well, the time is up. november has ended and this was all of my novel that was written by the time limit (actually, i have a little of the last chapter written but i can't post that here, now can i? it'd ruin the surprise.) my intention is to finish the story, whether it will be of novel length or not is not of great concern. i will not be updating this section of the site any longer even though i plan on completing my story (if one could be so bold as to call it a "story"). instead, when i finish it, it will go on another section of the website, or maybe not, i'll have to see if that idea suits me when the time comes. i have a lifetime goal of writing a full novel someday -- perhaps this will be it, perhaps not. if not, i still have next november. there will always be next november...
i was dressed to impress.
tailored black dress with white frills. cute black shoes slightly resembling mary jane's but more sophisticated, delicate small bow. black fish net stockings. purple eye shadow. mascara. up-do. new black bra and black panties.
impressive, right?
and i was out to party. i was out to have fun. i was out to experience something new with new people in a new environment. i was ready to step outside of my norm. to do something fun and exciting and… different. that's all i wanted. all i thought i wanted.
i first saw him by the burning barrel in the back yard of the frat house. he was wearing all black, carting a black back pack, probably full of booze and a yellow "Ducks" hat. his face was painted white, with black sockets and lips. he was attractive, even through the make-up. and, most importantly, he took an interest.
"ya know, there are three French maids here tonight. well, four, but one of them is a guy… not really my thing."
"it's too bad there are so many of us."
"we should get all of you to do a line-up for us. see who of you actually hold up to the French maid standards. who can cut it."
a small fake-ish giggle escaped my lips, "that'd be a scene. we'd start a riot or something."
"my name's john, by the way." he puts his hand out, eager to catch mine.
"zarah. nice to meet you."
he smiled. he had nice straight teeth. they looked extremely white with the combination of black lipstick and mellow firelight. he had nice eyes too. i'm not totally sure if they were blue or green… hell, they might have been brown. the color wasn't important. it was the way the light bounced off them. they looked wet, but not sad. that sort of alcohol wash look that most people get when they've thrown back a few. pleasant though. nice to look into.
"so, are you drinking tonight? can i get you something?" he asked.
"oh, no thanks. i think i'm going to grab one when we get back to my house."
"are you leaving?"
"only for a little bit. we're going to chill for a bit there then come back. we're just looking for a friend."
"we? oh, you mean you and your grim reaper friend? he's looking out for you, huh? his head keeps popping up whenever i look."
"it's because we're trying to find someone. he's supposed to come back to my house with us. i guess he's having a hard time."
jack's scull-covered face caught my attention over a crowd of orange-glowing heads. he motioned for me to help him find our male nurse friend, alec. i excused myself from john's warm, wet stare and told him i'd be right back. it didn't take jack and i long to find nurse boy. he was near the bar, getting a refill in his classy red cup. we headed out. i poked john with my feather duster on the way out. alec, his date, and jack went ahead.
"are you alright? you don't look well." john said while he rubbed the small of my back.
"i'm just really cold." i replied, holding back my chattering teeth – it's not that cold, silly.
it was that cold.
john rubbed my back and took my hand. he held it firmly in his own, moving his thumb back and forth, creating a much needed and appreciated friction.
we get to the house where my friends have already made their selves at home. then it's drinking and partying and getting to know one another. john escapes to the back yard to smoke. after a bit i follow, so as not to be a rude hostess. the instant i walk through the doorway, he finishes his cigarette and latches his hands to my hips. no words, really. it's hard for me to speak, not because I was overwhelmed with passion, but because i didn't have anything to say. nothing to say, not to him. not to john. not to the man before me, the one with the white face paint and damp eyes.
he kissed me. i accepted. but his kisses were… his kisses were full yet entirely empty. it felt like there was nothing behind them, nothing of substance anyway. i didn't even feel lust… i felt more like a "sure thing" than a person. i felt like… that's it. i didn't feel. i didn't feel anything. my thoughts kept going back to three nights prior.
i pulled away. "no, no, sorry. i… no. just, not now."
john didn't look puzzled. he didn’t look hurt, either. he looked absent.
he tried to pursue me again, after we were in the house for a time. i wasn't receptive this time. i tried to tell him what was on my mind but I could tell he wouldn’t listen. and that was alright because i didn’t really cared if he listened. everything i would have said would have been for his benefit anyway. we made our way back to the party and parted ways. he just sort of mumbled something about having a good night. "hey, bro!" he called.
i went back home to think about him.
The dorm room is large for just one person. And it is entirely too warm, but I'm still wearing my zip-up hoodie. It's comfort. I look at Jack, my closest friend from school; his highlighted hair is perfect... combed forward with the slightest feathering near the front. He's wearing a simple blue t-shirt and light jeans. His white socks with grey toes stick out from underneath the denim. He sits in a small computer chair while I'm on something wooden and hard. There is music coming from his large computer speakers. Something mellow, something slow. I can hear his wall clock ticking, second for second. Never misses a beat. Always reliable.
"I just can't take school right now. I'm not feeling it. It's doing nothing for me besides create work and take up time. What am I gaining here?"
"My classes suck, my major is in question and I'm barely getting any requirements out of the way. It feels like there is still so much more to do but we've wasted two years already, why should we think that another two will solve our problems?"
"There's no progression. There's not even movement. Shit, I'd rather be falling backward than stagnant. My mind is growing stale and I don’t' know why."
"And I almost don't care." It doesn’t matter who of the two of us is speaking. Our thoughts are so similar that it's as if we're one mind, one sould of feelings meshed together but not complete. If we know one thing collectively, it is that we are not complete.
I speak, "I told you about Brandon's line of questioning earlier? He was asking me about my friends. Wondering who I care about, what friendships I cherish, if any. He wantes to be one of those people who I still keep in my thoughts. But what he doesn’t' realize is that I can't force concern for another person. You're either in my thoughts of you're not."
Jack stares at me, his dark eyes listening to ever word, understanding every train of thought. This is the beginning.
i went to a party last night. i realized just how fucked up people are at this age. we're all so needy. we have all these expectations… how our lives should be. we've got television and film and books telling us about what we're missing. showing us what a better life would be. what our lives could be… if only. so we push and push and pull and hurt and crave and want so hard, so deeply that it creeps under our skin and itches like a bad acid trip. it is driven into our skulls with a 15mm drill bit, engraved on the palms of our hands, and tattooed in between our thighs – this desire for love. this thing called love. we've been told it's all we need. we've been told that without it we are nothing. without it we are incomplete and therefore we - are not. and it drives us to do the most painful things. it makes us question others, their actions, their intentions. it makes us question until we can no longer think. yet somehow, we end up forgetting to question ourselves. we forget to find out who we are. what do we want? do we even know? do we really think that love can solve all our problems?
at the party, i was sitting next to this musician named will. i could tell he thought i was cute. i could tell he wanted to get to know me. we were talking about his past, about his mistakes and his regrets. about his promises and his broken friendships. about the love he holds toward those he cares deeply for.
and i kept thinking, he has so much baggage.
we all do, don't we?
