i'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies.

my grandfather.

it's saturday night. i'm doing laundry and craving a cigarette.

i don't smoke.

the rooms are all still, and i'm sitting here with jack savoretti's voice lulling me into some deep mind fuck. i've begun writing the memoir of an old, dead man today. interviewed for several hours this morning, sipping my hot chocolate, my tape recorder lying on the coffee table. i took notes. she frowned when i asked the question. thirty minutes later, i slipped it in again; different wording this time.

"can you recall your affinity towards him?"

no answer. only a frown and a deep sigh. she didn't want to talk about it. i wrote it in the margins.

appears disappointed by my question of love for her father. avoids answer and looks so forlorn. maybe it was too much.

but what the hell is too much? she spoke for hours today. laid it all out on the table, and i could tell she'd waited her whole life for these handful of hours. she had six cups of coffee, and i've filled my hot chocolate quota for the entire year. but listening back through the tape, i missed one important thing.

"how do you think of him now?"

"i don't."

i frantically flipped through pages of my notes, and nowhere could i find the details of those two words. the two words that will ultimately tell the story. i can't remember if she said them with disdain or with apathy. were her eyes directed at me or towards some spot on the wall?

phrases things in questions as if i have the answers. she's looking for something. perhaps some sort of retribution for her sorrows? perhaps redemption for her thoughts? perhaps one final goodbye?

turns out she was taking notes as well.

north winds.

i've never held a gun before. i don't know what a real one feels like, and i probably never will. i imagine it feels heavier than it looks, and maybe the metal is cold at first. blood tastes like metal and so i guess even if you pressed it against your temple, it'd still have this sour taste like you'd pulled the trigger right on your tongue.

i've never stood on the edge of a bridge before. there are signs on the bridges here, and they go unnoticed unless you plan on jumping off. i'd suppose you'd see them then. you'd probably take in every minute detail of your shitty life. you'd hear the lapping waves of the river below, and you'd calculate in your head how long until you hit the water.

i've never tied a rope around my neck. the splinters in the braid probably dig into your neck, and the itching must be terrible. your neck usually breaks first, and what happens when someone changes their mind? do they hold themselves up and yell for help until their arms get tired? or do they just close their eyes and hope it doesn't hurt that bad when they kick the chair out?

i've never overdosed on medication. most people take them lying down, because dying that was seems easier to most. and i always pictured it as this slow process. perhaps the worst, because you've got at least 5 minutes to think about what you just did and why. and there's always the hope that your stomach gets pumped in time, because you know secretly everyone hopes just for a moment that someone finds them in time.

i've never done these things, and i probably never will. but all things considered, am i any more alive than the kid who has a mouth full of hot metal? any more alive than the man floating face down towards the shore? any more alive than the woman dangling above the coffee table? any more fucking alive than the girl crumpled in the sheets?

well hell.
sometimes i don't know.

what's the word again?

he's 5 and starts kindegarten in the fall. he tells his momma that he hates school and if he doesn't get to bring his firetruck, he isn't going. she tells him 'we'll see,' and scoots him off for his bath. he's 13 and starts 8th grade in the fall. he tells his momma that he's trying out for high school basketball this year because he's been getting real good. he usually plays center, and he's gotten so tall. he's 18 and he'll graduate next may. he tells his momma that he's gotten a full scholarship to play ball for Louisiana State. He's got a serious girlfriend, and his momma makes greenbean casserole and barbeque and invites her over to their small apartment to celebrate. he's 22 and he'll graduate with a bachelors in biology next may. he tells his momma he's been accepted to a grad school up in maryland the same day he tells her he's bought a ring. he's 30 and he's expecting his second child. he tells his momma it's gonna be a boy. she cries when she hangs up the phone and thumbs through old photo albums at the kitchen table, alone. he's 54 and working as a cardiologist at a university hospital on the east coast. he tells his momma goodbye that spring while he watches them lower the casket. he's 86 and sitting on the front porch, retired and alone. he tells his momma that he really misses her, and still can't forgive himself for the breast cancer that killed his high school sweetheart. he's 89 and lying down under the wool blanket. he whispers to his momma that he'll see her soon. And all is still. he's 5 and he never started kindegarten in the fall. he tells his momma he's going out to ride his bike, and 7 minutes later, brakes squeal, momma's screaming, and they found his left sandal in the street gutter the next morning.

sandcastles and storms.

clouds form weird shapes and puff along contrasting with the blue, and it's weird how you never notice the small things. when looking out beyond an ocean, you're hearing the waves building in the distance. almost like a roar before the lion opens his mouth. you can see it moving towards you while your feet sink in the gray sand, and slowly the white foam appears at the top. just slightly curling and bending like nature intended. and a few feet out, it collapses. a slow crash of death, and the aftermath of slow ripples rushes over your buried toes. and for a brief moment, you look out and you can see where the sky meets the water. this thin line some call the horizon. and it's as if everything bleeds like a watercolor painting. it's hard to find where one begins and the other ends. the lines become blurred and before you can sort out the complexities of an abundant sky, your little fingers collect balls of sand, and your attention on something so great and vast has waned. now it's back to who can build the highest tower. and of course you can't forget the moat. be careful that no one steps on the drawbridge, and after all is said and done, you're the princess of your lop-sided, perfectly-crafted sandcastle. the temperature drops a few degrees and the shadows have shifted, so it is time to leave the sand behind. the roaring echoes as you take one last look back, and you know this next one is coming for your castle. the white foam is barely visible from the parking lot, and just as the great wave collapses, you sigh because of course the amazing moat is now flooded and the king is probably drowning. but at least you found some shells.

happy new years, kid.

it smells of cheap beer and good people. confetti litters the floor, and there's 27 seconds left. he's drunk, but trying to contemplate his new year. elbows bumping, someone's laughing right in his ear, and the girl to his left annouces that she has to "fucking piss right now damnit!" he paid $30 for his tie and some girl he never really met was walking around wearing it, but all he really wanted was something to look forward to. 12 seconds left. people were counting, and he took another swig. gripping the plastic horn even tighter, he closed his eyes to concentrate. 8 seconds. the room was crowded and he felt small beads of sweat gliding towards the small of his back. he needed some resolution, some fresh start, some clean slate, some goddamn initiative to get his ass moving. unemployed, single, and nearing thirty, he had better think fast. 3 seconds. he opened his eyes to see the ball drop, racking his brain as if his life depended on it. as if the 50 or so people in this room were to hold to him accountable at 12:01 and begin judgement. 2. it's down to the wire, and people are already cheering and making out in the corner. 1. the girl to his left pissed her pants probably due to sheer excitement or the fact that she couldn't clear a path to the restroom, and while he saw the ball drop, he merely took one last gulp from his bottle and remembered that there's always next year.

city lights.

dark eyes absorbing the city as a sponge. colors of dusty orange, rust, dirty sepia, and iron burning into her retinas sparking a small flame to the world's most disastrous fire. the uneven concrete scratches her elbows, but she can't move for fear of missing a moment. the one in the complex across the block vacuums at 3:00 in the afternoon everyday. she finishes watching her recorded "days of our lives" on the old VHS tape, and drags out her little swiffer vac. she kinda skips around on the carpet, and from this distance, she's floating. the bakery around the corner never seems busy. there's this man that comes in and orders some kind of pastry. walking down the sidewalk, he's running late, and there goes his coffee dripping down the front of his newly-pressed suit. she doesn't read lips, but she knows he's cursing his fate and contemplating how much he would get from a lawsuit. car horns, ambulance sirens, the squeal of burning rubber to scrape around that corner just in time. everyone's always in a hurry. but today she's leaving time with them, and with her fire eyes, she wishes she could float.

dirt.

