Friday, July 23, 2010

"why the long face?"

I watched the clock ticking in the kitchen. I sat at the table from a 3 hour battle with sleep. The monotonous droning of the clock telling me that I'm wasting it's precious time. It watched me with it's eyeless, lipless face. 5:01 it read. I couldn't sleep as usual. Too early to get up and too late to try to go back to sleep. Far too many things plagued my mind. Lies, disease, cruelty, Deirdre. With my "coming back" she was mentally plagued. Of course, I was and to this day am no better. But because her dreams had told of my "death" and other perturbing phenomena, she was seeing a counselor regularly and I felt at fault. Spring had dismembered us like glacier and by summer we were frozen stone breaking off and flowing in different directions. Soul mate friends, yes, still close sisters, of course. but changed as well.
September had just hit and early this morning, a chill set in. I wrapped my warm grey sweater about my nightdressed, thin shoulders. 2 months since they'd told me I had leukemia. 2 months since I'd refused to believe it. Now the reality, medication, and weakness was setting in. My hair hadn't started thinning out yet. I walked out to the willow tree and lay beneath it, seeing the bright holes in the sky called stars through the willow branches fade away making room for their father the sun. Wondering if stars fell ill. Wondering if they sang, if they talked and dreamed. If they loved. My harp had been dismembered. I plucked a string far too hard and it coiled up in a most disturbing manner, like a shriveled appendage. I almost cried when I saw it, for these days it didn't take very much at all to set me off. I lay beneath the tree feeling the exhaustion set in. Which also didn't take very much. My eyelids drooped within a half hour of being there. I fell asleep and found myself on a grassy knoll. a young girl with a long white tunic and beautiful white hair and soft rose colored lips was kneeling down. Her eyes were the same sea green, sea blue as Deirdre's. She was young but with white hair. In front of her was a white glove, wire and glue. She had pliers in her hands working together these things. Stuffing it with sawdust & diamonds, she put them all together and into the likeness of a bird, her fingers nimble and careful. A dove.  Looking almost like a kite. in her sleeve, she reached her hand and drew out what looked to be string. She tied it to the dove and ran down the knoll and with being a few feet in the air, seemed to come alive! The bird flew down to the girl and perched in the palm of the little one's hands. She kissed its chest and sent it off. I ran after and followed and before me a barbarian man, decked out in armor and weaponry had caught the bird in a metal and glass cage. He took it to a great  and terrifying dark tower of a castle. Up thousands of stairs, the bird so terrified, blood dripped from the tip of it's perfect, white wings. The man took it to a room, pinning it down to a stone table and took a small dagger, examining it between his fingertips. His eyes black as night and none but evil lurked his heart. He walked over to the dove, who frantically tried to escape but to no avail. His eyes and hands took the dagger and cleft it through the bird's center. Blood poured from the beautiful beast and I covered my mouth with my hands. It was all I could do to keep from crying and making a scene. It fell limp, and he placed it into a tank where a giant python lay, curling through and through itself in its sleep menacingly. The man left and I hurried to the cage, and drew out the darling bird. When at the tip of the tank, the python latched it's large fangs in my hand. I refrained from crying out, though everything on my person pulsed a shriek. I punched its eyes and snout and pulled its tongue to the point of unbearable and it let go. I found myself with wings and flew out the window, the bird in my grey sweater, now soaked bloody. I took it to the bank of a stream near a waterfall I saw from overhead and knelt down placing it before me. I watched it. Lifeless, red, beautiful. Tears welled up in my eyes and I covered my face and cried. I cried for the dead beautiful bird in front of me. I cried for thousands of orphans. I cried for hungry and homeless. I cried for myself. I buried the thing and left to swim in the stream, cool and refreshing. Then a strange bubbling occurred not ebbing from the waterfall. Then, in splendor and light, a figure rose from the waters and stared at me with blue eyes and translucent body for mere moments and then flew over to the spot where I buried the bird. The creature pulled the beautiful little beast up from its final resting place and it came in an orb of blue light. the creature blew on the bird and it metamorphosed to light, all wounds repaired. The creature then set it off to be free. The creature then burst into flame and it seemed the land had been given over to a hideous drought. Trees charred and cooked by the sun. No flowers. Dead grass. And carcasses of deceased creatures lie all around. Everywhere I turn. I hear screeching up above my head and a vulture is bombdiving straight at me