'cause when you become friends with someone, you are more than just friends with the person, you've befriended their past, their weighted history, their baggage.
even more so when you become romantically involved with them. their memories become a part of you. a collaborative re-experience commences.
as i was walking home from school yesterday i saw a little girl standing next to her mother's van. we made eye contact and she smiled at me. the sweet, toothy smile of a child. i wonder if she remembers all the times that people smile at her. i'm sure it's a higher number than she can even count. that's the kind of baggage i wouldn't mind carrying around with me. those are the memories i want to share with friends. with people i love.
i envied that little girl. it's so easy to receive smiles when you're that young. everyone likes a pretty 4-year-old face with soft blonde curls and big, explorative eyes. at twenty the only times i get smiles from strangers is when they want to get in my pants.
my grandfather is dying. he's been dying for some five years now, what with multiple surgeries, heart murmurs, a couple knee replacements, and a hip replacement. in and out of the hospital. never quite "fixed" when he leaves. he has walked with a cane for a long time but now it looks as if he may never walk again. never walk again.
"hi honey, how are you doing?" my mother's voice traveled into my ear through a pearl white phone.
"i'm okay, mom. are you okay? you sound sick."
"well… i've been at the hospital all day. my dad's there."
i stuttered a little, "why?" it didn't really come as a surprise.
"last night he was complaining to mom of some pain. he said that he couldn't feel his toes and feet. they took him to OHSU at 2:30 this morning. my sister called me and we both went to the hospital to meet mom. by the time we got there, his body from the chest down was paralyzed. they ran dad through the MRI and discovered some pockets of liquid near the base of his spine, an infection." her speech slowed, choking back more tears. "they immediately scheduled a surgery. he was in there for almost seven hours. they… now they're waiting."
"when will they know what's going to happen?"
"they're going to check on the status of the surgery later tonight. he's on a respirator because he can't breathe by himself. after that they'll have a better idea as to whether he'll… whether he's be able… to walk, or if he'll use… a wheelchair. whatever happens, he'll have to go to a nursing home rehab center for a while. a couple months, more..."
"he survived."
she choked again, "yes, he survived."
the conversation didn’t last much longer after that. she asked me how school is, i asked her about her weekend. she asked me about the guy i like, i asked her about our plans for thanksgiving.
"maybe we can go out there tomorrow and visit dad."
"we should do that."
she excused me to my homework with a "goodbye, i love you."
"love you." it seemed so important this time. we usually say it at the end of our too sparse phone conversations, but this time it was more than just out of habit. this time there was that deep-seated fear behind my words. that fear which comes over all of us every once in a while. the fear that sort of creeps its way into our conscious minds when we catch a glimpse of the obituaries or watch a funeral on television or drive past a graveyard where freshly picked flowers adorn a lonely tombstone that reads "beloved mother and wife". the fear that we'll never see our parents again.
a year ago when i was getting stoned with a friend, i made one of those weird connections that people often make under the influence of marijuana. this friend was so much like my mother it was uncanny. she was older than me and wore simple clothes. she was tall and thin with shoulder length brown hair. she had a mid-western accent and more life experiences by the age of twenty-six than many have by their mid-life crisis. she was accepting and calm. down-to-earth and matter-of-fact. she liked to talk and she loved crafts, especially scrapbooking. i admired her.
we were sitting in the living room of her one-bedroom apartment, flipping through the limited channels on her 13" television when i… i guess one could say that night i felt the greatest appreciation i've ever experienced for another person. i was reminded of my mother and her strength. i felt little and inexperienced compared her. i realized all the shit she's been through. i was reminded of the numerous mountains she has climbed in her lifetime. how she started a new life on her own 3000 miles away from her family. how she has suffered from and overcome anti-feminine oppressions. my mother has sheltered, fed, and secured a family of four almost entirely by herself for the last twenty years. continually building herself anew to accommodate the needs and wants of her husband and children. she is amazing. i admire her.
and to hear her on the phone swallowing tears and fighting the fear crawling up her throat, made me hurt. a woman so strong and independent...
it wasn't hard until i started talking to him. there's something about speaking to unresponsive ears, an unresponsive body that's really hard on a person. you know that they know that you're there, but at the same time you don't because there's no reassurance that they can hear you. there is no acknowledgement of your presence. there's just the back and forth noise of a breathing machine, the up and down movement of the shoulders and chest, the open, gaping mouth that breathes more tubes and chords than air. that's all you have to go by. and what is that? it's all mechanism. breath and pulse. those are the things we do every single day of our lives. what is that but nature? what is that but something that is uncontrolled? something automatic? there's no feeling behind that, there's no thought. mechanics, machines.
what was he thinking or feeling? did he have emotion? are we truly feeling if we can't express it? and if not, are we human any longer?
but with all the beeps and bleeps and lines and tubes and patches, it wasn’t hard until i started talking to him. until i told him that we were there and that we were thinking for him and that we were praying for him. until i told him that he needed to stick around a little longer, because we wanted him to be there for Thanksgiving.
my dad was standing next to me, holding my hand. he squeezed it just the littlest, tiniest bit. and… it helped.
yesterday i escaped into a back storage space in the library. a cramped little cage full of books. these books were incredibly old. i fingered through them, admiring the different sizes and depths, noting their coloring and binding. i came upon this one book. i can't remember the title now but for some reason this book caught my eye. the binding was coming loose and the spine's cover had almost completely worn away so that the large binding threads were visible. the tag that was hanging from the book read "1640." it is three and a half centuries old. i began to imagine how many hands had touched the book. how many fingers had rustled through the pages. how many eyes had gazed upon it's typeset words. and i began to compare myself to this book. to this inanimate object. there is no comparison really, i mean, that book had seen more faces… it's been fondled by more hands than have hailed Hitler. it's got so much history whereas i'm just at the beginning of my life.
i certainly won't see as many faces or have as many hands touch me as that book. and, i can't even say that i'll have as much history. there was something about it that made me anxious. from my gazing at that book, there came about this sort of appreciation for me and my place. to think that as i get older my pages will become brittle, they will yellow, and tear. to think that my spine won't hold up and that my cover will fall apart. to think that though my pages may come loose from my binding, all the information they hold is still there. my memories and thoughts have all been recorded.
it made me want to read everything. even though the cover may be damaged and even though words may have faded, i want to experience everything.
i wanted to be like that book. three and a half centuries later someone will be thinking of me.
"I want to do something great in my lifetime. I want to make a difference. I want to be remembered. I just don’t know how to do something like that. How does one become great? I don’t necessarily want my name in history books or anything, but I want, years and years from now, for someone to think about me. I want people to know that I lived, that I thrived." Jack and I want the same things for the most part. He used to think he was going to grow up, go to college, become a doctor, find someone to love and care for, have a family and live in a quiet home in the country. That's what he used to think. He has found someone to love and care for. But that, that's the only thing he is sure about now. Jack is in love with a boy named Paul. Paul is a little bit shorter than Jack, and his features are much lighter. I've always said that he reminds me of Matt Daemon. I'm not sure if Jack agrees. His boyfriend is an incredibly talented musician. He's going to a school in Minnesota on a huge music scholarship. Over two thousand miles away. This, of course, is very hard on the relationship. But like all good stories, love prevails. They have been together for almost two years. It's a funny story, how they met. Actually, they were introduced to one another by someone else who had been interested in Paul previously. They began talking on the phone and soon after they had their first date. They met up at a coffee shop in the city and almost instantly hit it off. They were awkward moments, of course, like when they simultaneously tried opening the door to a corner bookstore. And when Jack told Paul he smelled good and Paul replied with, "I accidentally used my sister's deodorant this morning." They both blushed. Jack tells me that he really knew he liked this kid when he took him to the Central library downtown. Jack loves books. He's got this affinity for their smell. Their date lasted well into the night when Paul dropped Jack off at his dormitory.