he grew up playing legos and picking his nose like all little boys do. his pants were always a bit too short because he just "grew like a weed." he learned to play guitar in middle school because he thought it was the secret to his girl troubles, but for some reason the calloused fingers strumming the chords of his first original song felt so right, so he kept at it. his mother had a garden. he never remembered what she grew growing up, because he was too busy making mudpies. he liked the feel of earth in his hands; even now. the way the soil and dirt crumbled in his hands, feeling something that raw...that real...he'd always come back to that. he remembered his grandfather's tales of war. the blood, the savages, the patriots, the victims, the sorrow, the way it felt to kill a man. and he knew that it could never be him. he stuck to his six strings, writing lyrical protests, becoming everything his father had disregarded. he fell in love at 17 with a girl with flowers in her hair, and all in one moment he wanted this life he'd been too scared to imagine before. and when he buried his father at 18, he signed his name on the dotted line. now 6 years later, he's feeling that dirt again. sifting it through his fingers, but this time knowing it's mixed with spilt blood. as he loads another magazine, he remembers the flowers in her hair so long ago, and prepares to kill a boy. couldn't be much older than 17.

gravity.

the cotton brushing her dirty knees, shuffling her feet across the sandpaper, she's letting her lips taste the moves and the sticky humid air of july. with each slide of skin on coarse surface, this is the moment. gliding suddenly, arms floating upwards as if gravity were foreign, she's tasted enough to feign the difference. he's watching from the corner and with each revolution, the walls are painted a brilliant red and her eyes focus in on the arch in her back. limp hair now alive, knees bending, creating shadows in the crevices, and eyelashes resting against cheeks because the color's too much. faster and faster she spins, creating constellations behind her closed lids, and somewhere she hears a harmonica. or maybe now it's a violin. or maybe it was just a cricket singing his tune. a shift here, a flow then ruffle there, smooth skin poking through, but all the while he's watching her squint her brow because she's running out of paint. the taste is diluted, and the sandpaper has turned to tar. hard to move, hard to breathe. gravity always wins in the end.

.

i miss having something to believe in. he yelled "father, why have you forsaken me?" and i'm wondering the same. always complaining about a life that doesn't go my way, wondering when things will become easier. and you suck it up. you cut your losses, and you don't hate what you've been given. you open your damn eyes to the world around you, and suddenly perspective lends you a new lease on life.

no one has forsaken me, except myself. it's a hard lesson to learn, but the day i pack my bags to leave it all behind, will i fully understand what it all means.

that's what i believe in.

anchor.

how can i leave when my anchor's at shore?
(the whaler (acoustic)--thrice)

he's become a distant memory. it's been 1 year and 7 months, and it has finally come to that point. a part of me knew it would happen eventually, but i was scared for the actual moment. and slowly, but surely, it's become so difficult to remember his laugh. i have to try so hard to remember what his hands felt like. and i've long forgotten the kiss. just like everything in life, things pass at a much faster pace than we can afford, and my pockets are bare. i'm flat broke, and i've been thinking a lot lately. i can't necessarily put a label on it. it's no longer sadness or grief. it isn't anger or regret. and it certainly isn't enthusiam or happiness. it's more of this....nothing. i still go visit him. his mom too. every month i make the trip down there. she makes dinner and pretends like he's just upstairs getting a shower. she smiles and offers me a drink. she never goes with me to visit him. in fact, i don't know that she ever goes...not that it matters. there are no rules when it comes to death. people die and if you loved them, you get to do whatever the fuck you want. it's like this right you've earned for your sorrows. it certainly isn't a fair trade, but in life you just take what you can get. i'll never fully understand the sequence of events that summer. and i've exhausted myself trying to piece together things that i was never meant to know. i'm done trying to find reasons and excuses. i'm done trying to remember, and i'm done living with my regrets. sometimes life tells you that you aren't enough, and you've got two choices to make. you can either believe and accept it, hanging your head wishing you could have miraculously filled yourself with enough potential to fix things, or you can choose option two. you tell life to fuck itself and you prove it wrong. you set your sights and believe in yourself to the point that none of it matters anymore. it's easy to see which option i chose. and i'll quite possibly be living with that decision for the rest of my life. because if i've learned one thing throughout my 21 years, it's that sometimes you run out of second chances.

edge.

her skin always smelled of nectarines, and eyes the color of wet sand. lips tasted of the mediterraean sea, deep, cool, and never-ending. walking across the bridge barefoot, the urgent wind carries her further. sounds of traffic lull her to the edge. the first raindrop falls in san fransisco, but she's already beneath the waves.

they say they found a broken sea shell in her pocket.
looks like they both returned home.

where were you?

Pain, you just have to ride it out, hope it goes away on its own, hope the wound that caused it heals. There are no solutions, no easy answers, you just breathe deep and wait for it to subside. Most of the time, pain can be managed, but sometimes the pain gets you where you least expect it. Hits way below the belt and doesn't let up. Pain, you just have to fight through, because the truth is, you can't outrun it, and life always makes more. Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we're wired that way. Because without it; I don't know...maybe we just wouldn't feel real. What's that saying? Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop. At some point you have to make a decision. Boundaries don't keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy. That's how we're made. So, you can waste your life drawing lines, or you can live your life crossing them. A couple of hundred years ago, Benjamin Franklin shared with the world the secret of his success. Never leave that til tomorrow, he said, which you can do today. This is the man who discovered electricity. You think more people would listen to what he had to say. I don't know why we put things off, but if I had to guess, I'd have to say it has a lot to do with fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, sometimes the fear is just of making a decision, because what if you're wrong? What if you're making a mistake you can't undo? The early bird catches the worm. A stitch in time saves nine. He who hesitates is lost. We can't pretend we hadn't been told. We've all heard the proverbs, heard the philosophers, heard our grandparents warning us about wasted time, heard the damn poets urging us to seize the day. Still sometimes we have to see for ourselves. We have to make our own mistakes. We have to learn our own lessons. We have to sweep today's possibility under tomorrow's rug until we can't anymore. Until we finally understand for ourselves what Benjamin Franklin really meant. That knowing is better than wondering, that waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beat the hell out of never trying. I have an aunt who, whenever she poured anything for you, she would say, "Say when." My aunt would say "Say when," and of course we never did. We don't say when because there's something about the possibility of more. More tequila, more love, more anything. More is better. Sometimes reality has a way of sneaking up and biting us on the ass. And when the dam bursts, all you can do is swim. The world of pretend is a cage, not a cocoon. We can only lie to ourselves for so long. We are tired. We are scared. Denying it doesn't change the truth. Sooner or later, we have to put aside our denial and face the world, head on, guns blazing. Denial. It's not just a river in Egypt. It's a fucking ocean. So how do you keep from drowning in it? In general, lines are there for a reason: for security, for clarity. If you choose to cross the line, you pretty much do so at your own risk. So why is it, that the bigger the line, the greater the temptation to cross it? We can't help ourselves. We see a line; we want to cross it. Maybe it's the thrill of trading the familiar for the unfamiliar, a sort of personal dare. Only problem is once you've crossed, it's almost impossible to go back. But, if you do manage to make it back across that line, you find safety in numbers. Too often going after what feels good means letting go of what you know is right. And letting someone in means abandoning the walls you took so long to build up. Of course, the toughest sacrifices are the ones we don't see coming; when we don't have time to come up with a strategy, pick a a side, or measure the potential loss. When that happens, when the battle chooses us and not the other way around, that's when the sacrifice becomes more than we can bear. Human beings need a lot to feel alive. Family....love....sex. But we only need one thing...to actually be alive. We need a beating heart. When our heart is threatened, we respond in one of two ways: we either run, or we attack. There's a scientific term for this: fight or flight. It's instinct...we can't control it.


or can we?

here's your tip. bartender.