In a cold sweat, I jerk awake to the kisses of my dog Broderick, the alaskan husky who took to me like a mother. I scratch his ears and rise, walking back to the house, very perturbed by my vision. Broderick cocked his head at me and his eyes seemed to say "Why the long face?"
I knelt down and kissed his head and stroked his muzzle. "Because my wings are made of cardboard and old magazines. There's no glory in man-made material posing as the real thing"

Saturday, May 1, 2010

like a telephone's receiver hanging from the cord

I watch her. I watch her and my heart shatters for her. I am horrified at her behavior. She had taken a turn for the worse, seeming a disease secreteing from all she was. Diffused from her mind alone where she lived at all times of late. Locked up so tight and I was the only one with keys to open it. She fell so far with only I to hold her up and believe you me, I never wanted that to be the case. I wanted her to arise and the strength in her wings to take her far above the feeble minded . She was a butterfly, newly emerged from her chrysalis. She would disagree and call herself a hideous brown and black moth with no purpose further than to irritate those unfortunate enough to accidentally let her in there comfort zone. I sat next to her in her car. I watched her angrily snap at anyone unfortunate enough to belie her demands. I wished she could see me so that she could see the vexed expression on my face. I wasn't angry. It just hurt me that she was hurting and letting go.  But, alas, there was nothing I could do...yet.

Maybe I'm so bold to think she couldn't live without me. Maybe there was too much dependence. At any rate, in spirit, I stayed near. I hoped to comfort her. She had reverted to a primal, aggressive state. she could still speak in complete sentences, but the heart was disconnected. Too much pain associated. She went to school and home and nowhere else. She painted black on her eyes and lips and donned her face white. She had died. She wore black always. Never even grey. Always black. she was a telephone, hanging off the cord by a mere circuit. One snip away from losing it completely.
She had killed herself from the inside and was working on the out. She never ate. She mumbled and darted her eyes in paranoia, like a psych patient searching for things they see that aren't there. She makeshifted a lock on her bedroom door, previously without a lock,  to keep herself in. Or others out. She slept in fits of nightmares. Mumbling to herself that she killed her Psyche. I'm not sure she was speaking of her mental state, since she would cry over and over "Psyche, my baby" and screams to follow. Her parents could not detain her. She could control herself but she was the only one who could. That's when problems arose. She didn't speak to anyone. Not even her precious little sister whom she loved more than most. She totally cut off and it frustrated me. Death was eating her hope and joy.

"You gave me hope that I'd not lost her
And then thought it rather strange to see me smile-
as I don't do too much smiling these days."

Love never seemed a dimmer light. What is life and what is light? I don't know anymore. I hear nothing but static screaming in my head now. My own voice betraying me, deafening me to any other sound. Adelaide is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Everything dies. Everything good just dies. and nothing can be done. If she doesn't pull through this week, they're pulling the plug and packing her away like a toy in a box never to be seen again. I've become a wretch. I don't look in mirrors anymore. They frighten me now. I don't let people touch me anymore. It feels like barbwire to my flesh. I don't hear anything sweet any longer. The static remains and I am just as dead as she. I hate her. She left me. She wasn't strong enough and I hate her for it. And at the same time, I hate me for hating her. Because I know it's not her fault. Hate, hate, hate. All is full of hate and mourning and nothingness.

Maybe one day. But no. Hope is false to. "Lies of priests and poets."

they can all go to hell.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Fingernail stratches

I would soon be expelled, I am sure.

