Kay T Jewels: The Who am I essay, Part One

This is part of a personal story that will be shared in segments.

 

“Who am I? “Is a complicated question for anyone to answer isn’t it?

The very first time I wrote something about who I was, this is what I wrote.

Growing up there were many hurdles I had to overcome. Often times my life with filled with hardship and strife. I remember more than one time when money was tight. I knew right away that I could be bright because I knew immediately that things weren’t right.

My house was always a pit and this did not get any better after my dad split. My mom always worked harder than one woman should. She gave us everything she possibly could. I learned early in life to be rough, that you had to be tough and made of the most solid stuff.

At school I never got along, I always felt as if I didn’t belong. This was place I never fit in and was made to believe that I would never win. Soon the boredom began to kick in and they labeled me dumb and defect instead of comfortable numb. Soon after this I was then further condemned as crazy and misunderstood. I called them ignorant, after all it is them who can’t understand me isn’t it?

I am the type of person to say it how it is even if it means a little bit of pain. Yet I will go that extra mile just to see a care free smile. So what if I live my life in denial. When your world moves as fast as mine mind revolves you would be confused to. Confusion mounting, my anger building my fire explodes.

Looking up to all the right people I saw all the wrong things. I learned to be hard and cutthroat as well as sweet and nice while I do you in. My father taught me young to use my silence as my punishment and my words as my weapon. He warned only draw your sword if you ready to kill.

Of course on the outside everything looked swell but, on the outside it was a living hell.

That was when I was 14, when I first fell prey to the question of Who am I? Why it was so confusing was because my real question was more like “Am I her?  Or am I her?” I never gave thought to the fact that if I wasn’t either there had to be three of us to start with.

Daddies little girl Kristen wanted to get married, have kids the white picket fence. Sweet, shy, quiet and thoughtful Kristen was. She was smart and studious, she read books and watched animal planet. She liked to stay at home cook and clean. It was in her nature to be this way.

She wrote at 16 on a pad of white lined paper with black pen

Dear someone who cares,

This morning when I woke up I looked right into my mirror. The reflection that stared back at me was the face of a perfect stranger. The eyes I had seen only days ago that were filled with happiness and anticipation of my fiancés return had vanished.

Looking back on it this birthday was almost perfect, I was with the one I love and together we spread the news of our wedding in the following spring. Each moment we spent loving each other; even doing nothing at all we had the best of time doing it together.

In my mind nothing could have gotten in my way of this marriage. However as I had learned on his last trip home our time was limited and would soon come to end. The clock seemed to tick louder and faster than ever before pushing us closer into the next day. Days before he left I began to crack inside my heart could no longer hold in my pain.

On our last night we drove to look out point, a place I had shown him long ago. Never before was there so much silence to fill, the radio played songs we had long forgotten about. As I looked out at the night sky, the stars seemed to cry for the injustice of it all. Planes departed from miles away their lights seemingly fade into the darkness. As we watched them leave from miles away our hearts beat faster knowing that on the morrow one of those very planes would be taken him away.

On the way home to pack I would swear that we drove slower than ever before. Just so we could just hold onto the night for a moment longer. Pulling into my driveway, parking the car I invited him into my empty home. I collected my stuff into a pile and set it aside for a while. The lights were low; curtains drawn and the dark seem to fit me just right.

As I walked into the kitchen the thought came to my mind that this was the last time for a long time we would stand together in the only house that I called home. My heart just burst, I sobbed out words he could not understand. He held me tight in his loving arms. The only safety I had ever known since my dad left years ago. When I could no longer stand he carried me to the couch, as the tears swelled over my eyes running like waterfalls down my face.

As I cried, I tried to say everything I could but could only sputter words of pain and sorrow. In those moments I cried because he had to leave, I cried about how unfair it all was, I was angry that I had no choice the matter. I grieved for all I had lost, all the lonely nights I was about to endure, I resented that he had done this to me knowing how much I needed him. I screamed out all my pain and cried a million tears one after another.