goddamn, that vodka felt so good sliding down my throat. in the middle of the bar, i felt so good. dancing around like a jackass, and laughing at anything and everything. i wasn't the only one because we all know that the bar is the place for things like this. my lips tasted like cranberry juice and my eyes were so heavy, but fuck...it felt so damn good. i had a flower in my hair and when i spun around, it fell out somewhere. that flower was so important to me right then. i had to find it, although it was already wilted and dead. bending on the hardwood floor, reaching for some small weed, laughing so hard because i knew i looked a fool. i reached a little further and another hand grazed mine. i stopped laughing and looked up because it startled me. after he helped me to stand up again, he handed me my dead flower. said he saw it fall and wanted me to have it back. my beer goggles said he was attractive, but i know better. i said thank you and went out into the courtyard. he smelled of irish spring, i remember, because that man soap is my favorite, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days...my weakness. before i left, he brushed my hair back and put the flower back in its place. i stood there, straining to focus on his face, and when he asked my name, i said thank you and walked outside. he yelled back "it was nice meeting you, thank you." i never saw him again that night. i had a few more drinks when i knew i shouldn't because that is life, and i fell asleep that night wondering where people like that came from. it's weird how sometimes you meet people throughout your life; maybe you know them for years, maybe you know them for hours, or maybe you never know them at all. but the ones you hardly remember....for me, those are the ones that often affect me the greatest. it's strange how things happen, and perhaps it wasn't even about the irish spring or the 5 o'clock shadow. perhaps it was the hand slightly moving my hair, or the coarse fingers just barely grazing my cheeks. i can still feel it. and no one's touched me in a year and a half. some days i wish to crash into people to know that i'm still alive and i can still feel. and that night i was reminded that you don't need some big explosion of touch, or some firecracker of feeling. the smallest little touch in the right place can haunt you for days. he doesn't know me. i don't know him. i'll never see him again, but i owe him a thank you for bringing me back. i kept the flower and have it pressed in a dictionary mixed in with the letter "N."


i'm feeling more alive today.

the life and times of audie jones.

i've thought about a lot of things. a pistol tattoo down my ribcage that no one would ever understand. don't worry, i'm not violent. a sunflower field in my backyard, with rows and rows of yellow silken petals. my small collection of switchfoot and jimmy eat world albums sitting in the corner of my room. this boy i once loved and maybe sometimes still do. the thought of him, anyway. the taste of raspberry chapstick when you've got a bad habit of biting on your bottom lip. a motorcycle that fits me perfectly named penelope. it's the trademark that makes me an official badass. the loss of something so dear to me, and i've yet to figure out what.

i haven't been writing like i used to. my notebooks are getting kind of empty, and the one piece i was so proud of sits unfinished on my dusty bookshelf. i was reading earlier this evening and it really sucks ass. i'm embarassed that i was so caught up in myself to think that it was good literature. and how does a piece of writing get to be literature and not just some stupid piece of shit writing that some 21-year old girl decides to think up? i've never seemed to figure that one out.

i've thought about getting drunk every night for 3 weeks straight. why? i have no idea. i just wondered what it would be like to have the ability to completely wipe out 21 days of your life; like you lived and breathed those 21 days, but you were never really alive. or maybe that's backwards. maybe you're so intoxicated that you become fearless. all inhibitions slip away and you're truly free to make this ass of yourself that you were destined to become. either way, i'm too much of a chicken to do it, and i'd be too scared once i got started to stop.

and this idea just came to me not even 48 hours ago. there was once this man named audie jones. he smoked up until he got lung cancer and died. he spent his whole life gambling and drinking and being a good-for-nothing father and husband. but towards the end, when he finally put down the cigarettes and held death in his palm, he found god. or perhaps god found him. it's a crazy story, really, and this man...audie, he encouraged others to believe as well. they called him a hypocrite, but loved him anyway as they held onto his withered hand, watching him go. this man was my grandfather. and i held his hand. i was nine when he died, and he never really looked like he was gone when i saw him in the casket. and now 12 years later, i want to write a memoir about my papaw. the life and times of audie jones. not a granddaugter's tale of some sweater-vest wearing, tobacco pip smoking, wise old kind-hearted man. but the memoir of who he really was. from the beginning to the end. the cheating, the lying, the stealing, the bourbon, the abandonment, the war, the divorce, the family, my dad, the diagnosis, the repent, and the death. i want to write it all.

i think i'll set up the interviews tomorrow.

maybe life will pick back up again.

pistol.

and i'm wondering so many things. handfuls here and there. i want you to take these words and try to understand. too often i give you silence, and with jack savoretti drowning out the alcohol coursing through my veins, i'm gaining the courage to speak. syllables fall from these lips, and there's an stranded eyelash resting on your cheek. come, let's make a wish together.

what do i wish for? it's a good question, and you're searching for a good answer. i'm wishing for tomorrow. i'm wishing for the next 24 hours, the next 1,440 minutes, the next 86,400 seconds. i'm closing my eyes, holding my breath and wishing on the day that hasn't happened yet. you're thinking it's strange, and it wasn't the answer you expected. you're thinking it doesn't make sense, and you're thinking it's a wasted wish. what about world peace? what about poverty? what about continuing medical research for AIDS? what about making love a verb again? what about the fate of the world? well, let me tell you a secret. i believe in tomorrow more than i believe in today. i believe in second chances, i believe in taking deep breaths knowing that it felt so damn good to be alive to feel your lungs expanding and contracting. i believe in inhaling the good with the bad, and trusting yourself to filter the differences. i believe in making every goddamn moment worth something because i don't know how to do otherwise. i believe in clean slates, new chapters, and fresh beginnings. and i wish for tomorrow because it's a whole new book. same author, old biography on that backflap with the cheesy black and white studio photograph. but a whole new story. 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds to write the vivid tale the world has ever imagined. the static and dynamic characters leaping through the pages desparate to be remembered after the last page has been turned. the climax building like the white foam of a wave collapsing into small ripples brushing against the shore. so real and alive that when you swallow, you can taste the moment slipping down your throat, so fluidly, so warm and good. so real and alive that each color paints your eyes a beautiful masterpiece. the red swirls with the purples and the blues blend with the greens, and before you can even blink, you've seen the universe on a canvas. so alive and real that every rise and fall of your chest feels like this giant leap from a rocky edge that has an invisible bottom. a quick look over your shoulder and you realize you have no wings. your bare foot sliding over the rubble, and you just take the fucking plunge. your quickening heart rises to your throat, and the wind tangles your hair, but all you know is how good it feels to fly.

and i wished to fly.

what do you wish for?

dreams of a soldier.

as our souls lay sleeping,
as our heart rest,
The skies unfold for us.
lay down your weapon, sweet child,
and close your eyes,
because the soldiers and the armies
are innocent tonight.

i never wanted,
i never wanted you to go.

there's a voice inside you
that rings through your callused skin and cold bone,
up through the uncut blades of grass,
underneath the blazen feet of God's only son.
this war you've almost died for
has already been won.

i just want to survive with you in my arms.
with you in my arms, i just want to survive.

uneven lips, quiet down.
let your fists unravel and relax.
miscarried love will be reborn.
when we sleep,the devil's hands are tied.

this war we've been bleeding for
has already been won.

dissonance and innocent surrender.

put your warmth on; this town trembles.
keep your eyes towards the sky, as you unmask god
from cold blood and broken limbs

we are a blank line stretched across the machine
illegible bloodlines predict every forecast:
a symphony of apathy and unforsaken surrender.

when our color fades,
we will dig holes for the corpse of time,
and we will earn new embers in our eyes.

broken wrists get tired rewriting the future.
our bodies plead to be creatures of habit.
we are creatures of habit.

only with careful hands
we'll turn their claws into wings and answers.
only with careful hands
we'll divide the tears
from the terrorist.

