Thursday, May 6, 2004

Wilt, Cont.

NOTE: I realized that the date on Vicie's grave would make it so her daughter was quite young; too young, so that there's no way she could be speaking like she does in the dialogue. So I changed that.

I also started adding new paragaphs in the conversation ones where it's need. You'll see what I mean if I repost them, and if you read what I've got today.

---

VI
The tombstone, gray, edged out of the ground. The flowers there began to droop over and wilt, first red, then paler, then paler. Palest. The wind began to blow, making the strands of grass upon the ground bend, making the flowers—dead pale red—throttle in the open breeze. The picture, held in place by the rock, wavered up and down in its constraint.

Suddenly, the wind increased in speed. The picture began to harshly move up and down on the rock, making the sound of a flag whipping in wind. The flowers blew away, did twirls in the air, then fell back on the ground in pieces—a dead stem here, a dead petal there, a dead leaf there. An entire wilted head of a flower here. Grass came out of the ground, carried off in the wind—green blurs doing summersaults and loops and twirls.

In the background, a large sun—a red, now bruising sphere—was setting. But the wind, increasing even further in speed, moved it eastward in the cloudless sky. It kept moving, slow. More eastward and more eastward, until it could not be seen in the sky at all. Dark devoured the daylight. Prowled in. And a twilit sky and a moon keeping watch up there. Full moon.

The moon’s craters created what looked like two strained eyes, a strained mouth. It seemed to whisper something, seemed to move. But the wind was all that was heard. He wonders what the moon is saying.

The wind, at incredible speeds. The drawing, held in place by a small rock, tears. The rock tumbling off. Carried off in the wind, the drawing twirls. Then it turns so he can see what is drawn on it.

He sees a disproportionate lower torso, one leg longer than the other, crooked. MOMMY, a crude handwriting reads below the legs.

The disproportionate legs begin to gain color. The color of flesh comes alive from the torn drawing, the feet, the knee. It begins to come alive from the picture. One leg longer than the other. The legs walk over to him, and he sees it. “Daddy, what is that thing?” she says. It’s his daughter. She’s talking. But from where? “What is that thing?” she asks again.

He knows what it is. But he cannot tell his daughter—she is too young. “It’s her private part,” he hears himself saying, even though he didn’t move his mouth or think to say it. “You’ve got one too, honey.” His voice sounds like an echo, dull and far away.

“Do you have one too, daddy?”

He thinks to answer his is different, but he cannot hear himself say it. His attention is diverted over to the legs, now right beside him, the private part of her pushing against him. He can feel it. He can see the one leg longer than the other. He can see the hair there. The hair.

The legs begin to move up and down on him. His mind is hit with image after image after image of her. Her how he remembered her. Naked. The firm breasts, her black hair, her green eyes. The way she made love. It is all spinning around him, out of control. He wants to control it. Somehow, he senses his daughter. He senses her presence, can just hear her asking, “Daddy, what’s that mommy’s doing?” but doesn’t hear it.

He begins to feel the tinge, the pressure, of pleasure pushing down on him. Beating on him. His whole body begins to pulse with it, asserting control. He can hear her moaning, can see the look of strained pleasure on her face. Then it is gone. The pleasure is gone, and in its wake, there is a feeling of emptiness. A frantic feeling. A desolate, gone feeling.

He sees the legs, and the hair he can see begins to turn gray. The legs, strong and fleshly, begin to pale. Her hair on her private part seems like a flower’s head, it begins to fall away like petals. Dead pale petals. They float to the ground, like a leaf.

Her legs begin to lose their footing, their place, and fall inward. They collapse, and wounds begin to gain shape. Bruises and sores and cuts and gashes and lacerations. She begins bleeding from them. The blood is not red. It is pale. Wilted. She’s wilting. Right in front of his eyes. And now she is bones. And now she is nothing. Gone soon as she came. The feeling of loneliness and desolation bangs inside of him, even stronger than before.

The wind picks up again, much stronger. The gravestone is taken up, the dirt falling free from it. It goes off into the darkness, is eaten—devoured—by it. Somehow, he doesn’t know how, he can feel the wind, its immense strength—but it does not carry him away.

Dirt is flying all about, dusting everything. The stars themselves, in the sky, appear to be moving in the strong wind; the moon stands where it is, and it seems to be talking. It seems to be mumbling. But he can’t hear. The wind is all he hears, and what he hears in his mind. Her.

Then. A hand protrudes out from the dirt, where her grave used to be. A thin wry hand, cold and reptile and unhuman. She comes out, naked, but not quite as beautiful. Not quite as beautiful at all.

Her hair is thin, stuck on her head as if what hasn’t fell out will fall out soon. Her breasts are pale, the nipples like rosebuds. She looks thin and weak and dead.

“I can’t believe you!” she yells, walking over. “I can’t believe this!”
“What?”
“Why’d you take my daughter from me? What was it that makes you think you can do that?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumbshit with me. My daughter! I want her. I want her with me. Now!”
“What?”
“My god, are you fucking deaf? Can’t you hear me? CAN’T YOU HEAR ME? HELLO? I WANT MY DAUGHTER. WITH ME. I WANT HER WITH ME, NOW!”
“I can’t hear you, Vicie. I can’t hear you.” He puts his hands on his hears, holds them closed. “I can’t hear you.” He begins to cry, but the tears get caught in the wind, and are gone right away. The wind is all he can hear.
“You can’t hear me? Is that what you’re saying? Maybe it’s that you don’t WANT to hear me. Maybe that’s what it is.” She turns around, her buttocks waggling in the distance. “I want her dead, in the ground, with me. I want her dead. DEAD. DO YOU HEAR ME. DEAD. I. WANT. HER. DEAD. I want her here--HERE WITH ME!”
He can tell she’s yelling. But he can’t hear. He cannot hear.