My grades had plummeted like the 20's stock market crash in no less than 24 hours. I burned my uniform in the parking lot, and refused to wear apparel unless it was black. I painted my face everyday, with more black eye paint than I had ever used before. Black-the absence of color-had become my new best friend.

I spoke to no one, glared at the pseudo-care principle until he stayed in his office for fear of his life. I had no weapon but myself, had no comfort but my mind, and had no love but that of the day I too would die.

I was mourning, I was in rebellion, I was in hell.

I am an anarchist An antichrist An asterisk I am an anorak An acolyte An accidental I am eleven feet Okay, eight.. Six foot three. I fought the British and I won I have a rocketship A jet fighter A paper airplane Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, oh! Say what you will I am the kill The only thing that keeps you really truly safe from being real I have a tendency To exaggerate Just a little bit I am a plagiarist Apologist A lawless calculator Ah oh I am an optimist A closeted misogynist I fought the British and I won I have a wishing well A living will A magical eight ball Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, oh Say what you will I am the kill The only thing that keeps you really truly safe from being real (Put Pat Sajak back in office) Put Pat Sajak back! But the sun still sets on you And the retarded party nobody came to but you And so you drink to all the emptiness until you wake up And there's hell to pay again And the punch line point at you And all the comebacks in the world are in your head But you can't say them until everybody leaves And it's just you and your imaginary friends... Your imaginary friends... Your imaginary friends...

Such is the song of my life. My life that felt like the rest of my life but was only one literal day. It felt like the rest of my life because I knew each day for the rest of my miserable existence I would dwell this way. I was the fallen Sydney Carton. The unredeemed Orual. All the characters in their own stories that I analyzed and pondered and dreamed up in my head. head. For that was where I live now. My body trembles in its auto pilot mode, it searches out the barren of the day. My garb and demeanor are a falsehood, their only intent is to keep people away. To frighten them so they might leave me alone.

Truth be viciously told, we are all monsters awaiting a catalyst. I feed on prey in this aching head.

Monday, March 22, 2010

if you're wondering, I know.

What followed my death was an unforeseen expectation. I had always wondered if people would miss me when I did leave earth for an eternity far greater. If I'd be realer. If people realized that I would be a true loss. If I would realize I was a true loss. And I never knew what my conclusion would be, until now. I watched over Deirdre during the following days. People in relation to me insisted on life support, which is what the white coated beings did. Simply to appease those who loved me enough to try to keep my body going even if a spirit no longer resided. I had more freedom to come and go in those days than I did any other time in my life. I roamed the woods in search of something. In search of the faceless man. In search of the lion for reconciliation. In search of my dead father. In search of the past. Anything to help me toward a decision. But to no avail.
I killed Deirdre inside. I killed her and I never meant to hurt a soul alive. I had become no better than those who had killed me little by little, ultimately trapping me inside my own head.

What had happened, my death, to anyone would seem absurd. I was killed psychologically. I was killed within the realm of my mind that brought me to a hidden place of darkness. A place that people never came away from. A place where creatures could kill me with the right stare. I had been sitting with Deirdre beneath our tree, Muse, and was recalling one whom I had become indifferent from. One who reminded me of another that killed me. Both of which looked like wolves cunningly disguised as domesticated dogs. The dream, the happening, whatever it was. The trauma was too great. While in the hospital, I listened to the doctors mull over my strange "death" over and over. They said many things about my psyche. That it wasn't likely that I'd survive this. That I was alive but dead.
I visited myself in the hospital. I looked at myself and it was weird. I saw person after person after person come into that horridly bare room and look at me. Some would talk to me. And I would listen. Some told me that they missed me. Some said they were angry about something I said in 3rd grade about their brother. A very scarce few kissed my forehead lightly and whispered in my ear that they loved me. I didn't care to stick around the hospital. It was a strange silence, save for beeping and the walls wailing. They cried for everything and everyone within their parameter. I would check in on myself every now and then, but never lingering long enough to know anything.