"I really want to kiss you," Jack said.
"What's stopping you?" Paul smoothly asked.
They kissed and Jack tells me it was like fireworks. He had almost given up the idea of finding someone to love...
I know all this because Jack is my friend and he is in love with a boy named Paul.
i was next to his bed at the hospital when my grandfather died.
we stood, encircling his death bed, hands on one another, hands upon him. my uncle Jim, named after my grandfather, assured grandpa that he could pass when he wanted to. that he didn't have to stay with us. that we could take care of each other.
there was so much love emanating from that room it was almost suffocating.
as his words poured onto his father's unresponsive face he broke. he leaned into him and cried, "i love you dad." while kissing his forehead and caressing his hair. he grabbed at his dad’s shoulders, almost as if he was rescuing what little life my grandfather had left and securing it as his own. actually, it was more of a fight between gaining life and giving it. between accepting and releasing. a tug of war between hearts and minds and respiratory systems. a challenge: guts and soul vs. guts and soul. two doors across from each other in a hallway. door handles tied together by a single string. one door opens wider, the other begins to close. just like that.
it was a hard thing to witness. even harder than the passing itself.
which ended up being calm and almost serene. a release. the ultimate catharsis.
there is something downright painful about watching a man cry. watching a man cry for his father. it's because there is that connection between father and son that cannot be captured by any two other people. it is hard for me to grasp just because i am female, but i see it, i know it is there. it continues along the line much like the passing of the family name - a gift that only a father can give to his son. a gift that only a son can receive.
my brother gave me love advice the other day. my burley, blonde brother who is one year, ten months and twenty-five days younger than me, gave me love advice the other day. he's been dating this girl for seven months now. he brags because it's been seven months and no fight. they've had little tiffs and whatnot, but no real fight. he asked me how i'm doing, how my love life is going. i said, "it's going, it's alright." he said, "don’t worry, there is somebody out there for ya." and i kind of laughed inside my head and agreed with him, deep down. he said that before he met this girl, he used to think that there was no one out there for him and wondered why nobody liked him. i never really thought about that question coming from my own brother's mind. i mean, i know i've had those feelings before and my friends have had those feelings before. but it's weird to think that my own brother has had those feelings before.
"you love her?"
"of course. she's my best friend."
"you're in love with her?" i noticed my pitch rose with the word "in."
He stared at me. no verbal "yes" or "no." no nod or head shake. He didn’t even flinch or move his eyes. i heard somewhere, probably in a movie, that if someone looks to their upper left, it means they are going to answer a yes-or-no question in the affirmative.
He did nothing. only blinked, only breathed. He's got this look about that is the epitome of unreadable. it is very straight faced and non-emotional yet the look is almost sad. i'd rather think that's because of the natural downward curl at the corners of his mouth than stemmed from melancholy.
i was reminded of a boy i knew in grade school with dark hair and freckles. he always seemed to have a frown planted on his face. he didn’t talk much. didn't look much, either. always stood on the playground by himself and never joined the games. sometimes during recess, he would just disappear only to return to his assigned seating seconds before class began. there was one time when someone kicked our four square ball and it bounced through the doorway of our building. the door was propped open because it was a warm spring day and the school hadn't air conditioning. i ran to fetch the ball and as i was throwing my head from side to side, searching the hallway while continuously running, i caught a glimpse of the sad boy. he had found the ball and was kneeling on the linoleum next to it. he had his right palm on top of the ball and his left hand was rubbing the back of his neck.
i slowed and walked up next to him, hesitant. this boy was really weird, the kind of kid that no one even attempts to speak to because we were all afraid he'd cast a spell on us or something equally as ridiculous. i stood over him, watching him rub his neck and touch the ball, sometimes rolling it against the floor from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his palm. after what seemed like an eternity, or at least a long time to a young girl anxious to return to her game, i spoke, "can i have my ball back?"
he looked up to me with his crazily hazel eyes; he looked straight into me and said in a calm voice, "look at what they've done to you. i'm so sorry. you must be dead because i don’t' know how to feel. i can't feel anything anymore. you've gone someplace else now. i'll believe in you all of my life, everyday."
i narrowed my eyebrows. i didn’t understand. the first, and probably last time this boy has ever spoken to me and he says something cryptic like that. in my fear and confusion i grabbed the ball out from underneath his palm and ran back outside to the playground. once i was there i proceeded to tell all my girlfriends about how weird the sad kid was and how he tried to trick me with his words. i told them that he was nasty and possessed.
years later i realized that the words the sad kid spoke to me that strange spring afternoon were simply quoted from the movie ET. what he told me came straight from the scene near the end of the film when young Elliot is saying goodbye to ET after he thinks his new friend has died. Elliot follows up the quote by saying, "i love you ET" and leans against the dead alien's body and kisses his nose. i had foolishly run away from a kid who only spoke in someone else’s words. the words of a screenwrite. in retrospect, i am ashamed to have denied that boy a simple nod of the head that would have conveyed my understanding.
but that would have been a lie anyway, because obviously, i didn’t understand him or i wouldn't have run away. i wouldn’t have been so scared.
He looked up at me with his hands behind his head, as i straddled his bare torso. His shoulders were in shadow and his biceps firm and highlighted. He said, “don’t worry. it doesn’t matter. what we have no is now. that won’t change.”
something about the words, “that won’t change” really resonated in me. to me, that epitomized everything about our relationship. what we had at that moment is all we can ever have. no more can come out of us, not significantly anyway – and i think i’m okay with that.
i am heeding His advice. i am not worrying.
i am doing what i always wanted to do. i’m living in the now. i’m not thinking about the future, i’m not thinking about the past. i’m living and being. i’m being who i am at this moment, at this time. sure, i’m reflecting, but i don’t want to change what i already have and i’m not concerned about what i’m going to have in the future.
it may sound simple to forget everything but what is right in front of me. but that’s not exactly right. i’m not denying my past but i’m not dwelling in it either. i remember -- there is no reason not to remember. i hear the soft, wise voice of erykah badu, “remembering is good for you, don’t let it be the fear of you.” i embrace and cherish the memories but i don’t live them. i live here. i am living. i am now.
and that is all that matters.
I look at Jack and wonder where we will be in twenty years. There has always been a significant focus on the future. We are constantly preparing for what will be. We learn the alphabet to prepare for elementary school, we go to elementary school to prepare for middle school, we go to middle school to prepare for high school, we go to high school to prepare for college, we go to college to prepare for a career, we follow through our career to prepare for retirement, and we live as retirees while we prepare for death. It is that oppressive weight pressuring us to know exactly what we want and when we want it.
I don’t know what I want.
Even when I was little I didn’t have it figured out. I didn’t have one of those lifetime goals like most other children. That is where Jack and I differ. He has always wanted to become a doctor, someone who helps others. A caregiver. Someone important. Who makes a difference. When I was young and my parents and teachers would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never had a definite answer. Sometimes I would say that I wanted to be a teacher, other times I'd tell them that I wanted to be an astronaut, even more often I would reply with a confused, "I don't know."
I still don’t know.