He held me and made a thousand promises; he said we would be together soon. He kissed me and told me of the days when we would be man and wife. He told me of the years of happiness we would share if only we could part this one more time.

My tears slowed to a drizzle and I gasped for the air that would give me the strength.

That night he and I made promises to each other that nothing would get in the way. We left my house full of sadness yet we had hope. We left my home and went to his house to pack has stuff. When I got there I could not watch him pack so I got in the shower and cried. Hot shower water washing away my salty tears as I sat in the tub and attempted to regain my strength.

I got into bed that night; I crawled under the sheets and just watched him silently. When it was all packed away he crawled into bed. He held me thru the rest of the night as I cried out in silent tears…

As dawn made its approach we wake from our trance. As he got ready I studied everything about him. The sun approached the horizon and we said our goodbyes. Our last kiss seemed to go on forever, each of us holding on to the moment as long as we possibly could.

It isn’t long until she writes again maybe three months at most. Her hand shook as she wrote, this letter was barely legible and in an envelope. The envelope was addressed to her fiancé in Okinawa, Japan. However it was never mailed.

Imprisoned in this lonely love, lie alone in my bed crying softly to Jesus.

Jesus, why is what I do not know, does my heart ache me so?

I can only say that I knew from the start that this would rip us apart, this I know is all wrong. For how could we love for so long, grow to be so strong only to have it all be gone. The loneliness I bear has become so unfair. Since the day that we did part the pain has not left my heart. How can the love that we shared so easily have disappeared?

Though the pain is great it is only the distance I have come to hate. You are all I know, I cannot believe I let you go. However I know that if I had said “no” your resentment would only grow.

Time has passed as it is known to do, it’s only fail is failing to bring me closer to you. With miles between us and oceans apart for one night of play you throw it all away.

Lying just beyond your reach is the faith that you made me preach. When confessing your sins, you only showed me where my pain begins. Burning in my eyes is the painful vision of our demise. Though I’m tempted to hide for you see, what you stole was my pride. My honor demands, I do the right thing so to you it is forgiveness I bring.

This hurt me bad, it made me mad but, I will not destroy the love that we had. I refuse to loose what I love so much. There are nights I turn and toss over the lessons learned and all the loss.

Looking past my pain and sorrow, I never fail to see a brighter tomorrow. I hope and pray each and every day, with forgiveness in my heart and remorse in your eyes, that we never do part, that our love never dies.

So I will tell you now that I love you no less than I did before. I may even love you a little bit more. I rest assured knowing for all the pain and suffering I have endured, there at the end will be a beautiful reward.

She wasn’t aware that there was another who looked just like her, Krissy.

She was mischievous at times silly; she would even say and do inappropriate things. She liked to hang with boys twice her age, party all night and get wasted. For fun she would play pranks on unsuspecting people and help others get revenge.  She was a fast talker and an even faster mover, could lie, steal and cheat with the best of them. She could steal you blind and when she was done all that you would notice was missing was her beautiful face. She was what we like to call a fire starter…

She was very aware of her counterpart Kristen, and was totally against her plans. Her idea was to get the hell out of town as soon as she could, any way she had to. She had a plan B, and she liked it better. Kristen’s plan was already failing anyhow so she took it upon herself to act on the 1st of January 2001.

Krissy writes in her very own black leather journal.  She kept it in a removable floor board at her my mother’s house, back then. In april that year she writes with nice big happy lettering and in blue pen at age 18…

Dear Secret Keeper,
All though he told me not to eat the forbidden fruit, from the forsaken tree of knowledge when your lips hit my skin, I throw caution to the wind. As the waves of pleasure rise from within, I look deep into your eyes and I can see the face of my demise. Lying just beyond my reach is the faith that we so often preach. Nevertheless with one kiss from your lips of sin, I seal my fate and eat the forbidden fruit. I sigh with relief as I say to myself, that only your lips of sin could taste as sweet as the forbidden fruit.