Wise beauty,
umbrellas collapsing.
In blue prints, our lines will connect
a map to find us.
Red ink smears will unfold our destination.

Cranes are creaking, steel and metal lifted
always searching for new ways to settle and fold,
unbalancing the scale, weight shifting from victim to suspect.

i can feel the gravity around us,
climbing every joint within us,
a sanctuary in our own mouths.

crucify me.

beads of sweat slide down the small of her back and she can taste the salt on her lips. her knees are buckling under the weight. fragments of splintered plank of wood dig deeper in her back, burrowing under several layers of skin. something's dripping from her shoulder. sweat or blood; she doesn't know. she stomps on the shadow, her weary eyes burning from the sun's fury. her bare feet stumble among the small, jagged stones and the seering hot pavement appears to bubble under her toes. hole in the ground, 2x4s lying in the wet grass. lie still in your coffin, says the first nail in her palm. close your eyes so tight, says the second nail in her other palm. you're free, says the last nail driven through her ankles. metal on metal, hammer tossed aside. there are no clouds today and the sun says she is not finished. nature's spikes dug into her scalp, stabbing through her forehead. this crown of thorns makes the sun smile down on her. small tributaries of blood pour into the corners of her eyes, collecting in small pools in the crevices of her hollowed face. the planks in the hole, upright to the world. her weight hanging on three rusty nails. the pools of blood draining from her face, down her chest and stomach. bones instantly grinding, cracking, all at once. shoulders drop and dislocate, head bent forward, her matted hair dangling in the non-existent breeze. shallowed breaths, salt on her lips, and the weight of so much we'll never understand keeping her from rising again to take another breath. lungs depleting, heart slowing, eyes down. torn flesh, blood-stained planks of wood, and a fucking sacrifice. "why, oh father have you forsaken us?" the salt is now tears, but she can no longer taste or feel. with her crown, and the scorn of the heavens, it is finished.

on the top of some hill, it could seem to be a sundial. it reads time of death: 6:57. and that ladies and gentlemen, is the end of this beautiful story.

faulkner's bridge.

he checks his pulse on the balcony. it's 2:14 in the morning, and the comforting throb reverberates in the blackness. the moon's playing hide and seek, but he's too busy counting stars. hands fumble for the lighter, a little flick, a small flame; it's 2:18 and it feels good to breathe it in. inhale. counting stars...8,9,10,11....exhale. smoke leaving lies on his parted lips. and tonight he's lighting up again. this part is essential in this never-ending tale. he's out of cigarettes, and he never liked those scented candles. striking that match, the orange glow illuminating his hollow eyes.

he's running now, bare feet slapping pavement. now gliding through wet grass. rocks between his toes. the flame growing larger, and he licks those half-truths on his lips. still counting stars....12,13,14,15.....

the bridge burns.

william faulkner writes of a barn burning. but tonight, the story changes. the flames licking the river, consuming past mistakes and regrets.

because he lit the match that burned the bridge.

now, counting stars, where was he?

...16, 17, 18, 19...

dance pretty girl, dance.

she could have gone places.
done things.
been somebody.
been anything but this.
it's a shame.
she's a pretty girl.
and smart too.

the run in her hose hid in the shadows behind the bend in her knee. the lights hit the stage creating that mocking glow. synthesized beats poured from the speakers. smoke from old men's cigars swallowed her behind the thick, velvet curtain. pressing her red lips together, her cheap heels walked her towards her partner for the evening. the pole. the stench of stale liquor and dirty money lingered above her lips. fake lust for the man in the third row back. an imaginary one night stand for the single dad sitting by the bar. a hard fuck in the private room for the pedophile with the fat wallet. these beats pounded her chest, making her feel some far away rhythm. one leg wrapped around the cold metal, her back arching, her acrylic nails reaching for those dollar bills. that dirty money. the blue eye shadow resembled a bruise in the harsh stage lighting, but fuck. who was looking at her face? it was time to lose the top. the second clasp always gave her trouble and the damn nails always got in the way. faster. don't keep the men waiting. that dirty money. hard fuck in the private room. fake lust. imaginary one night stand that's now becoming a reality. her sequined top lay just behind the curtain. inhale the cigars. dance for them. feel the beats. faster she spins. sliding, reaching. always reaching for that dirty money.

don't keep the men waiting.

dance, pretty girl. dance.

casseroles and crack.

he hasn't brushed his teeth in eleven days. the brown matted hair sticks to his forehead like glue. dirt finds a home in the crevices and folds of his callused hands. he smells of filth, desecration, and loss. bloodshot eyes, once a pale shade of blue. lips cracked and dry, once spouting the dinner prayer over a green bean casserole. the white button down is yellowing now. his skin seems to be seeping through the linen. hands are shaking as he stands on that street corner. the salty sweat collecting in his dirty palms. on the corner or 10th and Walnut. paid in full, no exceptions. don't be late. those bloodshot shift around nervously. the reflection of the stoplight flickers in his watery pupils.

green.

yellow.

red.

he hasn't brushed his teeth in eleven days. he's biting his bleeding lips now. he doesn't have all damn night. his breath collects and creates small clouds of white in the cold, damp street corner. his skin is crawling. itching. burning. he needs it.

his pockets are empty; his hands are full. he rolls the small plastic bag around in his brown fingers. feeling the way it shifts, each little grain of his precious gliding off of another. shifting, gliding, transforming. the fluroscent street lamps poke and prod, but he's running now. those bloodshot eyes absorb only one thing.

that fix. that drug. that obsession. that addiction. that love. that life.

just a little more. one more hit. just one more. take it all in, make it all go away. he rolls up his sleeves, the surrendering veins pulsing in his forearms. the little crystal beads all lined up in a small row. shifting, grinding, transforming. it's this miracle. this abundance of vivacity. it's a newlife right there in that line on the stained coffee table. take a sniff for your son. he's fourteen now, starting high school in the fall. take a sniff for your little girl. she wonders where you are, but brushes the hair on the doll you bought last christmas. keep brushing, my little angel, daddy'll be home soon.

it's burning a little. eyes closed, head back. soaking it all in.
shifting, grinding, transforming.

he hasn't brushed his teeth in eleven days.

but daddy'll be home soon.

fruit snacks, angels, gone.

the pills lay on his nightstand. the glass of water trembles in his unsteady hand. he could hear her laughing. he could feel her tiny hands in his. he was counting her freckles. his baby, his little girl. he was falling in love all over again.

he sat in his unmade bed. it was seventeen til noon. he was aware of every passing second. she was probably eating her fruit snacks right now, picking out the blue to save for last.

he left the blinds open. he wanted that light and that warmth. the sun caught his bloodshot and weary eyes. his shoulders were worn from carrying the weight of the renaissance man. he had gambled it all away and he couldn't seem to grasp that desperate purpose.

she was excited for recess today. she was smiling.

he was crying.

the salty tears dissolved onto his trembling lips as he brought the pills to his lips. he lost count as he began swallowing. the cold water hurt his teeth. each gulp became easier and soon the little bottle was empty.

his head found its way to the pillow. his lifeless eyes called it a day and he could feel her hair falling through his fingers. her smile occupied the space beside him. the sunlight weaved through his inanimate fingers and he dreamt of his baby. daddy loves you, sweet angel.

daddy loves you.

girl.