Jack looks tired in this lighting. The cheap overhead bulb casts a dim shadow under his eyes. I look tired too. I take his small mirror in my palm and look into my own blue-grey eyes. My upper lids fall and I loose sight of myself and begin to speak, "I feel so lost. I have no… direction. I haven't any goals. I don't know what I want to do tomorrow, let alone for the rest of my life. I have so many interests and yet no single chosen path." I pause and take a heavy breath, "What's worse… is that I don't feel like choosing one of those paths. I still feel like my options should be open. There are so many things in this world to do. I've always wanted to be a cake decorator."
"Really? How come?"
"There's the artistic aspect, of course. Have you ever watched those people while they decorate?" Jack shakes his head. "It's incredible. They're so precise yes expressive. They have the most intent looks on their faces. A look of penetrating concentration and determination. They capture artistic perfection in a medium that makes people happy. How satisfying to create a masterpiece that will be not only enjoyed visually but with tongue and pallet. Celebrations are held around your artwork. Births and anniversaries and holidays are celebrated with your work as the center piece. How fulfilling."
Jack waves his hands as he speaks, "But, this masterpiece you've created, that you've spent hours making is destroyed with a simple slice of a knife. It's devoured by greedy hands and gluttonous mouths. Ingested, digested and excreted. How can that be fulfilling?"
"I find satisfaction in creation and also in destruction. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Every end is a new beginning'? The demolition of my work is only a completion of the cycle."
on the table in the dining area there is a single, long-stemmed red rose resting in a glass vase that i bought at Goodwill. my roommate put it there. i presume it was given to her by her boyfriend. it is very vibrant and smells nice, not the best smelling rose i've come across, but sweet. i have never once received a flower, let alone a bouquet. not even for my birthday. no valentine's day gifts. no thinking-of-yous. not from parents, not from friends, not from a lover. i have never once received a flower.
they are superficial, flowers. they're pretty when you get them, they bloom and are full for only a day and they spend the rest of their "lives" dying. how miserable. what a miserable existence. picked only for their temporary beauty.
when He walked through my living room earlier He pointed at the rose and asked in a somewhat jokingly matter, "is that from one of your many admirers?"
"many admirers?" i gawked, "hardly."
"what about all those offers you've been receiving? the ones you've told me about."
"those don't matter. i only want to accept your offers." i leaned into him and grabbed the back of His neck. our mouths touched, our lips parted and pressed. His hands wrapped around my body and pulled at my back. He tasted like mint toothpaste and the raspberry sucker i gave to Him earlier. He pulled back, pulled away and sort of pushed my shoulders back so that we were no longer touching. i looked up at His cleft chin and then to his wild green eyes, the eyes that i once described as "pretty" and caught him off guard. there was confusion on my face and that sad look on his.
"what?" i asked, a waiver in my voice.
He didn't say anything. He looked at me. just looked.
"what?" i demanded again.
slowly He answered, "can't i just look at you?"
my heart swelled and my palms throbbed. my breathing quickened and knees ached. i took him by his ring finger and pinky and walked him up the stairs of my apartment. as soon as we broke the threshold of my bedroom door, he took me by the shoulders and spun me to face him. he continued to peer at me, into me. he brushed my hair from my left shoulder and placed it behind my back. he began to unbutton my olive blouse. my heart continued to inflate; i felt like i was going to die. he let my blouse drop to the floor. he slowly listed his own shirt above his head and let that drop on the floor also. he unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned my pants. he pushed them down past my hips and softly kneeled on one knee. he rose his hand to hold mine as i stepped out of my jeans and back onto the cream carpet. he stood and removed his pants seamlessly. again he brushed the hair that had fallen onto my shoulders when my shirt was stripped. he reached behind my back slowly and traced a finger from my panty line to my bra. i closed my eyes and titled my head backward. he unhooked my bra and pulled it slowly off my shoulders. he stuck his thumbs between my hips and my thong and pulled my underwear to the floor. my pulse doubled. while he was below me i could feel him peering up. his eyes penetrated every curve. my hand, with my eyes still closed, managed to find his tough head of hair and coox him into standing. as he rose, i could feel his hot breath traveling up the front of my body. i opened my eyes just as he let his boxers drop from his hips. for a moment we stood there living in each other's nakedness. bare. pure. he took my shoulders in his hard hands and eagerly pushed me onto my bed. he used his hands to gaze at my body just as his eyes had done. every inch of my person. lightly. leisurely. goose pimples rose to his touch and my body careened for more.
never before have i felt so wanted. never before have i felt so in need. never before has someone treated me like a goddess as he did that night.
i feel like committing a crime. something substantial in the way of possible prosecution yet petty in a wordly sense. i want to break all the windows of major department stores then steal only a handful of clothes and appliances. i want to knock down every single orange construction cone that litters the streets and vandalize STOP signs. i want to spray paint the doors of public buildings and courthouses by making them look like jail cells. i just need to rustle things up a bit. jar the scene. reek some havoc. because so many people out there have no fucking clue what is going on.
but neither do i.
and that makes me angry. --
ignorance is my worst enemy.
obtaining knowledge is the primary objective.
because what are we if we don't think?
we're just like everything else – cold, mindless machines used only to produce more cold, mindless machines to over populate the world.
i don’t want to be a machine. i want to understand. i want to think. i want to use my mind to process thoughts, to take evidence and draw conclusions.
i don't want to be a machine.
sometimes when i talk to people i know, acquaintances and classmates, i question their minds. not in the sense that i contemplate a decision they've made, or something like that, but i question whether they think at all. there is this one girl named Rebecca, a tall, thin, giggly, blonde biology major, whom i think about too much. i don’t understand her. i can't figure out if she thinks. i mean, if she really sits down and thinks. i know she does her homework, she's very studious. and i know she had a boyfriend, so she must think about him sometimes too. but, just from the way she acts, i'm not so sure she ever sits down and takes a moment to herself and thinks. about anything. she seems to go about her breezy way, always floating. i wonder what is inside of her. if there is anything. because she always has this vacant look in her eyes. a sort of accepting look, which is probably why she has so many friends, they all think she's sympathetic and caring. but how can one be sympathetic when everything her friends say doesn't stick. she seems to just nod and carry that absent look with her wherever she goes.
a mindless machine.
i don't understand her and i'm afraid i never will. i just hope that she's got more in that head of hers than air and jello. because if not, i feel sorry for her. i just hope that the reason i don't understand her is because i don't know her very well. that's my hope.
she's the kind of person who makes me want to commit vandalistic crimes.
i can't stop thinking about him. he's been at the forefront of all my thoughts for the last 72 hours. i haven't seen him in what feels like an eternity. however long – it is entirely too long. my mind is making predictions about the next time we're together. catch a movie, or chill in the park. maybe even just go into Portland and see where the wind and rain take us. but no matter what we'll do, he'll wear something casual with his comfy worn jeans and i'll have my orange tennis and glasses and we'll be together.
as i was walking home from school today and listening to my Discman, my favorite song from the new Outkast album came on and i started dancing. my moves were slow at first, with some simple hop shaking and a few hand gestures, the kind rappers use to accentuate their rhymes. but when the hook played, i broke out. my ass was swinging while my limbs crawled upward and out. my feet were possessed by the beat and i stepped with purpose with an occasional spin. it was refreshing. walking and dancing and feeling free. open with myself. i was so comfortable even though the possibility of my classmates or neighbors spotting me was high. was basically inevitable. but i loved it, love the unfettered freedom.