This is a secret that nobody knows you make me feel so good inside that my heart literally glows. I can’t help but sigh when you touch my thigh. For it feels so good to have you near, it’s a feeling I can hardly bear. As I run my fingers thru your hair, I say I silent prayer that you will always be here and always care. You’re so kind to me all of the time, sweet are your kisses soft are your cresses, this is how I know you really do care. Do I deserve this happiness I feel when you are near? I hope you can see how much you mean to me, I know I don’t say it often enough as this is hard for me. When I know you won’t stay longer than a day, how can I just let you take my heart away?

These are the secrets I can no longer hide, for it hurts too much to keep them inside

Krissy

Then there was K, and she was constantly being forced into one of their lives.  She tried to fit as best as she could but neither would do. Quite like Cinderella’s shoe, in fact. Day after day she tried to fit but it never felt right, it was always too tight. She always felt so hollow and empty, she never could imagine…. Why?

Krissy was also aware of K and often played referee when needed to keep everyone peaceful and unknowing of the truth. K was aware of Krissy and Kristen’s radically different lives but didn’t have a clue which way to go. She really did not know what to do. She certainly liked the idea of getting out of here. However just didn’t know how to go about it. When Krissy told K about plan B and enlisted her aid K had no idea what she was getting into. She soon fell in love with a man and it wasn’t long before the war began.

K writes in a leather bound journal by her bed in a slightly messy print,

Dear someone who cares,

Just as a kaleidoscope turns my mind spins, I try to listen to the many conversations within. Debating inside which feelings to hide, most times even I can’t decide where my heart will reside.  There is mass confusion between the reality and the illusion, a self-created delusion that there is order in confusion.

Careful emotions can be deceiving; they can have your heart and mind misbelieving. Try to look past all the colors and see the black and white. Go on go into the light, make and attempt to make everything all right.

I can’t sleep at night, all I hear is an endless fight between wrong and right. Battles are won and lost here every day; I never know which way I will sway or where my heart will stay.

How can I live this way? How I feel changing from day to day in so many conflicting ways. Looking thru the daze into the hate haze, I can still see an endless maze.

My trust in life has been shattered, tossed and kicked about like it never even mattered. Torn to shreds and burned to ash, too many forgotten, to many I haven’t forgotten. I think all you people are rotten.

It will never be the same; it will always be a game. Look at all the games we must play, look at all the hateful things I must say. I can see that underneath your skin you’re just a snake. You must lie in wait just to spread your viscous hate.

A beautiful yet tortured soul, restless and disconnected from all the rest. I tried so hard I gave it my best no matter how hard I tried I could not pass God’s tests. Sleepless nights and endless fights, it seemed as though I could never get it just right. The point of life makes no sense to me since it is only filled with pain sorrow hardships and strives.

I hope that on the morrow that this will end. I do not fear death I welcome it with open arms. If this isn’t hell I don’t know what is, for that is what it feels like to me. Anything would be better than the life god created for me.

I pray that someday my feelings will change but, as for right now I think this life is all fucked up and deranged.

As that year continued the mind grew sicker and sicker and I grew more desperate than ever to escape home, I was so confused.

Krissy didn’t dare tell a soul what had happened. Soon Krissy began making hurried mistakes to cover her tracks, not even looking at the stakes; she fell into a trap that nearly killed us all.

I remember that day long ago about 2002 I was then 19. Terrible things began to happen, one after the other. Soon the wall started to fall; soon it would all come tumbling in on me. In the moment I realized what was happening, I suddenly could remember it all. What I saw was so terrible, I saw not only the present I saw the past.

However now I can barely remember what it actually was. So I will just tell you the things I can remember, which is this.

Trying to find the words to describe how I felt then realizing that there were none. The pain so deep, the sadness so great, I went deep into myself, into my soul. I heard the words and saw the actions, but I just couldn’t comprehend. Where did the love go, why was it all gone, will it ever be okay again? It grieved me, it pained me, almost broke me.