Stop biting your nails, it’s a nasty habit; sit up straight; brush your hair, you look like a hippie; throw those jeans out, they have holes; the soccer ball stays outside; are you wearing socks with those tennis shoes? don’t swallow your gum; watch your mouth, a lady doesn’t talk that way; writing is not a career, it’s a hobby; be a good influence; do you ever pay attention to the speed limit? stay out of the sun, too many freckles; don’t laugh, that wasn’t funny—it was inappropriate; learn from your mistakes; turn that music down, are you deaf? as a matter of fact, things are harder to hear in my left ear; this is how to be a lady, sit straight, curl your hair, put on the heels and pearls; this is how you trim your nails, not with your mouth, use the clippers; this is how you dress so you have some class and etiquette; this is how you pick a good career in business or chemistry; this is how you sew those holes in your jeans; this is how you become that lady and leave behind that sloppy mess you are trying to become; when you are writing, follow the rules; when you make others laugh, think what it means to be serious; this is how you avoid the truth; this is how you tell a small lie; this is how to ruin a life with lies; this is how to pick the good one; this is how to place the bet; this is how to empty your wallet; this is how to react when you hear the test results; this how to cry in secret; this is how to tell them one at a time that you’re scared shitless; I thought that wasn’t lady-like; this is how you become a hypocrite; when you feel like you’re going to break, hold it in; be sure to follow the rules, even if you get the urge to rebel; don’t wear those sneakers with a skirt—you are not a boy, you know; don’t pick fights you can’t win—you’ll look like a fool; don’t throw stones, because you are living in a glass house; this is the recipe for being brave, write it down, you’ll need it later; this is how to make a casserole without burning it—never leave the kitchen; this is how to know if it’s real love, there is no way of knowing, sometimes it just hurts; this is how to grow up, stand tall and don’t look back; this is how to play the guitar, strum the chords until your fingers bleed; this is how to write, never stop, every person is a story, write it all; when it all becomes too much, take a breath and remember; never bet on something you can’t afford to lose; when you watch your dreams come true, smile; when you’ve screwed up, sometimes there are no second chances, remember that; this is how to watch your mother fight for her life; this is how to wipe the tears away as soon as they fall; this is how to hold my hand and tell me everything will be okay; everything will be okay; this is how to believe it; this is how to fight, to surrender, to love, to hate, to live; do you see how it’s all worth it?

grounded.

She wanted those Strawberry Shortcake paper plates. And the cups and napkins to match. Thirteen seven year old girls were coming over to the house next weekend. The cake was a surprise. Little pink strawberries and flowers decorated the edges and there were seven little plastic pink ballerinas dancing across the top. The bike was at his mother’s house. He put it together two nights ago and it only took an hour and a half without reading the instructions. He remembered the little white basket attached to the front. Pink plastic ribbons hung from the handlebars and multi-colored beads slid up and down the spokes when he gave it a little push. There was even a small cup holder under the seat which held a matching water bottle. She was gonna love it.

The plane was speeding up. His sweaty hands grasped the small arm rests until his knuckles were white. The clear breathing mask dangled from a small tube in front of his face but he made no move to put it on. The wheels of the drink cart came squeaking by while it rolled towards the front of the plane. The small plastic cup that held his empty bag of peanuts made no sound as it landed in the space between his dress shoes. So many noises, but the drop of one cup was never heard. There were screams. He could distinguish some from others. There was one in row twelve. It wasn’t a sad one; it was more of a ‘If I scream loud enough, someone will hear me and come help’. But of course, at a few miles above the great city of New York, no one would hear those screams. And in row three. This was more of a combination of screaming and sobbing. This was definitely a sad scream. A scream that in between the sobs, begged for its life. But the one that he heard now was coming from row eight. This was a scream of sheer terror. This one knew what was coming and knew it would hurt like hell. Beneath the symphony of their dying music, he could pick out the deep threats shouted in Arabic. No one had a clue what was being said, but he believed it to be something along the lines of “All of you shut the fuck up!” or “You are all going to die!” It was probably best that his fellow passengers couldn’t translate. His calves were clenched and pressed under his small seat and his grasp on the arm rests became even tighter. He could feel the rattling of the large aircraft pulsing through his entire body as he let out a ragged deep breath. There was another scream now. One that haunted him and gave him a small shiver. This scream had children and a spouse, just like him. His weary and red eyes focused on the small sticker with directions stuck to the side of the breathing mask. There were five different languages, but he quickly found English and began to read.

The older one had her first date on Friday. The boy was coming over at eight to take her to a movie. Her and her mother went shopping for makeup yesterday and he sat at home chewing his cuticles. She was a sophomore in high school and he hadn’t seemed to realize it until yesterday. She kept her music loud and her door closed. He always told the nun joke when they had company and she never failed to roll her eyes and sigh. She hated that joke. Her varsity soccer team won all-state this year and he kept a picture of her after their winning game on his desk at work. Her long blonde hair was wet with sweat and pulled into a loose ponytail. The number twenty-nine on her jersey was covered in mud because it had rained the whole game. She hated getting her picture taken and her lips only barely curled in the corners, but beneath the sweat and mud, her green eyes sparkled. She was beautiful. Just like her mother.

He had almost missed his flight this morning. She insisted on ironing his shirt. She was all about first impressions. The cab had already honked three times and she was spraying starch on the sleeves. As she bent over the ironing board, a loose curl fell across her forehead. It was already 6:30 and there was no way he could miss this flight, but there was no way he was getting out of the house with a wrinkly shirt. With one final look-over, she smiled and nodded her approval. She held up the stiff and pressed dress shirt as he slipped his arms into the warm sleeves. Her small hands straightened his silk tie while he shoved his long limbs into his jacket. The last honk was a good minute long and before he even knew it, he was loading his luggage into the trunk. He didn’t remember a kiss goodbye or a wave. All he remembered was the sound the tires made squealing on their paved driveway.He was out of breath when he finally found his seat. He was relieved to find the matching numbers on his ticket on a seat located next to the window. It was 7:45 now and he had planned on a nap until they reached Los Angeles. It was gonna be a long week and he was gonna give the small foam airplane pillow full use. With his bag in the overhead compartment and his safety belt buckled, the wheels of the large aircraft whirred in motion. At 7:59am Flight 11 lifted off the runway at Logan Airport for the last time.

She had a dance recital next Thursday. Her tutu barely fit through the doorway. They had been practicing this routine for “months, Daddy…months!” His parents were coming up for it and they had made sure to charge their video camera. She insisted on trying on her tutu every night after dinner and before her homework. They were learning addition and subtraction now and she always had problems with the number nine. For weeks she wanted to believe that nine minus three was always five. She would pound her fists on the edges of the table and huff, “Daddy, I need a break to try on my tutu. This stuff is wearing me out.” He couldn’t help but laugh and give her a pat on the butt while she ran to her bedroom.

He remembered seeing quite a few empty seats towards the back of the plane, but he loosened his tie and let the rocking of the plane lull him to sleep. Exactly fourteen minutes later, he heard the first scream that would continue to echo through the aisles for the rest of their short flight. His eyes shot open and his fingers fumbled quickly with his safety belt. As soon as he straightened his knees to stand, a sharp blade appeared under his chin. A warm, hot breath steamed the skin behind his ear as he heard a Middle-Eastern accent dripping over the harsh and angry threats. “Sit the fuck down!” The attacker directed his attention to the rest of the terrified passengers, “Everyone sit down and shut up! No one is going anywhere!” His knees slowly bent towards the edge of his seat as his breathing became sharp and hurried. The attacker’s grip loosened as an older man in row twenty-two started to stand. As the blade left his neck and followed with the attacker’s hand, he noticed it was already covered in someone’s blood. He was the only one in his row, but he could hear the older woman in the row in front of him mumbling some recited prayer and sobbing for her life. Before he had time to think or react, another heavily-accented voice came from the back. This attacker came running down the aisle towards the front of the plane ending at the nose in the pilot’s quarters. He stretched his legs out under the seat in front of him and slid lower towards the ground. On his hands and knees, he counted the seats as he passed them. One, two, three, four. With a stretch of his eyes, he saw three of them collected around the front of the plane. Each armed with their own bloody box-cutter. Where did that blood come from? He took a swift glance around the occupied seats and beneath all the chaos and tears, he didn’t seem to find anyone who appeared to be too badly hurt. As his eyes scanned back to the attackers, he looked eye-level and there he found the source of the blood. Lying in a pool of dark red, the torso displayed half out into the aisle. It was the pilot.