love it enough to set the track on repeat and do it all a second time.
but you know, they say third time is a charm.
i went to my grandfather's funeral today.
the service was held at a church in SE Portland. the same church he was baptized at. the same church he and my grandmother were married at. the same church that my mother and father were married at, also. i didn’t know until today that my grandfather died just a week shy of his 52nd wedding anniversary. and three weeks shy of thanksgiving. the beginning of the holiday season is going to be hell for my grandma for the rest of her life.
the reverend was a little weird, but sincere. i could tell that when she was little she probably took classes to help her correct a speech impediment, a lisp. i think she may have been a new reverend at the church because she seemed a little out of her element. maybe it was one of her first times leading a funeral. she did fairly well, though. she spoke with intent and prayed with conviction. the ceremony was simple. a large amount of people attended the memorial service. quite a few people drove all the way into town from the coast, people that grandpa worked with as mayor and at the fish hatchery. honestly, i would estimate around 70-80 people were there. that's incredible. it's amazing to think that my grandfather touched all those people in one way or another. influenced them in some way – enough that they took time out of their schedules to attend his funeral. i should hope to impact that many people in my lifetime. to make a difference in a variety of lives.
some seven or eight different people spoke. including three of my four cousins and my uncle. one of my younger cousins, who is the same age as my brother, moved me with her speech. she had typed out some four pages on the computer to read at the funeral. the part that really got me was when she said that she regrets that her grandfather won't be able to see her walk down the isle some day. that hit me hard for a few different reasons. the idea that i will not have that opportunity either, and then perhaps that the opportunity for me to wed will no present itself to me in the future, or i will not want it. it got me thinking about love and my future and as of right now, i can't really see myself getting married one day. there's that hope for a steady, loving companionship, but i'm not sure if there is the want of marriage. my parents have been married for over 25 years and though their relationship is strong, i can't help but think that their marriage is a special case, an exception to the rule. so many people get divorced. even my father was married before he found my mother. if marriage is such a strong bond, then why is it that so many people break it with infidelity or greed?
when things don't go as planned people tend to become disappointed. sometimes that disappointment manifests as anger. these are the times that mothers break down and whip their children, and sons throw fists of fury at their fathers. these are the times when family's slip and lose their footing. a cluster of people torn apart. the core of the family is the mother and the father, so what is a family if half the core is missing?
but then there are times like these when families come together and show how much they really appreciate one another.
my favorite people, though, are the great-aunts and the twice-removed cousins. the distant relatives i've met only once or twice in my lifetime. i like them best because they walk up to me with a tap on the shoulder, "zarah, right?" and i nod. they look me up and down and shake their heads. they say, "the last time i saw you, you couldn't have been more than this tall," and they hold a flat hand parallel with the ground a little higher than their knees. they know i don't remember them and they're okay with that. they say, "i'm aunt judy" or "i'm your cousin troy" and when i look at them without recognition, they don't flinch. they understand.
they're my favorite family members because i have little attachment to them yet they still love me. they don’t know who i am, they don’t know where i've been, and they still feel an affinity toward me because they met me once when i was "knee high to a grasshopper." before i could think, before i could understand feelings, before i could barely take action. it's a strange bond and i is one i am truly fond of.
I ask Jack, "Have you ever lost someone dear to you?"
He thinks for a moment then answers, "I had an aunt that died when I was younger, and a boy in my graduating class committed suicide our junior year."
"Were you close to him?"
"Pretty close. His name was Randy Phillips. I was friends with his older brother, Carl, and since he and I had a couple classes together and I had sort of hung with the two of them before, we naturally started talking to each other at school and whatnot. We would hang out together on the weekends, go to the river and such. I guess his parents got on him because his grades were slipping, he wasn't one for school, and then his girlfriend had to dump him because of her over-protective parents. They thought that he was too much of a rebel or something. It didn't make much sense. I think they just didn't like his family. The Thorenson's and Phillips' never got along. It was one of those small town rivalry type situations. I don't really know the details… no one really knows the details about those sort of things. They just do it over and over again until it eventually turns into tradition and all the meaning behind conflict is lost – if any meaning was even there in the first place." Jack clears his throat, "Anyway, things just weren't good enough, I guess, and one morning at school our teacher told us that Randy had committed suicide the afternoon before, right after school. His parents found him when they were calling him for dinner that night. He didn't come to the table when his mom yelled so they went upstairs to his bedroom to get him. He was dangling from the ceiling by a thick field rope, the kind they use to steer cattle. I heard that his face had turned blue from the strangling but I'm not sure if that's true. We were young and people like to tell stories, ya know."
"Did you go to his funeral?"
"No. I wouldn't have felt right. I didn't want my last time seeing him to be like that. In a casket, a case, surrounded by satiny lining, dressed in his only suit, with is face blue. I didn't want to remember him that way. He was nothing like that."
"What was he like?" I ask, "How do you remember him?"
Jack thinks for a bit, solemnly, then a small smile appears on his face. I can see in his eyes that he remembers. "We were hanging out by the shallow end of the river one afternoon after school. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a white t-shirt, whereas I had even scuffier jeans and a green shirt. We were attempting to build a dam; our physics class had inspired us to do some experimenting. He liked physics. It was the one subject he could stomach and he liked using his hands -- it was a good combination. We had drawn a plan on graph paper and had collected all the needed tools and materials. We were so excited about finishing our project that we forgot to secure the foundation of the damn before continuing to build on top of it. After four or so hours of work and preparation, he spotted a leak in our system. Once we saw the first leak, it was all downhill from there. A second and third stream spurted through our retaining wall. We frantically tried to plug the holes up with mud and rocks but to no avail. We were splashing wildly in the river; jeans rolled up to our knees but soaked to the bone anyhow. And finally the wall snapped and flushed through the rocks, ruining our hard work and completely drenching us. I looked at what was left of our dam. A couple big rocks and some branches that had banked themselves. Then I looked up at Randy, my mouth slightly agape and my eyes wide. He stood there smiling broadly. This fool hadn't realized what just happened. All our work was destroyed. All that time spent was now wasted. I blurted, 'Damnit man, everything's gone.' And he looked back at me with a crooked smile, shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Eh, shit happens. At least now I don't have to pee.'" Jack breaks into laughter, "I laughed so hard that I nearly pissed myself."