Was it all an illusion, did you only feed my delusions; my mind was spinning in revolutions’. In that moment I was humbled, I had been broken, my spirit was crumpled. My legs felt weak beneath me, my feet felt like lead on the ground, but the girl inside my head said,

‘Run child, run fast, don’t stop until you are free, do not look back run, run, run with me.’

So I set my feet on the floor, I looked around to set my path. Without another thought, I ran as fast as I could. One foot in front of the other and suddenly I felt like was flying. Feet pounding on the ground, slamming the cement, heart racing, and adrenaline pumping I went on.

The pain in my heart eased a little with each step, the rain hitting my face felt like ice. I felt little of it, as I ran the whole night thru. Tears streaked my face the wind burned my cheeks but, it did not stop me. I just kept running until the breath ran right out of me. I did not look back, I just ran blindly, wet with rain and tears, filled with pain and fears.

When the sun came up, I fell asleep in the park. my eyes closed from fatigue the world grew dark.

He came to me, and said

“Everything seems so dark right now, times seem so gray. Do not lose your way, do not let the pain and sadness block out the light. Don’t give up the fight.  Look around for signs that I am near, for I am with you every breath you draw, you are never without me, I am always here, always near. Do not have fear. You may feel alone and sad but, I promise this won’t always be. Some day you will be with me. You will think of these terrible times you had and won’t remember the pains you have had. “

I cried out in my sleep, I moaned and begged him to come for me. He did not take me.

When I woke, the sun had fallen behind the horizon and the sky was filled with pink and yellow streaks. Calm had come over me, nevertheless my heart was heavy, yet it seemed possible to go on. The pain almost felt gone, I was numbed in some way that I could not explain.

I didn’t realize that day when I woke, with those first words I spoke, that it had all but gone away. It felt like they were all in place, but really what I had done was locked them in that special space. I was a clean slate, and I was no longer was filled with only hate. I had managed to forget the pain but the facts still remained.

What an odd feeling it was to wake up one day, and not have a memory of your own personal history. To not really notice that I didn’t remember why I was so sad for so long like I did that day. To just know that you are who you are, because you know it. Not because you remember what made you what you are.

Ten years came and past before anyone but me knew anything about the mirror and me. Even the therapist I began seeing that next day in July of 2002 didn’t quite know what to do. The mirror suddenly spoke very clearly to me that day as I passed it by and for every day after that. I didn’t tell a soul what was really going on in the mirror I did not dare. My biggest fear is they would try to lock me up again. I still don’t why but I never touched a black pen again after that day.

Every day I encountered the girl in the mirror with skepticism but, her smile was so inviting and her conversation so stimulating. She spoke as if she knew my intimate thoughts and desires. Her face was not of mine, it was slightly different in an alluring kind of way. She had a way of calming my anxiety and soothing my fears with her wooing ways.

It wasn’t long before I went looking for her when I was worried or scared. She was so comforting and she seemed to have all my answers. How could it be that the mirror knew me? How could the mirror have the answers to my heart? It was tearing me apart and making me mad. To look at the mirror and not recognize the girl who stared back. To not feel the feelings she was telling me I had.

Who was that girl in the mirror, and where did she go? Who are you, and why are you here? You’re not so nice and hardly pretty at all. Why did she leave, and where have you come from? I hadn’t a clue that there were more of you…

“Well of course you can’t forget about me. There is you and her, and then of course there is me. That is what makes us three.”  The older woman in the mirror said to me.

“What do you mean us and three I thought it was only her and me?” I replied to her in my head

“Well of course can’t you see? You can’t live without me. I inspire you to go on when you are about to expire, I stay awake when you tire, I scream out when you are angry, and I protect you from all hazards and dangers. I help you make tough choices and hard decisions. I take all your pain and make you feel none. I hide all those terrible secrets while you know none. Can’t you see you need me as well as her and twice as much as far as I can see?”