She was becoming more like her mother everyday. Although, she would never admit it. The older she got, the more defined her features became. Her face had thinned out and her freckles were disappearing. She definitely didn’t look like a little girl anymore. He remembered sitting in the passenger seat just last week when they went for a practice drive. He was sweating bullets and she had the music up too loud. “Dad, will you seriously just calm down? I know what I’m doing, ok?” Less than five minutes later, she ran up on the curb. Overall, she didn’t kill them and although he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, she was old enough to get her license. Her favorite band was a name he could never remember but it sounded something along the lines of shattering glass, squealing rubber, and a little bit of nails on a chalkboard. Even though she was growing up, he would always remember holding all six pounds, nine ounces of her in the hospital room.

Congregated around the pilot’s body, they were shouting at each other and the passengers in Arabic. He remained crouched on the floor and every few minutes, one of the attackers would disappear into the cockpit; each of them taking turns. He could feel the plane turning now. The floor and the seats surrounding him began to shake and rattle. His knees started to slide on the carpeted row and he inched his way back to his seat. Four, three, two, one. Back in his seat, he trembled. He had loosened his tie and left it on the floor and the screams were ringing in his ears. He no longer heard the Arabic, he only heard the sounds of the roaring engine and the wails of these frightened people. The seat he found himself in was adjacent to the right wing of the plan and he could feel its vibrations through the back of his seat. The pit in his stomach had dropped even further now as he felt the nose of the plane dipping and slicing through the clouds. Were they landing already?The sweat was burning in the corners of his eyes. But those same eyes saw the target only a few minutes later. They were supposed to land in Los Angeles, but he had begun to realize that the attackers had other plans for the aircraft. As they lowered and the New York skyline came into view, his eyes scanned the blurred city for any airport that they could be headed for. A long stretch of runway finally came into view, but they quickly sped past it and lowered even closer to the bustle of the city. Salty tears found their landing at the corners of his lips and he finally heard a familiar scream. His own.

She never painted her nails anything other than pink. Her blonde curls had a mind of their own and his fingers always wound up tangled in them at night. They had fought in aisle three at Bed, Bath & Beyond about what kind of sheets to get. She had her arms full of packages of purple paisley print sheets and pillowcases. “Honey, help me find a duvet to match and then we’ll go to the scented candle aisle.” His hand rested on a stack of packaged plain blue sheets. “What about these? These are much better and I would feel more comfortable laying on these masculine blue sheets. And what the hell is a duvet?” Their cart was already full of shower curtains, bath rugs, and a pink ceramic soap dish that was “absolutely adorable.” He sighed heavily as she unloaded the purple sheets into the cart and sauntered off towards the scented candles. He could already imagine her eyes closed as she inhaled each candle, because of course she had to try each and every one. But in the end, she always settled on lavender.

He didn’t have much time. He was shaking now as he dialed the house. After those five rings that seemed to last too long, he heard her voice. It was only the answering machine, but it was enough to make him weep. Looking out the window again, he saw the World Trade Center in the distance. Surely they couldn’t be headed there. But nothing was slowing down and the shaking was jarring his entire body. He took a deep breath and when he finally heard the beep, he tried to form the audible words and began the hardest task of his life.

She always had this thing. This thing where she would pretend to be so mad and so serious. Her lips would get all tight and little and her eyebrows would draw closer together beneath a few angry wrinkles that lined her forehead. But those eyes of hers always gave it away. She never lasted more than a full minute. It was just this part of her that never got mad at him, not really anyways, and he knew exactly how it felt. He remembered the one cold February morning that she left to go grocery shopping. Not five minutes after she walked out the door, she opened it, wiped her feet off on the rug, and came and sat next to him on the couch. “Honey, I backed into the garage door. Just so you know.” And he just sat there looking at the woman he loved trying not to laugh.

Beep. “Hey beautiful. F-f-first of all, I love you and the girls, but my flight to LA has been hi-jacked and I h-h-have to go soon, so listen carefully.” His voice rattled along with the jarring of the plane, but mostly from the severity of his sobbing. “These past nineteen years with you have been the greatest years of my life and I l-l-love you with all I am. I always will. Never forget that. Tell the girls that daddy loves them and that I am always with them. Give my m-m-mom a call too and tell her I said thank-you for everything.” He had drawn his knees to his chest now and gripped the back of the seat in front of him to keep from falling into the aisle. He clearly saw the towers now. He had to be quick. This was it. “Honey, this is g-g-goodbye. But only for now. I love you.” The phone slid from his trembling fingers. He squeezed his burning eyes closed for the impact and the scream from his own aisle could never be distinguished because it never had the chance to leave his throat.

She was gonna fix pot roast for dinner tonight. It had been simmering in the crock pot all afternoon. The girls were arguing in the backseat when she pulled into the driveway. As the garage door opened, she caught a glimpse of a few remaining scratches on the inside wall of the garage. She just shook her head and smiled. She grabbed the gallon of milk from the floorboard and went around to the front porch to check the mail. It was humid today and the handle of the gallon of milk began to sweat a little from the heat. “Girls, get started on your homework while I finish getting dinner ready.” With the pile of magazines and unopened bills lying on the counter, she headed for the bedroom. A small red light blinked on the nightstand. One new message. She sat on the edge of their bed, began untying her shoes, and pressed play.

untitled

I hope someday you understand. It’s not something I’m proud of and I wish things could have turned out differently. I remember how scared I was. The rope was burning and the tiny splinters in the braid were digging into my neck. My mind was racing and my heart was beating out of my chest. But I was wearing the tie you gave me on my 35th birthday. I hope you noticed. It didn’t take long after I kicked the chair out, but I remember the last thing that crossed my mind. It was you.

It was all of you, but I remembered one day in particular. It was six am and I was on my way over to the house. I finally had a few free hours and you had been begging to go fishing. I had told you the night before that it had to be early because that’s when the fish bite. That may have been the truth, but by ten I had a date with the tracks again, so I had to squeeze you in early. I wasn’t sure if you were even going to be up and ready, so I had tacked on an extra thirty minutes for your mother to help you get dressed, brush your teeth, and grab some breakfast. And then of course another twenty for getting your pole together and your little tackle box that you got for Christmas. I knew it would have been an hour before we actually got down to the lake. When I pulled into the driveway, I didn’t see you at first. After I shut the car door, I heard your voice echo through the whole neighborhood. And there you were. Sitting on the porch. You had my old dirty fishing hat on your head; it nearly covered your eyes. Your mom must have bought you a new fishing vest because you stuck your chest out proudly to show me all the pockets to hold the worms. Your sandals were on the wrong feet as usual and your left front tooth still hadn’t grown in, but you smiled anyway. You jumped up when you saw me come around to the front yard, but you had also forgotten that your fishing pole was between your legs and you caught yourself in the eye with the end of the pole. You weren’t hurt, but there were tears of course.

As we loaded your Snoopy pole and matching tackle box into the truck, I looked down and that’s what I remembered. That right there. You smiled that lopsided grin of yours and I pushed the hat back out of your eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Mom said you weren’t gonna come, but I knew you would. I just knew it.” You were six then. We only caught one fish, but that was all we needed anyway.

With the chair turned over, my feet dangled above the coffee table and the ceiling fan was swaying with my weight. It was really starting to hurt, but I remembered that Saturday and that smile. Nothing else mattered then and that’s when I started counting the patterns in the ceiling tiles until it became dark.