She crawls back in the ground, and he’s left there. Standing. Alone. Wondering what the hell just happened. He closes his eyes, the wind is getting them all full of dirt. It stings.

He turns. And opens them again.

V
“Daddy, daddy! Wake up, wake up!”
“What?”
“Daddy, you’re awake! I was scared.”
“Why’s that, honey?”
“You were talking in your sleep, daddy. It was scary.”
“What was I saying?”
“I couldn’t hear most of it.”
“Oh. OK. I’m sorry, honey.”
”Sorry for what?”
“Scaring you.”
“It’s OK. Was it a nightmare? Is that what it was?”
“Yes, I think so. Daddy’s OK though.”
”Do you know what it was about, daddy?”
“It’s already leaving me. No, I don’t. Only small parts. . .small parts of it. That’s it.”
“I always forget my dreams too, daddy.”
“Yeah. What time is it? Are we late?”

“Good. We’re only a little late. OK then. I’m going to get dressed, honey. It’s time for the little girls to do it, too. Daddy can help you if you need help.”
“I can do it myself, daddy!”
“That’s big talk coming from a little girl.”
“I can, daddy! I can!”
“OK. You do it, then. I’ve got to rush. Or else I’ll be late. And I’ve got to drop you off at preschool, too.”
“OK. I’ll go get dressed then, daddy.”
“That’s a good girl.”

“You’ve got your jeans on backwards, honey. Here. There you go, turn them around.”
“Like this, daddy?”
“Yes, there you go. That’s right. OK. Let’s go. Grab a banana or something if you need it, honey. Daddy’s going to take one. Should hold you off until lunch.”
”OK daddy. I got it. Let’s go.”
“OK.”

“Have a good day, honey. Daddy’ll see you after work.”
“You too, daddy.”
“Daddy will try. See you later. Be nice to the other kids.”
”Yes daddy.”
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Wednesday, May 5, 2004

happy, sad, and the girl's fate

happy, sad, and the girl’s fate
happy sits on his window-sill
he thinks it’s going to rain.
while, across the street
sad stands on his roof
thinking things are never going to change.

happy is a ray of shine,
mouth’s corners held.
sometimes it seems forced.
the eyes seem to tell
happy’s not all he’s made to be.

sad is a quivering mass of fear,
mouth’s a metal trapper.
sometimes it seems dramatic.
the eyes seem to tell
sad’s lonely where he is.

happy can see sad
and sad can see happy
happy yells over,
“you know there’s things to be happy of,”
and happy says more, but sad’s not listening.
he’s on a shingle on the roof pouting his eyes out.

sad thinks he’s going to fall from the roof
he can see it in his head.
he’ll be pushed down by gravity,
land in an organized mess on the ground.
everyone will smile more because he’s gone.
he can see happy’s smile widen--
with a smile like that, he thinks,
you could tame the world.

sad’s legs are dangling over the roof’s edge now.
hanging all fancy free.
he thinks he’ll just drop now.

happy’s watching it all.
he’s yelling, “don’t do it! don’t jump!”
but his words are lodged in sad’s throat.
he can’t hear them--won’t hear them.

sad’s tears fall to the ground,
stain the cement on down.
then, slow, sad pushes with his arms
and gets ready for the end.

there is a sudden jerk
and then sad’s held by his shirt.
in midair.
looking confused, defeated, sad looks on over.
who’s just saved him? he wonders.
it isn’t fair.

kneeling down on the roof is a lady, and she is sure fair.
long wavy hair--it blows in the wind--and eyes to kill for.
this is the type of woman that makes fires burn.

“it’s OK,” she says, and sad’s quite taken.
the way those thin lips moved was inviting.
what less is there to do?
and happy’s looking on over too.
eyes wide, his smile’s as big as texas on a good day.

sad comes up from the edge, looks in the fine lady’s eye.
“why’d you save me. i wanted to die.”
sad’s still putting up the act.

“killing yourself wouldn‘t be worth it,” she says.
sad doesn’t know what she means by that.
all he knows is he’s taken by her.

“and what do you mean by that?” sad asks.
he expresses his puzzlement with his hands.

“i don’t know, really,” she says, and pushes away her long bangs
from her face.
now sad’s looking at her legs, the shapely curves.
he thinks she knows more than what she’s saying,
but maybe she can’t put it into words.

“OK then,” sad says. “let’s get off this roof.”
sad leads her by the hand, being extra careful.
this woman’s such a doll,
and dolls are brittle and break easily.
once something’s broke it can’t be fixed.

they’re off the roof now, in sad’s house.
sad’s house is decorated with blue wallpaper,
and the woman comments she likes it.

“glad you like it,” is all sad can say.
he feels nervous and wonders if he looks good.
“say,” sad says. “would you like something to drink? some food?”
he’s trying to make her comfortable.

“i’ll take something to drink,” she says. “tea’s fine.”
sad goes in his kitchen--the blue wallpaper makes him look blue.
he fixes up some tea, comes out and sits beside her.
hands her the tea.

outside sad’s house, happy’s on a dream.
he’s sneaking around, looking in the window.
being a peeping tom.
he wants a piece of this action.
his grin tells it all.

inside, sad’s gotten up the guts
to tell her how pretty she is.
“you are the most beautiful gal i have ever seen,”
and “the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen ever,”
sad tells her with a deep reach in his heart.
he reprehends himself mentally for being so bold.
he probably sounds like an idiot.
he waits for a reaction, reads her face.