“Ha, Ha she only says that cause she can. Why don’t you shut her up for good? She has always been a rotten little goodie too shoes. Kissing ass and being all prim and proper, making everyone think she’s sooo good. Well.. She might be smart and cold as ice but she isn’t nice or sexy like me. She’s a prude, as well as a tight ass, never has any fun. Doing things the right way doesn’t always pay. In fact the odds are against the nice guy. I mean if she was in charge we still be virgins, with no friends at all” Said the beautiful woman staring back

“Well…” I said suddenly aware it was my turn to comment “I think you both are great but, will you get the fuck out of my head?”

I stayed in weekly therapy from that day on for 6 years or more. I went weekly sometimes by weekly appointments. Even on the days I had to walk six miles, or I had slept on the streets, nothing stopped me. The medications helped a little but not much. Therapy helped me heal a lot of the pain I felt about first 19 years of my life

I didn’t know I talked in the mirror at first, but I always have. For as long as I remember I have looked in the mirror and heard a voice. It’s not like a voice but rather more like their own trains of thought in the form of dialogue inside my head. So always there are two trains of thoughts in my head, that are not my own.  I was always aware of Krissy or Kristen lives. I just wasn’t aware that they were different people. Especially for the first years of my life, I thought everyone was like me.

As for what I can remember I know some of facts of my life, but not all of them. So many parts of my life are unknown to me, how many are even unknown.

I didn’t realize at first that I had amnesia; I just knew something wasn’t right. When I knew I should feel something and I didn’t, or people I trusted told me I did things that I had no idea I had done. I didn’t recognize people, sometimes significant people, or was recognized by someone I did not know. Or suddenly I had no feelings about something that was really important yesterday. The scariest is waking up in your lovers arm and being pretty sure you fell asleep at home the night before. I was oblivious to the fact that I was having time gaps and memory losses. However the more these things happened the more frightened I got.

Since my life was often fraught with confusion I always chalked it up to this or that. It wasn’t until my life slowed down, that I was able to see what my own writings were telling me. It was clear that I had feelings that were there, and sometimes memories would resurface at odd times. A smell or an object would resurface a memory I had long forgotten about.

Since I felt like I knew the significant facts, I never questioned my memory. In fact I relied upon my memory, as it is reportedly photographic in nature. How would someone with photographic memory, also have huge memory losses?  I can recant a book years after reading, and see the objects in a room years after leaving. How could I be missing memory?  It sounded so contrary I never would have believed it. However I picked it apart and I almost have no memories of my life at all, just feelings that I have had them.

When I look back at my life, I have pictures in my mind but, only a few. The ones I do have are very precious to me. I see faces and places, times and spaces of my life, all picture form.  More often than not I can I bring to memory someone telling me what I have done, the expression on their face. My mind can build a moving picture of a story you have told and plant it as my memory. However these memories play in their perspective though, not in my own. If you ask me to find memories that are mine and mine alone.  All I can recall is memory of the facts, absent of the feelings associated with them.

 

Writing as Self Help

Many people view writing as self help, that’s not a secret. This is why so many people I know have journals. But what about when this so-called self help is public?

I’ve mentioned before how much I adore Joan Didion, and I am very much looking forward to reading her latest and greatest, Blue Nights. The New Yorker featured an article about Didion, her family, and Blue Nights, which I enjoyed reading as it explored family relationships, writing relationships, and all of their connections.

Enjoy: http://nymag.com/print/?/arts/books/features/joan-didion-2011-10/index5.html

in the woods at five

once i got lost in the woods with another girl on our way back home.
the wood itself wasn’t too thick or deep, but we were five years-old and we managed to get lost somehow.
it was in the middle of the day and it was warm, and i was only worried that mum might shout at me if i got home too late.
as we rambled vaguely forward with our short legs, the girl i was with said [in Korean, the equivalent of]:
“whenever you get lost, just follow your shadow – it will always lead you out.”
even at five, i felt sorry for the girl.
if she was to get lost in a jungle one day, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

but as much as i felt obliged to point out the faults in her confident navigation method for her own future good, i stayed quiet, trying my best to look as though i was contemplating her statement seriously, for, after all, we were lost in the woods, alone, holding hands, and my instinct was telling me to put my interest first in such a situation.