It’s been twenty-seven days. It took eleven days for me to even be able to look down. It was too hard. The following twenty-four hours they make us watch. Every hour, every minute, every second. It’s one of the rules up here. It’s not quite heaven yet, so you can still feel and hurt. Those twenty-four hours hurt worse than the death itself.

I didn’t know you were coming over that day. It had been about two hours when I heard the front door unlock. I looked down hoping for anyone but you. You dropped your backpack by the door and went to the kitchen. You hollered for me. I’m not here. I’m not here. Just go home. I’m at work. Don’t go in the living room. Please don’t go in the living room. I was a nervous wreck up here and I was screaming at you. I tried so hard to get your attention and make you get out, but you never listen.

You came around the corner with a root beer in your hand. I really didn’t want to see this part, but I had to follow the rules. The root beer lay on the floor, soaking into the carpet while you ran. The phone was off the hook and while you were crying and searching for it, you got sick. I was pretty merciless when I picked my location. There I was in the center of the house, the phone a few inches from my feet. I was sobbing by then and you were throwing up next to the coffee table. In the kitchen your fingers shook as you called 911. You weren’t making any sense, but they got the address. The sirens were nearby when you finally got a hold of your mother. “Mom. Dad’s dead.” Click. Those three words were all you could say by then as you slumped down on the kitchen floor.

I was cursing myself for the next several hours and the pain I felt for doing this to you was more than I could bear. Oh, but son, that was only the beginning. When I saw her, I lost it completely. Those brown eyes of hers were red from crying on the way over. I was already on the stretcher under a sheet which was probably a good thing. She found you immediately as any mother would and there the two of you wept. In my driveway stood the two most important people in my life sobbing over a man that never deserved them. What a fucked up twenty-four hours.

So, it’s been twenty-seven days. You’re leaving for school in a few weeks. I was supposed to go and help you move in, but we both knew I wouldn’t have shown up. At about fifteen you stopped believing me. I noticed it and so did your mother. Maybe it was the hundred or so times you had sat on the front porch waiting for me to come and I never did. Not even a phone call to explain why. Or maybe it was all the empty promises of nice vacations every summer, guitar lessons, a full day of golf, just you and me. Or maybe even just the promise of still being in your life after the divorce. Biggest lie I ever told.

I’m not exactly sure when it all started, but the day she packed her things I knew I had made a mistake. You were four and didn’t understand. I had already gambled away what little we had saved for your life savings. Your mother’s engagement ring sat in a dirty pawn shop by the highway and what did I have to show for it? Divorce papers and no self-respect. There was never another woman; there was never another man. It was always me and your mother. And it was always my addiction.

I missed your third birthday because I couldn’t walk away from the tracks. My pockets were near bare and I still didn’t have you a birthday present yet, but that was the furthest thing from my mind. I had to win this time. You had just blown out your candles and I had just blown all my money. I came home that night empty-handed and alone.

Your mother tried to make it work. She put up with it for years and she even gave me a break when she decided on joint custody. Too bad I still hadn’t learned from my mistakes. I’m sure you remember the weekends you spent with me. The thick cigarette smoke and hordes of drunk men with empty pockets much like myself. Every now and then I would let you pick the horse and you always picked the one with the coolest name. Of course I never put my money on it because it was never about what you wanted; it was about me. Always about me.

I had gotten the rope from Home Depot that morning and on my way back home I had convinced myself that it was the only way. I had been thinking about it seriously for quite some time then and that day seemed just as good as any. I was the epitome of a man living for nothing. She had full custody of you by then and up until your eighteenth birthday, she forbid you to see me. It was a smart thing to do although I would have never admitted it. She saw more of me in you everyday and she was getting worried. You hated her for it and never missed a moment to let her know. She really missed you and hated me for making you this way. By then I was nothing but a shell, but you still held on. You still clung to some relationship that you wished that we had but it had never existed. If anything, son, you were the only one who refused to give up on me. You stuck your hand out again and again for a father that never deserved a second chance.

Twenty seven days later I look down and I see you. I can tell you’re scared. She’s still at work so the house is still except for your heavy breathing. You bought the gun last week and I can see it in the shoe box under your bed. I didn’t see you buy it, but I’m sure you were nervous. You had swiped her credit card, but you’re thinking she won’t see the bill until after it’s over. The palms of your hands are sweaty as you pull out the old box. What have I done?I thought after I was gone, it would have solved some problems. I was bankrupt, alone, and angry. You were the only one who had kept me alive for even that long and the deciding factor for me was you. I could tell I had always had a crippling effect on your life and in some ways, my handicap had rubbed off on you and I had finally begun to see it. I had blown every chance given to me and I had exhausted all other options. I thought it was for the best. Everyday you defended me and held yourself back from so many things to hobble along next to your already dead father. With that rope around my neck, in some perverse way, I felt I was freeing you. In order for you to truly live, I felt I needed to die. I couldn’t do it any longer; to you or to your mother. I hoped someday you would understand. But twenty seven days later, I’m watching you pull out a pistol.

Do you really want to do this? Think about it, Son. Don’t be a coward like me. Put the gun down. Just put it down. I’m screaming now as you’re loading a single bullet. There’s some heavy metal band playing in the background. I didn’t know you liked that kind of music. I had always liked country and your mother preferred classic rock; you always had to be different. You’re turning up the volume now. You’re trying to silence the sound of the gun being fired. You’re thinking if no one hears it, no one will come and try to save you. But I’ll hear it. Damn it, you’re not slowing down. Why can’t you hear me? Why don’t you ever listen? DON’T DO THIS! PUT IT DOWN!

There was a lot of blood wasn’t there? Your hands were shaking when you put it in your mouth. You hesitated for just a second and I thought for sure that you might reconsider. But here you are.

Were you scared? I saw your fingers shaking when you pulled the trigger. I sure as hell was. I was scared when I took the plunge and I was scared for you when you pulled out that box. I mean, damn it son, where did we go wrong? Life isn’t supposed to end like this. We’re not supposed to be having this kind of conversation. We’re supposed to talk about girls, cars, sports, politics. Not ‘what do we do now?’ Everything is just so fucked up isn’t it? I thought this would make me happy, but look at me, I can’t stop crying. And you. Are you happy? Are you?

So here we are in this sort of inbetween. Father and Son. Just another couple of statistics. But then again, I was a statistic long before I bought that rope. I was in the large margin of invisible fathers. The ones that escape the child support, the ones that have mixed up priorities, and the ones that just buckle under the pressure of it all. I was that statistic. And you, my boy, are in the large margin of adolescents who pretend to hate the world. Although your case was different, they’ll still chalk it up to teen angst. The ones that wear a permanent scowl, the ones that have notebooks full of dark poetry, and the ones that, in the end, truly believe no one will ever understand them. You will become that statistic.

It’s been twenty seven days and here you are. You look taller. And you haven’t shaved in a few days. Your mother told me once that you were graduating with an academic honors diploma and that you managed to get yourself in the top ten percent of your class. I guess it takes us both being up here for me to say congratulations. I’m not even going to apologize anymore because I know it’s long past that point. I mean, honestly, how do I even begin to tell you sorry for not ever being there? How do I say sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and most importantly, sorry for not being there to make you put down the gun? There are never going to be enough words to fix that one.

So here we are. Father and Son. Murderer and murdered. She’s pulling into the driveway now. I can hear her keys in the front door. Her purse is on the counter and she’s yelling your name. Watch closely son. Your twenty four hours has just begun.

the rat race.

check this. words from a man named Jon Foreman. He writes with such clarity and absolute truth. Please give this a look. It's incredible.

