoration. I don’t understand using useful things as decoration. That’s like finding a vaccine for some deadly disease, putting it in a syringe, and putting the syringe on a little table in your upstairs hall because it matches the décor.
Cause of Death: Tenderheart Bear
I am being swallowed by a Care Bear.
My nostrils are flaring frantically – the only sign that I’m still alive. Fuzz is being sucked up into my head, tickling my brain and making me want to sneeze.
It’s Halloween, and my mother wants a picture. She worked for hours sewing this costume and now I have to model her work. It’s inhumane, like the crazy lady down the street who dresses up her cats so they look like ducks or babies. My mom wants to send this picture to my grandmother as a keepsake to remember her grandson’s tragic and untimely death.