“you’re beautiful too,” is what she says.
sad almost seems to smile and frown all at once.
he’d describe it as bittersweet, a hard candy to chew.

they talk a little while on, but happy knows what’s going on.
he watches from the window, a sun in the sky seeing everything.
happy watches, with glee, as sad and the woman touch each other’s faces.
watches as they smooth on in for a kiss.
happy feels jealous, but resists the temptation to barge in.
he’d be killed alive if he did.
then happy’d be no more.

now they’re both naked and exposed,
and happy has to admit, sad’s got a tighter body than him.
it’s full of more emotion--more devotion--than he could ever give.
he watches with a passing satisfaction and feels jealousy
more than anything else.
the woman’s quite good eye candy--happy just grins and grins.
he grins until it’s a wonder his face doesn’t just fall off.
then, all of the sudden, happy seems to get mad.
his eyes click, his mouth twists and contorts.
there’s nothing stopping him now.

inside the house, they’re all over each other.
sad can feel himself coalescing into her.
she can feel herself coalescing with him.
they breathe in the moment and hold it in.
it’s palpable, full of emotion deep within.
it’s because she’s the type of lady that makes it burn.

but the hand of fate
is puncturing, grabbing its hold.
soon the hand will come on in.

out on a farm, the hand of fate’s doing no harm.
it sits, with its glove on, and watches as a calf is born.
he makes this one especially full of scorn--they’re better that way.
it pokes out its hand from its glove, caresses the calf, threads its fate.
an angry ingrate this one’ll be.
this calf’ll die, shot by the farmer out in this farm
for being obstinate.
fate’s doing it all good and well, there’s no harm.
just another life to make.
to take.

then his hands begin to tingle, he can feel his arm nudging the way.
it’s off to sad’s house--things are set in motion that need to be handled
and put away.
it crawls on off, fingers knick-knacking in a walk.
sounds like the gallop
of one hell of a horse.

sad’s about reaching climax, she is too.
the pleasure teeters on in,
climbs in the moment--a demon angel from heaven
sent to hell.
she cries in her mounting pleasure--he feels it in.
then the moment’s over, it‘s grown its wings and flown,
you can just see the demon angel go home.

happy, now mad, is still out there.
he sits oh-so patient, as if waiting.
then he feels it’s the time.

happy breaks the hell on in,
finding them both naked there, in each other’s arms.
in a big voice, he screams, “she’s my girl! i want her!”
happy holds his fists.
and just then, the hand of fate, with its glove, goes on happy’s hand
where the fist is made.

happy can’t even control his hand, it goes wild with rage.
begins hitting sad again and again and again.
blood begins to dance in the air,
ballet dancers with torn scarlet skirts and dead hair.

happy begins to respond, a deep yell from his mouth,
from the deepest reaches of the bowels of his heart.
he fights back, counters with a one-two punch,
and another one-two punch.
happy gets one straight in the face,
it breaks his smile to a seething pain.
blood ebbs out of the mouth, stains
the carpet in a bleeding shower.

they fall to the ground,
and the fair lady tries to break them up,
but the hand of fate’s all over them.
there’s no way to break its bond.
she’s flung, lands in a river of blood,
and is carried off out of the house.

outside the house, the blood flows out, her on it,
and begins to drown the entire sunny day.
soon the blood’s risen all the way to the sky,
and she’s still on top of it, but now she’s falling in.
her hand, held out, grabs at nothing, quivers, then she’s gone.
she’s drowned.
she sinks to the bottom, and the hand of fate zooms on by.
rips open her chest, and takes her heart.
it’s such a soft innocent heart--it bleeds free.
fate can’t help himself, and in glee
takes off his glove and feels it up.
and’s off back on his way.

happy and sad are still fighting each other,
punching each other, but they’re slowly being drained.
they’re both in the depths of exhaustion, about ready to pass out.
but the whole time it’s been a stalemate.
and it ends with them both falling in the blood.
they sink to the bottom too,
next to that beautiful woman, whose heart is now gone.

and fate comes back on by,
takes off his glove, and digs on in.
takes both their hearts.
sad’s heart is so big for something so small,
and happy’s heart is so small for something so big.
fate’s just going to have a big feast now.
he’s going to eat like a pig.

slowly, time passes,
the blood evaporates to the sky.
their bodies deliquesce to rotten skin and bones.
it begins to rain.
happy was right--and the showers cleanse it all.

and outside my head,
i feel fine.
but inside, the hand of fate
sews its twine.
i think he’s put a machine in there now
who keeps me in line.
he knows how to work me just fine.
and everything he’s doing’s no harm.
no harm at all.
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Wilt, Cont.