I followed my bosom friend by day. Watching her barely hold on through her classes. Watching her grieve for a supposed loss only to come home to sleep. Only to awake again, crying and shaking from relentless nightmares torturing her battered psyche. I slept beside Deirdre every night. As she tossed and turned in between dreams and nightmares. As she cried in her sleep, dried her tears and sang to her. Her favorite songs. The saddest songs I knew. Ironically, they were the ones with the most peace in them. The sad ones. I knew she wouldn't mind. "Deirdre, love, I'm coming back. I'm not done here yet" Then I would continue to sing: "And if I'm wondering then you show me, If you're wondering I know" 

I will open my door for you, little one.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Clock trapped. Intentionally bound.

Black embraces my body everywhere. Ancient black garb swirls with my form, and sooty black eyes birth sooty black tears. My hair is black. Ashes compliment it gray.
She is gone.
My Addie-bird. My Eden. My doll. My angel. My blue doorknob. My sparrow.

I cannot sleep, for an anvil the same shape size and weight of her, lays in my lap still. Heavy, weary, nothing. It forces my back into the springs of my bed. It terrorizes me until my stomach raises like a frightened cat's back. It grows wings that beat me instead of carrying me away. It sprouts claws that rip up my throat. Like vapor come its eyes, forcing mine open with their devil stare, bleeding into them poison.

It is guilt. It is mourning. It is death.

For 5 hours in succession, my tears fell out of my head. With feigned resolve, I let my albatross lead me away.

My sustenance is air. I wish I were a sheep, with nothing to give but my wool. With nothing to say but a peaceful baaa. With nothing to think of but myself. And death is yes, incommodious, but I would forget the next day. The shepherd could yell and scream in rage, and I would be dumb and chew the inside of my jaw in complacency. To be dull would be easier. Easier than what? Than this haunting apathy that consumed my entire gut? Than the realization that my best friend, the one who understands and cherishes me, the one who is like me and life to no more.

With that thought, I collapsed in invisible tears. Tears that ran over with an endless flood in my soul, but never touched my visage. I choked and vomited up my recent food...air. I was nothing. Now, I was vanity as well. And there was no sun.

I feel as if I have been morphed into the hand of a clock. Always moving forward without any say. Each tick is a break of my bones. Likewise, the ominous clock continues to hustle me forward as if there were a rush for the death I felt. A death of half of me. I get up.

I was once told that I would do well in the world of anime. I have often dreamed to thrive in solitude amongst only precious fauna. My dream seemed to turn in an impossible position and bite me in the face. My desolation makes me popular among kin, but I find no consolation or joy in their presence. I only lay with them, impossibly wishing they could speak their innate protective senses into my dense head. I got too close, and when she died, I did too.

No, not quiet death, but I begin to fall into the trend she developed without suggestion. I make a conscious decision that if I cannot die, I will live in my mind. For it is cold and dark there, but it is not able to smother me in agony. I can recreate my my head.

I climb a massive weeping willow stocked with vultures, curl myself about a branch, and shut my veined blue eyelids.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

doorway: inbetween silent earth and eternity

In an instant, I am at a standstill. An inbetween. A hallway, a cross between silent earth and a home I always long for. A home I have always longed for. I'm not frightened. I'm not puzzled. I know exactly where I am. This isn't the first time I've died. Or come this close. Life such a fragile state and I a mere freckle on the face of the earth. A door behind me leads me back to my life and one in front leads me to my impending future. I have always wondered if I had some kind of serious psychological condition. I live life in my mind. All adventures, all tales, they are a mere figment of my imagination. And I don't really know how to get out. I don't want to hold on any longer. I'm tired of the life in my psyche. I'm not just bored with life. I want more than this world can offer. Those I love never love me back. Why should I stay? There is no further purpose for me in this life. I want to go on to the next, more perfected one. I reach my hand out towards the door and the man appears behind me.