I smile and chuckle to myself. Then Jack's laughter slows and his voice turns grave, "It's weird that such a grown-up thing happened to such a young boy."
i'm not sure what triggered the remark, but today when he and i were working on our research projects in my living room he said the five most devastating words that can come out of a dear friend and lover's mouth. "i can't see you anymore."
the comment came out of clear air, as if he had just been bitten by the fearful heartless mosquito that instantly infects its victims. i would have thought it was a joke if it weren't for the gravity in his tone and a more-prominent-than-usual-frown on his face.
i had a strong, sickening feeling that his reason to part from me stemmed from that other girl. the one he used to know. the one he hasn't known in years. the best friend. i questioned him asking outright if he came to this decision because of another girl, because of her. he said no and i only sensed the slightest hint of doubt, which could have been a byproduct of my overactive imagination.
but no one ever forgets a best friend.
and no one wants to be second best.
i quickly analyzed my situation. i didn't know if i should fight for him or give up. i didn’t know if he wanted me to fight or if he'd rather me take a step back and show him the door. i couldn't read his face because of that damned sad look. that sad look which always catches me off guard, which always makes me want to pull his head to my bosom and drag my fingers along his scalp while deeply inhaling his scent as if it were a fine smoke.
all he could tell me is that it wasn't the right time, that he didn't have the time to give me the commitment and attention that i deserve. he said that i deserve a better man than he. someone who can give me all the things that i want that he can't provide. but what is that? i've been so happy the past few weeks. probably the happiest i've been in years. why is he doing this now just when things look so hopeful.
he denied that his statement had anything to do with his absent best friend.
realize now, with impeding doom on our horizon, how much i like him after only knowing him a short while. i like him a lot more than i may have realized.
a few days ago a friend of mine caught the goofy, dreamy look on my face and inquired. i told her that i was just thinking about him and doing that makes me so happy i have to smile. she and i have talked about boys on a number of occasions and she has this habit of demanding, "tell me why you like him." i think it is her way of making sure my interests lie in a worthy investment. i thought for a second, as i have done in the past when this question has been presented to me, then i let the words fall from my mouth. they came so easily, so fluently...
"i like the way he makes me feel. i like that when i'm with him i'm comfortable. i like that he compliments me even though he doesn't have to. i like that he challenges what i think and i like that he gives me another perspective. i've never met someone like him before. i like that he makes me feel sexy and wanted. i like how determined he is, and how open and honest. i like his hair and i like his eyes, and i like his parents because i know they gave them to him. i like how he has shared with me some of his family history, mostly little stuff... and how much he respects them." i took a breath, "i like him because he is him and he lets me be me."
later that night while i was taking a bath and reflecting on my day, a dark shadow called fear crept onto my stomach and between my breasts and grabbed a strong hold on my throat. it was an overwhelming feeling that conquered my mind and didn't allow me to think of anything but my affection for him. i suddenly felt like things were happening entirely too fast and that i had lost control of my own car's steering wheel.
i told him all of this and he looked at me, his green eyes sagging from exhaustion, he could only reply with what he had said before, "i can't see you anymore" and a bow of his head.
i've decided to fast for three days, in honor of my grandfather. i like to fast every now and again, once a month or so, just to clear my system and get things back in order. it's my way of physically cleaning and mentally preparing for the days to come. this time i have more than just a selfish reason to fast. i have a purpose. a devotion to my grandpa.
there was one occasion, while i was in high school, when i was sitting at the lunch table with a few friends. they all got out their homemade lunches and started to dig in. one of my friends, maria, asked me why i wasn't eating that day. "it's not like you forgot your lunch," she said with a goofy grin. i ate lunch from school everyday because i had the free-lunch tickets that they give to kids whose parents cannot afford to buy them lunch. we probably could have afforded it, but it would have been meager. and my family fit into the right bracket, so why not take advantage of your advantages, eh? i looked back at maria and told her that i was fasting that day. she was confused, she didn't know why i would not want to eat. she knew i wasn't doing it for religious reasons, like hannah would have on Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur.
katie chimed in, "you know, that's bad for you, not eating all day. it screws up your digestive system."
she obviously didn't know what she was talking about, "people fast all the time." Hannah replied.
"you shouldn't deny your body of what it craves," katie said.
what my body craves is acceptance. what my body craves is natural warmth. what my body craves are the strong arms of a lover clenching me tight under a starlit sky with the chill November winds sweeping across us. and though the southerly current is forceful my lover will stand tall and tough, never loosening his grip on my cold body. and we would stand like that for hours, wrapping ourselves in the warmth of the other. cherishing the few places that our skin touches, his chin on the hairline near my temple, my hand just above his pant line in the back. and there is a slight whistle. and a low howl. and the faint crescent moon.
sometimes a girl just wants to be held.
"And I don't know if we're the only ones who feel like this. I've talked to some seniors. They'll ask me how I'm doing and I'll give them the standard, 'doing okay' but they can tell by the look on my face that I'm only saying it out of courtesy. They say they know what I'm going through. They say that I'll get over it. That we all go through it sometime, that it's natural, a part of life. But I don't know if they really know. I don't know if they really have been where I am right now. They seem fine. They don't seem worn as they would after conquering a battle. They don't seem like they've questioned their very purpose in life. But I smile and nod and tell them thank you and open my book to page forty-eight and I sit quietly and take notes. But I'm not learning anything. I'm not retaining. I'm not even listening. I'm just going through the motions. I'm just sticking to routine. The same routine I've known for the last fourteen years. I'm tired of the routine."
Jack put everything I have been thinking for the past month into words. Actually, it began this summer when I wasn't doing anything but sleeping in, going to work, partying late and going to bed in the early morning. I was tired of that routine and I'm tired of the one I've got now.
"None of this is getting me anywhere." he says.
"If I could offer words of support, I would, but I'm in the same place as you are now. I've been feeling this way since the fifth week of summer." I say.
"Exactly. Since the fifth week of summer. I felt so selfish being depressed or whatever you call it while I was with Paul. I was in a great place living with him for the summer. We were like a real couple, making dinner for each other and spending all hours of the day together. I was so happy – yet so unfulfilled. Something was… missing."
Absent.
"Your drive."
He laughs a little, "Yeah, my drive." Pause. "It's like nothing even matters anymore. And frankly, I'm not sure if it ever did. If all the things that have happened to me in my lifetime have gotten me where I am today… well, I don't know where I am. So everything that has happened, my history, doesn’t matter. It could have been completely different and I would still be questioning everything that I'm questioning now and I still wouldn't have the answers. I'd still be lost and without direction."
"So, what are you saying? Are you suggesting we pick a direction and just go with it?" I ask.
"I'm not sure. It seems like the only way, though the hardest. Because shit, Zarah, I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't belong here. I don't belong in this building, in this dorm room. I'm not supposed to be here if I'm not getting anything out of it."
"Well then, what direction do you want to go in?"
He thinks for a moment, as do I. He looks down at the keyboard of his computer and I look down at his makeshift table comprised of four plastic crates and a closet door. We both look up and say, nearly in unison, "I don't know."
when he told me he was going to leave, i told him i still needed a hug. he asked me what the point was, that a hug wasn't going to help anything. he asked me if i still needed one and i nodded. he looked at me for a while and came up to me and gave me this terrible, short, one-armed pat and then pulled back and held onto my arm. he grabbed my other elbow and looked me straight in the eyes, "i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry."
