I've grow weary of the endless translation of other peoples' rules. In a subconscious fit of childish refusal, my body defies cooperation in even the most innocent of daily endeavors. From this is born acute panic attacks, and sheer terror at the mere mention of my name from a place of authority. It wasn't always like this; I vaguely recall (or more accurately, dwell on) a time when every nerve projected stability and potential. That window is closing. Having accepted this new state of normality, after an exhaustive battle of adolescent awkwardness, the least I can hope for is another involuntary transition into foreign homeostasis.
The idea of this subsequently compels me to start a new life in some sort of underwater pressurized submarine house, but I've always sort of felt like doing this anyway. Perhaps the next course of action should be to bury my lack of control in a smoking gun, or maybe a rusty razor blade, but this notion hardly interests me. I've never been one to entertain typical consequences. My escape fantasy replaces suicide with retreating into a reclusive Adirondack shack, but living off the grid will most likely just result in in a repeat Uni-bomber scandal.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Subtraction
He existed as a laceration of my doubts, more than anything else. I watched his car disappear down the dirt road that August and couldn't help but think of the exact distances between the tire treads. It couldn't have been more than an inch and half. Maybe two inches. I realized what I was doing with a scowl. It clicked together in my head like Lincoln Logs, echoed like a public reading: I was trying to block the image out. Where my mother would take a shot of Sazerac to dull the abilities of her memory, I did internal math problems. My mind flicked back to the inside of my closet. I had squatted with my back against the door, whispering times tables to myself while the firemen searched the rest of the house for me.
Truman's leaving awoke that familiar escape inside my head. It wasn't enraged or even awkward. My whole life I knew Truman would just as soon kill you as shake your hand, but I had forced myself to see past that small area of his character. I know now that I was only inviting something to come and change my mind. It arrived in the form of a newspaper headline. The local police were following up on a murder case, searching for a man of average height, dark hair, Caucasian. When Truman arrived home that evening, I was waiting for him in the kitchen. I had spent hours practicing looking casual. I didn't want to frighten him back out onto the street. I didn't speak, only held up the front page of the paper.
He stared at it for a few seconds and then raised his eyebrows at me.
"You're looking rather elusive tonight, aren't you Tru?" I said, my voice faltering. He cleared his throat and waved his hand, as if to dismiss the headline as entirely libelous. The subject was dominating the room and I found it hard to break away from it, but we both knew it was too large a question to leave hanging in the kitchen that night like a wet dishtowel.
"Did you kill that man, Truman?" I directed the question at him as if it were a guided missile. I wasn't angry. I was curious. I wanted to be free of all doubt before I let him leave. He gave a terse nod. I sighed and pointed the newspaper toward the door, hanging my head. He unhooked his hunting jacket from behind the door where it had been disrupted from it's stationary sleep so soon after being deposited there. I watched from the window as the car drove smoothly down that dirt road and the math started up again in my head.
Truman's leaving awoke that familiar escape inside my head. It wasn't enraged or even awkward. My whole life I knew Truman would just as soon kill you as shake your hand, but I had forced myself to see past that small area of his character. I know now that I was only inviting something to come and change my mind. It arrived in the form of a newspaper headline. The local police were following up on a murder case, searching for a man of average height, dark hair, Caucasian. When Truman arrived home that evening, I was waiting for him in the kitchen. I had spent hours practicing looking casual. I didn't want to frighten him back out onto the street. I didn't speak, only held up the front page of the paper.
He stared at it for a few seconds and then raised his eyebrows at me.
"You're looking rather elusive tonight, aren't you Tru?" I said, my voice faltering. He cleared his throat and waved his hand, as if to dismiss the headline as entirely libelous. The subject was dominating the room and I found it hard to break away from it, but we both knew it was too large a question to leave hanging in the kitchen that night like a wet dishtowel.
"Did you kill that man, Truman?" I directed the question at him as if it were a guided missile. I wasn't angry. I was curious. I wanted to be free of all doubt before I let him leave. He gave a terse nod. I sighed and pointed the newspaper toward the door, hanging my head. He unhooked his hunting jacket from behind the door where it had been disrupted from it's stationary sleep so soon after being deposited there. I watched from the window as the car drove smoothly down that dirt road and the math started up again in my head.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
An Update
I'm just floating in this state of thorough, heavy, wrapping exhaustion. It's contenting. My muscles feel weighed, as if they are lead pipes for my blood to flow through. My head ebbs and flows into and out of consciousness as thought it were a red and white fishing bobber. My eyes are a dying camp fire.
It's only eleven, but it feels like the morning after a war has ended. When you can feel an entire city of people breathe through the hangover of death and napalm. I should be concerned about how malleable warm temperatures have made me, like this increase in daylight is making me stretch my roots out. I should be packing for tomorrow, I should be going to bed, but I don't want to peel this Band-Aid off quite yet. I love this feeling.
It's only eleven, but it feels like the morning after a war has ended. When you can feel an entire city of people breathe through the hangover of death and napalm. I should be concerned about how malleable warm temperatures have made me, like this increase in daylight is making me stretch my roots out. I should be packing for tomorrow, I should be going to bed, but I don't want to peel this Band-Aid off quite yet. I love this feeling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)