from an early age, i was always very wary of how arbitrary girls could be. and it was a good lesson to learn then, because, well, this fact tends to persist throughout one’s entire life.
not that all women are so uneven, and there are men mercurial, but the majority of truly erratic individuals i have met in my life happened to be female.
perhaps this is the reason for my being so adverse to anything flagrantly pink; must tell my father, who has always found this fact perplexing to the point of being distressed.
anyway, i kept my mouth shut because i didn’t know what she was going to do if i contradicted her. i didn’t want to be found with an axe in my head, aged six. that would be a horrible thing to see on the news while eating dinner with your family. it sounds unlikely but that’s really how i felt then.
i don’t remember finding our way out of that wood.
i do remember recognising a path after a little more rambling, and following it, relieved, then getting tense again at realising we are not following our shadows – they were pointing at 10 O’Clock from under our feet – and trying to distract her from noticing, which is really hard when you are five, because your head is floating only about three feet from the ground and you see more of the ground than anything else that may be in your way ahead.
anyway we must have made it out, because here i am, still alive(ish).
and even though i can’t remember her face or her name or who she was at all, whenever i’m walking or jogging at night, and i see my shadow on the pavement or the tracks, what she’d said comes back to me.
i’m not sure why.
it’s just one of those things that come back to ya over and over again.
sometimes i wonder where she is, how she’s doing, who she is now and if she’s been to the jungle.
but even if we met today, we wouldn’t have that much to talk about. not really.
and so it goes.

Matches

The scent of sulfur is consuming me

As I open my mouth and try to breathe

Matches lie all over the floor

As I’m watching blue flames engulf the door.

 

A trail of red gasoline lines all of our things

We are finally victorious in this smoke

Silhouettes dancing along the walls

Soon to become ash

Bursts of orange highlight our past.

 

I wrap myself in blankets to remember the heat

As beams fall and everyone stares from the street

I close my eyes and can feel your heartbeat.

 

Shadows walk the ceilings

Take it slow, what are we afraid of feeling?

Yellow outlines the paint that’s peeling

Skin from bone

Take my hand darling, let’s go home.

 

-Rachel Allen

National Author’s Day

Today is National Author’s Day. I think this calls for a celebration here at A Story Every Day, since this IS a site that celebrates us all as authors and writers. Let’s share our favorite authors and give them some attention and recognition!

Who is your favorite author/writer and why?

Personally, I love Joan Didion because she writes in a straightforward manner yet there’s so much packed in that you may not even realize at first read. The “straightforwardness” is there, and true, but can also be deceptive.

I also adore John Irving – I just started reading his works, and so far I’ve read “A Widow for One Year” and now I’m reading “The World According to Garp.” His characters (and writing) appeal to me because they are humorous in a completely non-comical way. There is something so honest, so bare about them (I think this is really because of the way in which he writes) that makes me fall in love with them.

“I’m not telling you to make the world better, because I don’t think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I’m just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that’s what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it.”
Joan Didion