"i am too." i said.
he wiped his eyes which i noticed were a little watery and said to himself, "i can hug you. yes, i can hug you." then he wrapped his long arms around my shoulders and back and squeezed me tight. i think i could have stayed like that for a long time but i knew i had to be the first person to let go and eventually i did.
he never really gave me the answers i was looking for. i don’t think he knew the answers and that’s what scares me the most. i don’t think he has questioned himself. i think he is one of those people who has no fucking clue what is going on – just like me. he told me he'd answer any questions that i had. but i didn't want to ask any more questions. questions are what drew us apart. questions are what separate us even now.
i can’t live my life without questioning it.
and there is a fear that i cannot live my life without him.
he said that there is going to be someone else, probably before the end of this school year, who will have his shit together, who will be interested in what's inside my head and will tell me i'm pretty, and then he'll just be a collection of memories.
but that’s what everyone from my past is – a collection of memories.
i took a walk on the sidewalks of my town before he came over tonight. i noticed the black and brown smudges that litter the blocks of solid cement. these smudges were once pieces of a whole. they were once parts of larger pictures, chalk artworks that adorned downtown Forest Grove. they were created by the hands of eager children and adults who wanted to show a piece of themselves to their neighbors. it took hours for each of those chalkworks to be completed. care and precision were put into them. they meant something to someone. and now? now they are merely memories, remnants of what was once there. the rains have come and washed their bright colors away. the shoes have marched over them, carrying and disbursing dust particles so that they are no longer have form. they are unrecognizable.
i don’t want him to be a remnant. i’ve only just begun the sketch.
people think about so much stuff in any given day. i mean, in just a 24-hour period we can go from tonight's dinner to our first boyfriend to the last thing mother said on the phone back to tonight's dinner to a fight with a best friend to that fucker on the highway earlier to tomorrow's dinner to a well-received compliment and on and on and on. our minds are constantly active, constantly processing. connecting synapses and relating events, moments and ideas. there is a fluidity to the human mind that is most intriguing and inspiring. surrealists' utilized fluidity of thought and streams of consciousness. you say food i say apple – you say red i say purple – you say puppy i say bitch – you say mother – i say we've got something here. surrealism is the radical extreme of free-thought.
not to mention the time-period the surrealist movement thrived in. it was a time of revolution. a time of bohemia and free-thought. of free-love and sexual licentiousness. the surrealists explored the inner workings of the mind, stretched the boundaries of the unconscious, and manipulated imagination. ...[unfinished]
nearly the entire summer and all this school year i've been having these terrible nightmares. they aren't typical nightmares in the sense that there is a bad guy and he is chasing me with a chainsaw or anything, they're more realistic than that. actually, i've come to refer to them as anxiety dreams because when i wake from them i'm all sweaty and my heart is pounding and i feel really nervous. i usually have them just before i'm about to get up. they'll wake me around a half hour to an hour before my alarm is supposed to ring. i had one last night and it was one of the most vivid ones so far.
my current roommate and i were sharing a huge apartment together in downtown Portland. first sign that this is a dream – i would never live with this girl again. to continue, i was on my way home from school or work and i noticed this station wagon driving down the road but i didn't see a driver. it was driving toward me, really slowly. when i caught up to it, i peaked inside. there was an old man in the driver seat and old woman in the passenger seat. this old couple had their seats reclined as far back as they could go with blankets draped over them. they were sleeping, yet their car was still scooting along at 5mph.
i kept walking, somewhat concerned, and i found who i thought was a cop because he was riding a special kind of bicycle. i asked him for help because i was concerned for the old folks. he replied with, "can this wait 8 minutes until the next shift takes over?" i said, sure and started walking back home, which happened to be the same direction the "cop" was going. we get to my apartment and i followed him up the stairs. it was one of those neat, old, indoor apartments and i figured he lived a few floors up or something. when i got to my apartment, the doorknob was screwed up, hanging down like someone had broken in. the "cop" walked right into my house and went into the kitchen. he began opening drawers. i asked him what he was doing and told him he couldn't just walk into my house without permission. i yelled at him. i screamed, "you're not even a cop, are you? show me some ID, right now!" i did all this while standing outside the front entrance of my apartment. finally i walked in and tried pushing him out of my house. he threatened me with a knife. i heard my roommate in the other room and screamed for her to call the police. she yelled back through the thin walls, "it's not that much of an emergency, is it?" i screamed, "dial 911 NOW!". as my roommate came into the kitchen i managed to get the guy out of my home. i shoved some chair backs into the door to block it since the lock was broken. it was one of those half doors that are sometimes found in barns, with top and bottom sections separate.
i turned to my roommate crazy-eyed and ran after her. i yelled at her, demanding to know why she wouldn't call the police, why she wouldn't listen to me. she just gave me blank stares and innocent looks. i charged for her throat, i could fit her entire neck in one hand, "you know, you're much smaller than me. i could strangle you so easily. i would just come home again in a couple hours, as if I had to stay at work late, and you'd be dead and I would call the police, crying. they would never know it was me. the door's already fucked up. anyone could have broken in." she looked scared and i released her. i told her to look at me straight in the eyes. once i got her attention i said, "you know i would never kill you, right? i was just trying to scare you." she replied in a venomous tone and hissed that my threats were idle.
then something happened and she saw some kid jumping up and down on the other side of the balcony. it was a boy on a bike. she told me that he and three other kids had chased her all the way home. all of them riding those little trick bikes. and now they were taunting her by jumping up and looking into the apartment. i dialed 911 but the call wouldn't going through so i went out onto my balcony and searched for help. i saw brandon hanging out with some other people outside. i yelled at him, telling him i needed his help, but he refused.
i left my house and went to the side street where my neighbors were celebrating. suddenly the thought of helping my roommate with the biker boys wasn't a concern anymore. instead, i was having a good time with the people outside. a huge monster truck drove up and almost ran over me because i was sitting on the street curb. i was impressed by the massive machine. i mentioned something about going back into my place and asked her if she needed me to move my car so it wouldn't be in the way. she agreed that i should, but i didn't have time. suddenly things were urgent again and i needed to get back into my home immediately. i asked brandon to move it for me by steering it over to the other side of the street. he couldn't drive it because it was too small. it was the size of a Barbie car or maybe smaller but somehow i knew that i was capable of driving it. he reluctantly complied to re-park my vehicle. i ran back up the stairs to my apartment and woke up.
i looked over at my clock which read 7:49, just over an hour before i was supposed to get up. there was a jittery feeling in my stomach and i went downstairs for a glass of milk. my mother used to give me a glass of milk when i would awaken from a bad dream and come knocking at my parents’ bedroom door. i don’t think the milk itself worked really, just the act of getting out of bed and allowing myself time to calm down so that i could get back to sleep. but, it was comforting pouring myself a half glass of 1% and sitting at the kitchen table with one arm flopped over the side and the other supporting my cold dairy beverage. it was most comforting thinking about my mother. i went to bed with the thought that i need to call her soon just to ask her how she was doing and to remind her that i love her.
we were walking back from the computer lab when the power shut off. i was stepping on the cold, wet leaves saying something about my homework assignment that is due tomorrow morning, and the lamps that decorate the sidewalk shut off. the only light we could see was the orange glow of city pollution cast on the far-off dark grey clouds. the clouds tumbled through the sky with an ominous air as the orange glow highlighted the tops of the campus buildings. jack and i walked over and stood next to the volleyball pit and starred up at the sky with its rolling vapors. i wanted to jump into the giant sand pit before me, they had laid sand down earlier that morning, and the little flecks of sand that i could actually see were beckoning me with twinkles. my eyes must have been seeing things, because it was so dark that no light should have reflected off the bits of rock and earth. i’ve always been attracted to shiny things. i imagined piling a pyramid of sand up higher than the volleyball net and climbing to the top. once there i would take out the small glass marble that i found in some bushes on my way to class. i would place it at the top-most point of my sandy pyramid and let it slip down the side and roll its way onto a more level surface. i’d then let my entire body slide down as my finger traced the path the marble had created. a newly worn groove would become more deeply embedded by my touch.