The rats. The race. The "in" and not "of" this world are often hard to separate in my mind. But maybe that's where the real difference lies after all- in your mind, your heart... your spiritual being. That your physical body is in a specific place and time but your treasure is somewhere else. But sometime the "nowness" of here starts pulling at your heart, away from eternal rewards. For a moment, the flashlight in your eyes looks brighter than the sun. For the moment... I don't think these grand strokes of bad decision making are ever that simple or noticeable in the minutia, however. No, it's always by degrees. It's a sacrifice, but it's "only a little bit wrong" or it's "what everyone has to do" or it's "for the kids" "for a sense of stability" "for my wife" "for my husband" or "just for now"...

I know all about the momentary little sacrifices of self that are offered up to the momentary little gods. And little by little, you're like the ancient face of a cliff, eaten away by the sea. It never happens all at once. But one day you wake up and you come to the startling conclusion that a huge chunk of you has disappeared. Given away- to time, chance, a momentary thrill, a small concession in the daily flight from pain... and yet pain finds you still. Yes. This is true: the shoreline of you looks different now... wave after wave... wave after wave...

And then I almost feel like giving up- like I don't know how to be "of" this world at all. Maybe sometimes we're supposed to back away from the shore. But I don't think that's a sure fix either. The rain, the sun, the wind. We're falling apart. We're giving ourselves away. We're being eaten alive... Pieces of us, significant ideals and dreams, now reduced to dust and ash drifting away. Washing away. In every moment there's always the option to run from the momentary pain. momentary little alters to momentary little gods.

But maybe that's just what we've been given: a life to give away. time. meaning. love. we lay these, our gifts on the alters of our choosing. Memories, knowledge, wealth, friends, scars- these are what we accumulate. But these do not come cheap: these possessions will cost us our very lives. We lose ourselves whether we like it or not. This is not a choice. "Listen man, if you lose yourself for my sake you'll find yourself, try and hold on to yourself and you'll lose it."

Yeah, I suppose even Divine love is like that, erosion. washing over us like the rain or the sun or the shore. But to compare the two is absurd. One is life the other is death. But it takes time to tell them apart- I can usually tell which is which a few weeks down the line. The creator's love is creating, additive, purposeful. I feel more complete, more whole, more at home in the "in" and the "of". Make no mistake, he takes things away, and it hurts like hell. It sometimes hurts worse than the other sort of pain, the numb deadening sort. Maybe partly because your more alive, more aware. Or maybe because you're in the hands of a friend.

But I suppose thats the difference between the doctor and the dealer: one is the touch of a sculptor one is the glove of a thief. I'm sure we've all felt pain come from both ways. But I guess what I'm saying, is that when I think about all of this from the freeway, when i think about the transcendent story that I'm a part of, I can rise above it. I can see my place. The pain has meaning. And no one can take that from me. I guess, these are the moments when time slows down to pause... when I can offer a little sacrifice to the God who transcends the pain. A peace of myself, to the infinite giver of everything. And then, after this momentary breath I'm find still stuck in traffic. No fireworks. no burning bush. Nothing that unusual just a brief moment of peace and truth shot. It becomes a gift to me. A dagger stuck into the very heart of the lie that I become all too often.

It's those moments of rest that separate us from the rat race. In other words it's not what I frantically do but rather what I don't frantically do that distinguishes me from a rodent. Sometimes, (when I have my head on straight) I feel sorry for the rats. And then other times, (when I'm upside down) I'm just trying to win. But running away from the race itself feels like a cop-out, like the same thing as running with the rats. still running. still running. I guess it depends on what's driving you. fear and pain. or love and truth.

garth brooks and mi padre.

The humid August air weaved its way through my tangled hair while my fingers created waves slicing in and out of the wind. It was a Monday. Or maybe a Tuesday; it could have been any day. I had spent too much time in the sun and the inevitable freckles scattered themselves across my cheeks and nose. I squinted at them in the dirty side mirror. I knew they weren’t going anywhere so I stuck my arm out a little further, the wind catching my breath in one giant gulp. With the wind whistling in my ear, it was hard to hear the song, so I slipped back into my seat and prepared for the chorus. My hand unconsciously balled into a fist and became my microphone. This was my time to shine.

The words to “Ain’t Going Down Til the Sun Comes Up” by Garth Brooks flooded the small car. It was an old song, but one I was embarrassed to say that I knew all the words to. The guitar was rearing up for the chorus and that’s when I looked over. Just a small glance, nothing more. But it was enough. His rough callused hands became drumsticks on the steering wheel and his leg pumped up and down with the rhythm. Today he was wearing his old high top sneakers with an especially nice pair of tube socks. His khaki shorts would have been fine if they had been at a normal length. He had gone for the dark red one today. He has exactly thirteen University of Louisville cardinals basketball shirts. Almost enough to last him two weeks, but today he settled with a dark red one that I had seen enough times to know that there was a small bleach stain near the left armpit and a permanent toothpaste leftover near the collar. He had a closet full of presentable clothes, but he wore this proudly. He called them his “boys” and sometimes I truly believed he was on the team. He would have been the center he always tells me. He doesn’t have a hat on today, and by the looks of his windblown hair, I knew that mine wouldn’t be too pleasant either.

In that one glance, this is what I saw. I saw his blue eyes squinting at the glaring sun or maybe from trying to hit a high note; I wasn’t quite sure. I saw the gap between his two front teeth as he sang “..ain’t givin’ in til they get enough…” right along with Garth. Right then I truly believed he could have made it in Nashville. With that one glance I saw a man that held my world. I’m not sure where we were headed or that it even mattered because there was no one else in the world, but us. Father and daughter. Garth Brooks and a backup singer.

As we raced down the interstate, fields of corn whipping by, our tone-deaf voices mingling with the summer air, I smiled at nothing in particular. The chorus began a second time and I stuck my arm out a little farther dipping it into the rushing wind. It could have been a Monday or a Tuesday, it could have been any day. But as I looked down at my own dirty converse sneakers and my own stained soccer jersey, I sang even louder “…goin ‘round the world in a pickup truuu-ck, ain’t goin’ down til the sun comes up…”.

It’s a good thing we thought were the next big things because on that day, we were the only ones who thought so. And to me, he was perfect and we deserved a record deal. Maybe it was a Thursday. Or maybe it was just the best day of my life.

tangled.

The bridges are burned as she blows out the match. The clouds collide while she paints a new picture. The lines become blurred between the skies and the heavens. That inbetween. She knows it's a place.

The sun apppears to greet her. Her eyes aren't blue. They're gray with flecks of navy. She paints her nails purple and watches as they chip. The water laps at her toes. Playing a game. She doesn't feel like playing today.

She never begs for mercy. Or grace. She steals the flowers from along the side of the highway. On certain days she closes her eyes and can feel it. The paper, the canvas, the people...they just don't get it.

She talks to the wind. It carries her stories through the cities and through open windows. She keeps her hopes in a glass bottle. The long neck once held by the alcoholic.

Trying to find her way. That's what some would call it. The rough waters of the seas call it something else. The tattoo on her ankle is tickled by blades of grass. Laughter weaves its way through the cornfields.

Yesterday is a small dot on the map. The X that marks the spot lies in tomorrow. She grabs her rusty shovel and follows the clues.

Orange sunsets cover the town. The dragonflies sleep through the night while the stars set the stage. Her hands can almost reach. Instead, she dips them in the coolness of evening. The crickets, frogs, lightening bugs...they all have their stories. Maybe she'll hear them one day.

The breeze whispers secrets through her tangled hair. The rocks beneath her feet, the heavens above her head, and the world in front of her eyes. This is the life she knows.

Someday. Someday, someone will see. Not tonight. Tonight is for sleep and dreams. Tonight is for the make-believe.