"Wilt
II
“Here it is. Right here. Isn’t it nice, honey?”
“What is it, daddy?”
“It’s a tombstone. It marks where mommy’s buried.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I’m just going to set the flowers right here.”
“They’re red flowers, daddy! Just like the ones mommy first gave you.”
“Yeah. Except these ones aren’t wilted. There we go. Now doesn’t it look nicer, with the flowers there?”
“Yes daddy.”
“I can see her face just now. I can touch it. . .but I can’t.”
“Daddy, don’t cry.”
“I’ll try not to. Her face was so pretty though, honey. She had black hair—like you, she. . . had those eyes—small, oval, and beautiful; she had a petite face. You look so much like her.”
“I know, daddy. I know how much she means to you.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s OK.”
“Why did mommy have to wilt, daddy?”
”I don’t know. You never know. Why do you think so?”
“I don’t know, daddy. But I don’t think it’s fair.”
“A lot of things aren’t fair. But, as you told me last night, I should be glad. Glad I had the times I did with her. Glad I have you.”
“I’m glad I have you.”
“Daddy is too. I hope mommy’s glad, too, wherever she is.”
“And daddy, where do you think she is? Where do you go once you wilt?”
“I don’t know. No one does. Some try to guess where you go, but no one knows.”
“Oh. I’m sure she’s at a better place, daddy.”
“You’d hope so. But sometimes you wonder what it’d be like if she was here. . .or daddy had wilted instead.”
“You shouldn’t think that, daddy. I like my daddy the way he is. Even if I don’t have my mommy.”
“Yeah, I know. But grown-ups are like that. Always thinking the wrong way.”
“One day I’ll be grown-up, daddy.”
“Yeah, one day daddy’s little girl’ll be grown up. That’ll be the day, won’t it, honey?”
“Yes.”
“You know, it’s hard to imagine that. But you’re right, one day you’ll be grown up. Maybe then you’ll even look more like your mommy.”
“One day I’ll wilt too, just like mommy, won’t I?”
“No, I don’t think you’ll wilt just like mommy. But you’ll wilt one day. So will daddy. Everyone wilts. It’s just something you have to accept.”
“Just like daddy has to accept mommy’s gone?”
“Yes, just like daddy’s got to accept mommy’s gone. Now, isn’t it nice here—look over there, the sun’s just setting.”
“It’s beautiful, daddy!”
“I know it is. The way the sun just gets all purple, sort of bruised, so beautiful; the way it looks as it sets, seems to warm. It’s always taken my breath away. And it still seems like just yesterday I was with mommy, and we were watching that sun set together. I can see the glow on her face, the way her eyes looked up at it. I can see it.”
“It’s OK daddy.”
“I know. Daddy’ll get over it. Don’t worry, honey.”
“What does it say on the tombstone?”
“It gives how long she lived. See, it says: “1980 – 2000” right there. Mommy was born in 1980, died this year—2000.”
“What’s that below it.”
“Her name. Full name. Her middle name, too. ‘VICTORIE JAMIE MATTHEWS.’ Your middle name’s after her first name. Victorie.”
“Mommy has a nice name.”
“I would call her Vicie for short. Or Jamie. She didn’t like her middle name though, she thought it was too common. I’d do it just to tease her. Well, what do you say, honey? Should we go? Sun’s about all the way down. It’s going to be night soon.”
“OK. But I have my drawing. I want to give it to mommy.”
“Oh, that’s right. The drawing you did for mommy.”
“I hope mommy likes my drawing, daddy.”
“Daddy’s sure she will. You better get a rock to hold it down, though. Look—it’s just going to blow away in the wind like that.”
“OK.”

“There, that’s better. Now it’ll stay. Let’s go. We’re going to go get something to eat. Where you want to go?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“OK. We’ll figure it out. Hey, how’s fast food sound? Sound good?”
“It sounds good, daddy.”
“Then it looks like that’s where we’re going. And look--the sun’s just gone down. See the moon now?”
“Yeah.”
“Full moon.”

III
“How’s the burger?”
”Good, daddy. But it’s got these icky things on it.”
“What things, honey?”
“These. What are they?”
”Those’re onions. If you don’t like them, I can go back up there.”
“I’d like that, daddy.”
“OK. I’ll be right back.”

“And here you go. New burger for you. What does a good girl say?”
“Thank you, daddy.”
“Welcome. How’s it now?”
“Gooder.”
“You mean ‘better.’”
“OK. ‘Better.’”
“There you go, that’s a girl. I never liked onions, either. They make you cry when you cut them, you know.”
“They do? Why’s that, daddy?”
“It’s because they’ve got some chemical in them. The chemical makes you cry. Makes your eyes water.”
“Sounds like what mommy does to you, daddy.”
“And aren’t you just a perceptive girl? Let’s stay away from the subject of mommy for a while, though.”
“OK daddy.”
“What was that drawing you drew for mommy? You never showed it to me.”
“That’s cause it was just for mommy.”
“Oh.”

“I’m done.”
“OK. Put your garbage on the tray here. There you go. Now daddy’s just got to dump it—there we go. Let’s go home.”
“Yes daddy.”

“Moon’s still full.”
“It’s beautiful, daddy. Don’t you think so?”
“Yeah, daddy thinks so. But the way the craters make that face. And the memories daddy gets from it. They’re scars. I don’t like that about it. But daddy’s OK. You’re right, it’s beautiful.”
“It really is.”
“Yes, it really is. OK. Now it’s time for bed. Inside we go.”

“Daddy, can you tell me another story. A real one, one that can’t be found in books? Please daddy, please?”
“No honey, not tonight. Daddy’s worn out. He has to sleep.”
“Please?”
“No, I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry, but he’s got to sleep. OK?”
“OK. But I want a story tomorrow night.”
”Daddy’ll try. Now, do you want your nightlight on again tonight?”
”Yes daddy.”
“OK. Sleep well, honey.”
“You too, daddy. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
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Tuesday, May 4, 2004

http://www.paulsadowski.com/birthday.asp

You entered: 10/12/1986

You were born on a Sunday
under the astrological sign Libra.
Your Life path number is 1.

The Julian calendar date of your birth is 2446715.5.
The golden number for 1986 is 11.
The epact number for 1986 is 19.
The year 1986 was not a leap year.

As of 5/4/2004 6:39:20 PM CDT
You are 17 years old.
You are 211 months old.
You are 916 weeks old.
You are 6,414 days old.
You are 153,954 hours old.
You are 9,237,279 minutes old.
You are 554,236,760 seconds old.