i looked over at jack and wondered what he was thinking. there was a warmness in my chest that grew from the thoughts of having him as a close friend. it made my ears burn. he looked back at me then over toward his dorm. he had to get back there because he is an RA and it is their duty to be in the building when a black-out happens. i walked with him back to the front door of his hall and said goodnight, that i would see him tomorrow. then i turned around and began my trek home, in the darkness. as i was walking to the corner of the university grounds i thought of a campus public safety officer named troy. he’s an older man with a crisp mustache and bald spot on the back of his head. he’s got these funny running shoes with those little reflectors on them, i remember because i asked him about them once, when he arrived at a building to unlock the door for me. he told me that his wife bought them for him. that the shoes had reflectors because he works the night shift a lot and she wants to make sure that people can see him when he’s walking around campus, monitoring… keeping the student public safe. but aside from the protective shoes and the manicured mustache this particular man strikes me. every time i see him he’ll ask me how i am doing and i’ll reply with the standard “doing alright” or “okay.” when i turn the question his way, he always says without a doubt, “it’s a great night to be alive.” never fails. always the same reply. always laden with a great amount of enthusiasm, with conviction. each time i’ve heard it i’ve been stunned at the umph with which he made the statement. never have i heard doubt in his voice. and, he has always taken a minute just before answering, almost as if he is reflecting on the night, when he’ll sort of look up into a space ahead of him, cock his head just slightly to the left, and he’ll answer. “it’s a great night to be alive.” i’ll smile, sometimes a big toothy grin, but usually one of those upturned-corner-of-my-mouth sorta smiles and thank him or wish him a good rest of the night. and he’ll go about his job and i’ll avoid doing homework and i won’t think about him until the next time i see him. when it’ll still be a great night to be alive.
i recall a conversation i had with a friend of mine last year in which she told me that she can lie. she told me about how well she’s been able to lie her entire life. she was explaining the dynamics of it, the careful choice words and insatiable precision which one must use to execute a flawless fib. she explained the careful management of body language, how the liar must look the other person straight in the eye when talking to him. how she mustn’t look down at the floor or her hands. how delicate pauses breathed just at the right places can enhance her lies. she really had it down to a science.
then she taught me about the different kinds of lies. she said there are mainly two types – lying by commission and lying by omission. lying by commission is the one that we are most familiar with. these are the most common types of lies. that is when someone outright tells another person an untruth. they are committing to a certain set of false facts, thereby lying. when an aunt asks her niece if she like the hideous pink knit sweater she bought her for her birthday and she replies with a, ‘i love it! i can’t wait to wear it!” then we have a perfect example of lying by commission. more “serious” lies fall into this category also, if a teenager’s father were to ask her where she had been until 4:30 in the morning and the daughter replied, “i was watching a movie at judy’s house” when in reality she was fucking her boyfriend in a deserted park in the back of his van, that would also be lying by commission. it is these lies that are most easily overturned, also. if the aunt had seen the look of fright when her niece opened the gift box, she would have seen through the charade and perhaps become upset that her present isn’t appreciated. if the teenage daughter had failed to answer her father straight-faced, he would have easily seen through her ploy and grounded her for a few weeks.
and then there is lying by omission. lies of omission are the hardest to recognize and even harder to remedy. they ride on the premise, “what i don’t say won’t hurt anybody” only that it a horribly incorrect assumption. these lies are the most deceptive and cause the most hurt for everyone involved. the lower end of these lies often manifest when someone simply refuses to answer a question or changes the subject. if that same niece had not answered her aunt but instead asked her cousin if he wanted to run to the kitchen to check out the cake, the lie would then have taken the omission stand point. these are lies based on avoidance. it is a neglect of information. some people use lies of omission by letting people think what they want to think. i ask my friend if she likes the boy i have a crush on, she doesn’t answer my question so i suggest an answer for her, i say, “well, since you’re so quiet, i guess you must have a crush on him and i’ll stay away.” this way, she is not committed to any answer and thereby she raises ahead in the game. not only have i given her something purely by my own accord (and therefore she is free from guilt) but i have also shown her my thoughts on the situation. she has more knowledge therefore she is more powerful. the ball is metaphorically in her court.
he is a liar by omission. frankly, he is the best ball handler i have seen.
sometimes, i can tell by the way he looks at me that there is something on his mind. yet, he refuses to spill it. therefore i’m left with only his curious glances and off-handed comments that i attempt to piece together to find some meaning. when this happens, i never truly know where i stand. there is no confirmation or denial that the actions i take are valid. i never really know what the right decision is. there is something there, standing between him and his thoughts. standing between me and my awareness. standing between. and this something will stand between him and whomever he loves – because he won’t let anyone in. he won’t let them understand.
what’s worse, if they try to understand, if i attempt to get through to him, try to grasp his actions and words, he complains that i am too nosey and tells me, "these are my problems, zarah, i’ll figure them out on my own."
no one can do everything on their own. that is a lonely existence. we all need a teammate every so often, so that our passing skills do not atrophy.
i’ve got this trendy group of friends that live in Portland. they’re not trend in the conventional sense that they wear hip “in” clothes or go to hip “in” restaurant. they’re trending in the sense that they… live in Portland. they wear loner gear, hoodied sweatshirts and beanies and go. and they go to little unknown coffee shops and eateries. but, they all wear similar clothes and they all eat at these same restaurants. i guess one could make the observation that they simply look like a group of friends. they go to these little hole-in-the-wall coffee shops and deserted dessert places and they’ll be all the rage within that group. so much so that if you don’t like the places, you’re looked down upon as some kind of uncool heathen. you never really know who found the little hang-outs first. almost as if the title of the places are co-owned by all of them but when they speak of it, each individual only describes themselves as the key holder. what gets me is even if one of the hang-outs isn’t that great, each person will rave about it as if it were a gold mine. on the rare occasion that they try to introduce outsiders to these places, without the others knowing, of course, they act as if they erected the buildings themselves.
introducing outsiders to the group – nearly non-existent. if one of them even tries, not that they will try very hard, but even when one of them grows the cojones and attempts introducing an outside friend to share in the “trendy” activities, the person is instantly shunned. they are not welcomed into the group. the outsider is continually cut off in speech, interrupted or spoken over. they are shown no respect or interest. no one wants them there and no one opens up enough to give the outsider a fair chance. this habit of interruption flows into every facet of their friendships. a constant jumbling of stories and jokes without cease. in the middle of one story another is begun and then a joke interrupts into laughter and scoffs while another member of the group attempts sharing a personal anecdote only to be interrupted again.
this group of “friends” remind me of my extended family on the holidays, and not in a good way. my family is a constant mumble of simple agreements and compliances a collection of movie quotes and television episodes, mass media and pop culture. everything light. with cousins talking over cousins and aunts dominating conversations and nephews demanding attention while grandmas spill stories from our youth. it’s a massive jumble that could be entertaining and interesting if it weren’t for the fact that my mother, father, brother and i sit humbly in the corner like a set of outsiders. just like those extra friends who are introduced into the trendy group, we sit on the outskirts and don’t say much because whenever we speak we’ll only get through with half a sentence before it explodes into something entirely different and unrelated to us, personally, but rather to our family members. this incompletion of thought it what really gets to me. nothing is complete around my family. nothing is finalized. everything is left unfinished and open-ended. our half sentences are stolen and manipulated and we’re left with a feeling of emptiness.