"What are you doing?" he asks, innocently. I turn around quickly and see the scars on him all over. Gashes, fresh it seems. "What happened to you?" I replied. "Waging war is never attractive or beautiful. Answer my question, if you please?" I looked at the my feet wishing I could evaporate in to the ground beneath."I'm moving on." 'Something's missing in me' is what I'd rather say. There's more truth in that statement. "Explain?" his eyes hold no question. He already knows. He always has. "I've lived my whole life a big mess. Things have happened and I could never do a proscribed thing about it. I always end the victim and this is only fitting. I want to go where it's perfect. Where I'll never feel lonely. Where I'll never have to hide again. Where love is perfect and returned. I'm empty. Something's missing in me." I looked down at my feet again. He moves closer and raises my face close to his, looking straight into my eyes. "Child, do you not understand? You are so stuck in your own head, in your own world. You're to love where there's none. You're to shine where there's no light at all. You're to laugh when mourning is inevitable. And sing when people scream. You're the love, you're the light, you will be one that people look to. You're not like everyone else. You don't belong there ultimately. You are one of few. There are others, but you. You are special. Set apart for this task. To be the very essence of love. To exude Love. To never waste love on the lovable. and really, if you consider it, no one is lovable by nature. You can come home to me. Or you can carry out the task I've laid before you. It's your decision to make. I won't make it for you." He then disappeared before a molecule of wit or logic could come to my very human (at the time) mind.

I weighed the options. Minutes crawled to a gradual screeching yield. I thought back to those who would miss my presence. My mother and younger siblings. Friends and relatives. And Deirdre. My Diana. My Istra, my heart. I would miss her. But I couldn't stand it here. Tears well in my eyes as I touch the doorknob. In that instance I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Please, child, at least give yourself a little time to think about it. I will let you roam the earth as a spirit. No one will know you are there but me and you. After 3 days, you may come back to me with your final decision." I nodded my head submissively and with a blink of his eyes, I was back to the forest. I watched as Deirdre cried over my body. I was there. But I wasn't. My lifeless body slumped over and moaned a last time. A sickening chill filled the air and Deirdre turned to face where I stood. She obviously could not see me, for I waved my hands in front of her face and she did not respond. "Addie, why are you leaving me?!" she cried and I began to weep. She shifted my body over on the ground next to her and lay down next to it, buried her face in my chest, and cried.
And in that moment, I felt like the worst human being to not live.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Buried alive

I feel like an imbecile. Holding such a doll in my weak arms; watching her fade like a final sunset. Incapable of resurrection - she is lost. I am sure. And yet, I encircle her still body as if I can do anything to prevent the inevitable. As if I, the weaker of we, could possibly save her.

It began a mere hour ago. Like a Bastille prisoner, buried alive for 18 years, Adelaide still lived, on occasion, in a hollowed out canoe of her own mind. It was there that she lived her adventures, the ones this world could never offer nor fathom. She survived in her own head, instead of her own body. Madly enraptured by venues of the psychological, I have often spent hours conversing with her about the journeys. In them, Adelaide was just as vulnerable as in physical life - perhaps even more so. The danger she received there, a knife to the skin, for example, cut and bled and scarred her mind, and she tended her own wounds accordingly.

Upon the conversing in Fauna, Adelaide became silent at the mention of a beloved. She stared ahead, and a terror griped me. One of recollection of the past. She was staring...static, disconnected.

10 minutes. She began to scream.
10 minutes. She shrieked and begged for mercy.
10 minutes. She began to breathe in gulps, sucking in the not so readily available air.
10 minutes. She cried. She said she understood. Said it was okay, she was inanimate. It's okay. It's okay. I'm fine.
Then she stared up at me. Back.

"Deirdre, my darling, don't get lost in the wave."

But I only looked at her, feeling like an impediment. Like a mental zombie. Like un developed social skills. Like a nurse that kills a patient.

I don't utter a word. For once, I realize that there is not an effort I can implore that has a possibility of helping, much less saving. So I lay next to her, clutching her, waiting without fingerprint of hope.