There are 161 days till your next birthday
on which your cake will have 18 candles on it.

Those 18 candles produce 18 BTU's,
or 4,536 calories of heat (that's only 4.5360 food calories!) .
You can boil 2.06 US ounces of water with that many candles.

There are 235 days till Christmas 2004!

The moon's phase on the day you were
born was waxing gibbous.

---

The Life Path 1 drive in this life is characterized by individualist desires, independence, and the need for personal attainment. The purpose to be fulfilled on this Life Path is that of becoming independent. This is a two part learning process; first, you must learn to stand on your own two feet and learn not to depend on others. After you are indeed free and independent, you must learn to be a leader. Many of our Generals, corporate leaders, and political leaders are men and women having the Life Path number 1. The 1 always has the potential for greatness as a leader, but they may fail as a follower. Many 1's spend most of their lives shaking off their dependent side. When this happens, there is little time left for enjoying the rewards to be gained through independence. The individual with Life Path 1 has to overcome an environment in which it is very easy to be dependent, and difficult to be independent.

A person with positive 1 traits abounds in creative inspiration, and possesses the enthusiasm and drive to accomplish a great deal. Your drive and potential for action comes directly from the enormous depth of strength you have. This is both the physical and inner varieties of strength. With this strength comes utter determination and the capability to lead. As a natural leader you have a flair for taking charge of any situation. Highly original, you may have talents as an inventor or innovator of some sort. In any work that you choose, your independent attitude can show through. You have very strong personal needs and desires, and you feel it is always necessary to follow your own convictions. You are ambitious, and either understand or must learn the need for aggressive action to promote yourself. Although you may hide the fact for social reasons, you are highly self-centered and demand to have your way in most circumstances.

When the 1 Life Path person is not fully developed and expressing the negative side of this number, the demeanor may appear very dependent rather than independent. If you are expressing this negative trait of the number 1, you are likely to be very dissatisfied with your circumstances, and long for self-sufficiency. This is defined as the weak or dependent side of the negative 1 Life Path. On the strong side of this negative curve, the 1 energy can become too self-serving, selfish and egotistical. Over-confidence and impatience mark this individual.
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We Eat Babies


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Wilt

"Wilt"
“She walks on over--flowers’re in her hair, wavering in the moonlight.”
“Daddy, what kind of flowers are they? Are they pretty flowers?”
“Yes. Pretty flowers.”
“I like pretty flowers.”
“I do too. So where were we? Ah. Yes. The moonlight on her, flowers wavering.”
“Daddy, what color are the pretty flowers?”
“In the moonlight they look a pale, dark red.”
“Red’s a pretty color. The prettiest, daddy.”
“I know. Now honey, you’re going to have to quit interrupting daddy. Or else he can’t tell the story. OK?”
“OK daddy.”
“Her face is right in the moonlight, the light on it. She has beautiful quaint little lips. Round, sphere eyes, glimmering in the light, green. One of the flowers is falling from her hair, it rolls down, hangs like a bang. Then falls--to the ground. It blows over to me. I pick it up. I still stare into those eyes. She has eyes just like you. Green and round--you’ve got her eyes.”
“You aren’t kidding daddy? Do I really have her eyes?”
“Yeah, you do. You’ve got her eyes. Now--I’ve still got the flower, it’s over here, in the back somewhere. Hold on while daddy goes and gets it, OK honey?”
“OK.”
“Ah--here it is. Let’s look at it. What does it look like to you, honey?”
“It looks old. And it’s not too green. It’s not too red. Daddy, what’s wrong with it?”
“That’s because it’s wilted. You don’t know what wilted is, do you?”
“No I don’t. What’s ‘wilted’?”
“It means the flower’s dead. You see how it’s drooped over like this, how it’s lost most of its color? How it’s not too green--how it doesn’t look alive?”
“I do.”
“That’s what--this is what wilted looks like. It looks dead.”
“Oh.”
“I will still keep this flower forever.”
“Why daddy? It’s icky.”
“Because it’s all I’ve got left.”
“Left of what?”
“Your mother. This flower’s a lot like your mother. Your mother’s wilted and not too green, just like this flower. Your mother’s wilted.”
“I see, daddy. Daddy, why are you sad? Wilting’s not too bad. I think this flower’s still beautiful.”
“Oh, daddy’s just remembering mother. Should I go on with the story, you think? Or did you want to look at the flower a little longer?”
“You can go on with the story. Daddy, just don’t be sad. I don’t like you sad.”
“It’s OK. I’ll get over it. Here, let me put the flower back. It’s bad memories. I want to remember the good memories.”
“OK.”
“All right. It’s back where it was. Now, back to mother. It was there, in the moonlight, I first met her. It was like we were meant to meet at that moment in time. I felt the flower hit my leg--ever so gently--and I picked it up, looked at the flower. I held it up to my face and smelled it.”
“And what did it smell like, daddy?”
“It smelled like flowers do--pretty and nice, sweet but bitter, tasty but missing.”
“That sounds like a good smell. I wish I could smell that smell.”
“Maybe someday you will, honey. I’m sure you will.”
“Do you think so, daddy?”
“I do. I’m sure you will. And when you do it, I’m sure you’ll feel something like what I felt. Because when I was smelling the flower, I pulled it from my face a bit--I could still see it in my line of vision--and there she was, there was your mother. I saw her and the flower at the same time, it was almost like she was the flower. The pretty eyes, the petite face, the flowers in her hair, the wind blowing it all around. There she was. “
“She sounds pretty daddy. I wish I could see her.”
“I wish I could too.”
“So what happened next? Did you go over to mommy?”
“Yes, I did. At first, I just sat and stared at mommy. Her beauty was so striking, I was scared to go over to her.”
“You shouldn’t’ve been afraid, I’m sure mommy didn’t care she was beautiful and thought you were.”
“Maybe. But daddy was still scared. I did walk over to her eventually. I talked to her a bit. I said to her, ‘Is this your flower?’ and she looked at me, with this smile--it was there and it wasn’t--it was a genuine smile--and she said, ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ I asked her, then, if she wanted it back. The same smile, only this time I could see her teeth a bit. White teeth, even whiter in the moonlight ‘No,’ is what she said. ‘You can keep it.’ And so I’ve kept it ever since. I told her, ‘Thank you,’ and stood there looking at her a while longer. We got to talking about more things, and the more we got to talking, the more beautiful she got. I liked her voice, it was a sweet voice. Her voice--it reminds me of your voice. You’re so much like your mommy.”
“Why is it making you sad daddy? Aren’t you happy I sound like mommy?”
“No honey, it’s not that. It’s not you. It’s just. . .it’s just daddy misses mommy.”
“I miss mommy too, and I never even met her.”
“Oh, I know. It’s OK. Maybe when you wilt you’ll meet mommy too.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’d like that too. We’ll see if it happens. So, back to the first time I met her. After we talked a while, I kissed her on the cheek--she asked me to. I kissed her like this.”
“That’s a nice kiss, daddy.”
“Sure is. It was pretty late then, too. And I asked her, ‘Do you want a ride home?’ and she said ‘Sure.’ So I gave her a ride home--dropped her off. And that’s the end of that story.”
“That was a nice story, daddy I liked it more than the ones in books.”
“I’m glad you like daddy’s story. But now, it’s time for all the little girls in the world to sleep. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes daddy.”
“Do you want your night light on, honey?”
“Yes daddy.”
“OK. I’m going to go now then. Daddy’s got work in the morning.”
“OK daddy. But wait.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be sad. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I don’t think daddy can help it.”
“But daddy shouldn’t be sad.”
“Why do you think he shouldn’t be sad?”
“Because he has his memories of mommy. And spent times with her.”
“Oh, I know. You’re right, honey. Now, daddy’s got to go to sleep. I’m going to shut off the light.”
“OK daddy. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
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Monday, May 3, 2004

Feel?

I've been putting up a barrier at places, and this is just another one of them.

This is how I feel: I feel I've said everything that needs to be said in here. I think by now I know what things point to. I think you, as a reader of this, know, too. All--everything--that is contained herein in this blog could be made into a paragraph, maybe; maybe even a few sentences (which would maybe still be paragraphs). I don't think I need to articulate what those sentences would be. I think you, reader, know. Whoever you are.

Many things are dying for me lately; these deaths are for other things to grow--augment--mold--spring forth--be born--mature. And I really have no use for what is being born. I like what I was. Now what I am.

It's the truest thing that can be said: the past, as you look at it, always seems greater.

In the past, the sixties, there was the counterculture, the hippies, the blacks fighting for their rights. There was JFK. There was Martin Luther King, Jr. Caesar Chavez. There was Jimi Hendrix. What we have in the sixties is a time of immense change, and although this change did much, in the long run--if you look at now--it's done mostly nothing. The main thing is blacks got their rights. . .but that doesn't mean blacks have their rights. Blacks still are the highest makers of crime (or near there); blacks still are less educated than the caucasian; blacks are still prejudiced against, still seen as weaker in some eyes. But for what the sixties could have been, was, and did, and had, it seems like a much better time period than what we have now.

Now, there is seemingly nothing going on. We're fighting in another war that's like Vietnam in some aspects--and not, in others. Is the war validated? Is it even worth fighting? Who cares, because all that matters is what Bush thinks.

War is a constant throughout humanity's history. What does this mean? Does it mean we like death? We like killing? We like suffering? Does it mean we are stupid? We are smart? We know what we're doing? What does it mean?

It's funny how that, in the Vietnam War, the poor, and the ethnic minorities were the ones most often sent over. This was because the caucasians, or the middle class people, or the rich, would go to college, which made it so they didn't have to go. Go away to Nam. Or they'd act sick. Or make it so they didn't pass their physical examination.

I remember a quote from my history book. It went something along these lines: the blacks were being sent to war, right? In Vietnam. Now, the Vietnam War was the US trying to stop the indoctrination of Communisum. It was the US trying to spread its democracy. And the blacks, there were quite a many who went to Vietnam--for reasons digressed above. The question is, why would blacks fight for freedom, the US, in another country when in their country they don't even have their rights, as the constitution says (for it does say, in its first few lines, "All men are created equal)? Why would they?

I don't fully have a grasp on many things in this world, but as it's evidenced, much is not fair. I don't even know why I brought up Vietnam, and digressed as I did. I think I'm making a point. The point is, the Vietnam War isn't even considered a war by some; rather, to some, it's considered a "military conflict." And what were the results of this "military conflict"? It was about 40,000 + Americans dead, 100,000 + wounded, and on the Vietnamese side, it was worse fourfold, or even more.

And all those deaths, and lives, all of it, did nothing. The US decided to pull out of there, and soon thereafter, Vietnam was reunified as a Communist state. It was all for nothing, on the US side. We merely threw some lives away and accomplished nothing. The people in Vietnam--most, anyway--didn't even want us there.

So much history mirrors what we have today: there is the Iraq War, there is the matter of fact that homosexuals are treated as if their sexual preferences are as bad as being black. It's a wonder as to what made the world so fucked up.

The sixties--Vietnam--World War I--World War II--the Korean War--all these wars. And you realize, in most cases, they did nothing. World War I actually led to World War II. Germany was left in ruins, and it was because of this that Hitler and his Nazi party eventually came to rise. Then Hitler of course did the holocaust, as well as began invading neighboring countries. And there you have it--World War I leading off to World War II.

There were things accomplished from War, but in the end, the losses do not begin to fathom nor even touch upon how little the good things that happened did.

There is wars in my head every day. I act as if I'm fine on the exterior, but in the interior, I'm about fed up with many, many things. And thus you have the walls I put here.

I don't know why I'm going to post this. There's not much here I haven't said before. . .and what's new is just the old contorted to new.

I'll end it like this: in the words of my immortal hero, Agent Smith (and what's funny, my last name's Smith), who's a creation off of Ahab, as Mr. Esten has pointed out: "Why do you get up? Why get up? What for? Why not stay on the ground?"

Neo, rain streaming down his face, "Because I can." Neo, "Because I can"? Still doesn't answer it. That's more like an excuse.

Smith, "Only humans could create something as insipid as love."

Smith, "It is inevtiable."

What is inevitable, I hear you asking?

Everything. The small deaths--the death of me as a child, and other things--only are the moot motions of what's to come, someday. But until then, I'll enjoy it while I can. I'll be like a flipping coin: sometimes heads, sometimes tails. Two-face, I believe that Batman villian is named that: he gives an image well. One side of the face is ugly, the other beautiful. It's a sort of yin and yang--the good cannot exist without the bad. But, taking it even farther, "I have not seen a day as foul or as fair as this one," meaning, what's good is bad; meaning, what's foul is fair.

The coin's going to land. It seems to land on its head more than its tail. Seems to break open its skull and let out it.

(By the way, I'm not going to be posting day after day as before. Just writing stuff, as I said, and maybe some posts like this sparsely populated when I see it's time to do it.)

WANTED TO ADD THIS: Writing's been hard lately. The poem you see below this--I feel it's one of the best things I've wrote in a while. Everything else has felt rather lacking, missing the magic. That poem below was actually written last night. I don't know where it came from, but that's imagination for you.

I just sat down at my computer, opened my poem document (which is about 1 meg), and faltered on a first poem, erased it, started over, and you have the poem below.

I don't know about a lot of things anymore, and writing's one of them. I wonder if it's just going to fade away from me, like everything else. I'm just not interested in much anymore.

I was reading Colin Cahill's column this issue, and I realize it's a lot like mine in this month's paper, too. He was talking about how he can't look at things anymore and see they're beautiful. How it feels useless ot pick up his guitar and strum it. How he realizes that what he's going to be for sixty-five more years is a lost teenager (I'm iffy on that part, we'll see). And he's right, down to the dot (or close). I'm not sure how many realize, in their teen years, how much things change. Of course they must, but you never know. You at your teen years is you at your most honest, and as much of yourself as you'll ever be. In my provincial opinion, anyway.

Just like Cahill's sick of strumming his guitar--it seems pointless--so is it with me and writing, me and reading, me and anything I've ever enjoyed. The reality of it makes me realize the reality I've had since forever isn't the reality I'm going to have to have.

I just wanted to add that, since it's something on my mind I wanted to say in here, too.

At least Cahill's got a job. I sitll need to get one of those. . .

What's crazy is near this time next year, I'm going to be graduating. We'll see how the hell that goes. I can't even imagine.

But, in the words of the eternal Bob Dylan, from his song "Tangled Up in Blue," "All I knew to do was to keep on keepin on." Paraphrased, of course. But it's close enough.
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The Child

Knock-knock
. . .there is a knock upon my door
i lie in bed, tired (for i am sore to it all)
--who could it be, this time?

KNOCK KNOCK
. . .can you not go away? (for i am sore to it all)
i yell, “GO AWAY” (with tired gesture, flailing of wrist)
but--still you persist
PeRsIsT,and i. want. to just. shut my eyes (for in sleep
there is a better life). . .and my patience is mounting
[i heard once say that patience is a virtue, but to me
it is like a circling vulture, never getting a meal]
. . .and my patience. . .is mount-i-n-. . .g—

KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DONG
KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK
DINGLE DINGLE DiNgLe DONG
(sounds like one crazy bird’s gone twittering in song)

yes, yes, i will come (even though i am sore to it all)
why must you PERSIST?
HOW YOU knock THE DOOR,
and HOW YOU CHIME THE DOORBELL
yes yes, i will come (but first, i rustle around the hall,
come to my closet—with scattered things—and find what it is
i need)

shotgun now in hand, i come to the door, yelling politely,
“I AM COMING, WHOEVER IT IS AT THE DOOR,
THERE IS NO NEED TO KNOCK—OR, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE—
CHIME ANYMORE”

then i come (to the door)
tired eyes (bloodvesseled red)
. .. and only boxers (black and blue),
and I’VE GOT A GUN JUST FOR YOU—(for you)

hand on knob, palm feels in, the turn of the wrist (like a lock to key),
i wonder what it is i’ll see (and ready my shotgun)

and OH would you fucking believe—
there, standing, is me (only younger, a child stares me back)
i ask, “what can i do for you?” and put my shotgun to my side (for children
are innocent and do not deserve to die)

little voice answers, too small, “hello, how are you,” (then OH that smirk which appears)
the way his face looks—as it snarls to a smirk.

“how am i?” i spit
“how am i?”

“yes, how are you,”—and, those eyes (i know those eyes,
those spheres, those pupils, those circles,)
i know where they spin.
[i’ve heard say the earth is round, but i think it is quite flat,
for it is round to me, but the way things are
have smashed it,have crushed it down]

“i am quite fine, thank you,” i loop,
like the tying of shoes.
my voice reeking sarcasm.
[and i’ve heard say sarcasm is rude, but i just think
that sarcasm is a chasm deep with depth, clever as can be,
and most don’t see it, they fall into its bowels]

“that’s good,” chirps my little self,
putting it all on the shelf. (for chaos is a mess
needing cleaning done best.)
“so, i should get to the point, shouldn’t i?”

“yes,” says i the vulture, patience missing (in dismay)
as i circle my prey, wanting a morsel.

“i just wanted to see you again,” he says (the younger me)
“to let you know—I’VE GOTTA DIE—“ he screams (the child,
innocent, not deserving to die)
he moves in on me like time,
wraps his hand around my hand,
tick tocks, falters me, pendulums my shotgun,
gets ready to pull the trigger, and he derides (ha ha ha),
it is a sad laugh.
it’s the chime of midnight, the end of this day.

“NO—“ i yell, try to rend it from his hands.
“WHY’RE YOU DOING THIS?” and i can’t
get it from his hands.

“you know why,” he says, voice low but powerful.
“you know why. . .”
“. . .i’ve gotta—“ cock, click clack,
hand going deeper in on trigger—
“—die because—“ hand even more
on trigger, click clack—“—it’s my time. . .”
B -- A -- N -- G. . .

[and i’ve heard say, there’s some moments
that slow down time, make it go to a crawl,
arms digging, eyes wide, like a baby learning to walk.]
i could see the bullets, driving on, from the muzzle,
the proboscis of the shotgun,
(it was sharp to my ears,
punctured into my ear drum)
i could see the bullets pass into his head. some exit.

he crumpled to the ground (like paper crumpled in a hand,
creased and so white and so gone)
i caught him, yelled hysterically, “I HATE YOU!”
”I HATE—“ and, with eyes piercing to the sky,
(and dropping him like a rag doll) and hands pressed to the sky,
trying to touch and bruise, “—EVERYTHING!”

i could feel the pain
some part of me had died (for i am sore)
and i began crying (the tears were red, stained my cheeks)
i went down on the ground, touched the younger me
on the face, brushed back the hair.
(and putting my hand on his heart, i heard the battle
going on. the futile battle.)

“I. . .I—“ he tried to speak,
words like a cold dish in a waiter’s hands,
going back from where it came (revenge is a dish best served cold).
i promised myself i’d find that dish someday.
“. . ..I. . .love. . .y . .o. . .u. . .m. . .o. . .r. . . . .e
t. . .h. . . . . .a . . . . . .n . . . .any. . .an. . .y . . . .on. . .on. . .
e. . .. .el. . .el. . .el . . .s—“
his eyes twitched (like a dead spider, like the dead cogs of time)
his hands fought up at me, trying to touch what cannot be touched anymore.
his voice cracked (like the cracks in the cement, the broken cracks and lines)
he died.



[and i’ve heard say that love is a flower, and i’ve heard say
love is rain showers, and i’ve heard say love is a beautiful woman,
and i’ve heard say love is a kiss, and i’ve heard say love is a fist,
and i’ve heard say love is something wonderful, beautiful, good and grand,
and i don’t think love exists.
and i’ve heard say love can keep you going, and i’ve heard say
the meaning of life is love, and i’ve heard say it’s worth it to die for love,
and i’ve heard say love is jesus christ, and i’ve heard say
love is all around us, and i’ve heard say love is care,
and i don’t think love exists.
love dies (a struggling thing with wilting sides, an undulating thing that twitches and
dies.)
and i believe what there is of love
is arranged in the part of us that is a child.]

i felt his heart, as it ended, terminated, went away. (sailed to its bay)
and it was a cardiac arrest. (the machine keeping track of his life
would go beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep)
the chains would go around his arms,
the bars go in his cage. (and still i would stand here, how strange.)
the cardiac arrest, and someone
would be reading him his miranda rights.
(“you have the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. . .")
if death is anything, it is a judge at a trial slamming its gavel down.

i have not been sleeping well
my dreams are full (a wishing well)
and everything, i fear, that is good
must die. (let me just hold you
in my arms before that time)
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Sunday, May 2, 2004

Whatever happened to the Marlboro Man. Oh, that's right--he died.

Total Visits: 1986

The year I was born.
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Friday, April 30, 2004

Radiohead- 2+2=5

Are you such a dreamer
To put the world to rights?
I'll stay home forever
Where two & two always
makes up five

I'll lay down the tracks
Sandbag & hide
January has April's showers
And two & two always
makes up five

It's the devil's way now
There is no way out
You can scream & you
can shout
It is too late now
Because

You have not been
paying attention
Paying attenti0on
Paying attention
And attention

You have not been paying attention
And attention
And attention
And attention

You have not been paying attention
Paying attention
Paying attention

You have not been
Paying attention
Paying attention
Paying attention

I try to sing along
I get it all wrong
Ezeepeezeeeezeepeeezee
NOT
I swat em like flies but
Like flies the buggers
Keep coming back
NOT
Maybe not
"All hail to the thief!"
"All hail to the thief!"
"But I'm not!"
"But I'm not!"
"Don't question my authority
or put me in the dock"
CozI'mnot!
CozI'mnot!
Go & tell the king that
The sky is falling in
When it's not
When it's not
When it's not
Maybe not.

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