Odd Hour

ODD HOUR

The still before there was never more made such a gesture as to capture my lingering hope. Cast away doubt, as if I might prepare myself in such an odd hour. Taunting appearances return with me so off guard. Should I invite them in to be violated no more? Absent as I am so often from myself, crumbling carriage can carry no lode. As confined grey shifts blue to white drawn back to blue, not as bright today, overshadowed sights to see me through one more odd hour. Painfully lifting, tilting swiftly leaning towards blanketing wind, uplifting sights with tiring dire results. Such fruits I’ve tasted before, not remembering bleak futures meeting faster in such an odd hour. Blue turns to green, ever whiter. Shifting impulses leads to yet one more tour, of that which I never understood anymore, coming at times I need it least. Leaving me in places I never knew so little about. Frivolous activity keeps me occupied as plaster peeling seems tear, so it seems, revealed grandeur sleeping. Ashen walls enduring change. Settling no more in remembrances then settled I have in such an odd hour. Shining white, less blinding, shifting greener ever still. Sanity seeking flickering spirit in orchards of fallen fruit. Ebbing reality slips through vacant grasps reaching for something familiar as I regress into another tormenting malaise, bereft of this once tangible room. Expanding void invites them back reminding me I have been here before. Not so often enough to protect myself in such an odd hour. Looming green fading blue, forced to auburn into red. On edge, at the edge of this stained path, pushing forward following what is to follow, if it never touches my mind. Engrossing void giving way to ebon rain staining silver streaking walls, shifting blacker ever still. As still as I could be, new changes unknown to me. Chilling winds resume as they should show again. Patience. Waiting patiently.  Now I need them to help me through, as they have abandoned me in such an odd hour. Sinking deeper. Standing, shifting seems to mend broken seams, sinking deeper. Wading in crimson path, pondering tainted guises appear, meticulously removing remaining fragments of consciousness. Slipping into this unknown, though it was known before but not in this manner, this time change has abandoned that of the past. We must continue so I may return. Unmentionable concern. Any time now. Ominously leering as crimson path settles to settle about my waist. Queer sensation in such an odd hour. Lent myself to recite the past and this one shall not last in this fashion. Ebon walls blacker ever still as settling path fixes me in place. They conveniently recede indicating journeys end. Crimson path setting harder ever still. Placing me forever in such an odd hour.

 

Copyright ~ Antony Valoppi ~ 2011

Tule Fog

Tule Fog     ©2011

By R. Bailey

 

Fall fell and the foliage came tumbling after.  The tule fog mutated. First it was tule fog because they were a peninsula surrounded by a river and sloughs.  Then it was valley fog because they were a valley nestled within valleys.  Finally it became ground fog; a colloidal carpet that compressed lush and thick, covering the creek, rising over the pastel pasteboards, finally smothering the gables of Canterbury.  You could hardly see through it during the day and you could barely crawl through it at night.

The fog was home for Skin.  His earliest memories were of a straight finger of fog probing through the Golden Gate to Point Richmond, rusting the slides in the playground until they wouldn’t even work with wax paper.  Then it slowly filled the bay and basin with its smooth grey, right up to Grizzly Peak.  Even in Alaska, where the fog froze, he’d disappear into it to relish the solitude.  At night he itched to get away from the hard, warm walls of home and out into the soft, amorphic coolness.

At the end of the day the mustard bus emptied its contents in Canterbury.  Mick and Jim went for Joan watching Terri fade into the fog while she swayed with a wiggle, with a wiggle when she walked.   They knew she knew they were watching her.  Just as she disappeared, she turned back, shot them a little come-hither and was swallowed by the mist.

“Did you tell her about VanSickle?”

“Hell no, man, did you?”

“No way but she knows.”

“No, she doesn’t”

“She knows, man.”

“Doesn’t make any difference.”

“What if she tells him?”

“She hates his ass.”

“And you didn’t tell her?”

“Not me, did you?”

Day was night was day, over and over and over.  The apricots, walnuts, cherries, pomegranates, and grapes were gone.  The big walnut was bare and no longer offered protection.  But the fog graced them with a safe shelter in the late night.

 

Reilly popped the Zippo; they lit up Alpines.  They were cool in the back of the Signal station, invisible again.  Surrounded by a hodgepodge of old mismatched body parts, they were busy filling the rusted shell of a 48 Dodge with smoke, letting their breaths condense inside the windows, adding another veil of invisibility.

The cops rode cream Impalas down Prescott oblivious to the side show.  For them it was another night, again.  But for Skin and Reilly it was an observation platform.  The sparse world floated by in a haze as they kicked back wondering who had been laid upon these worn springs forged in Detroit.

Then the 53 flathead crawled by.  Reilly dinched the Alpine.

“It’s Van Sickle.  We better split.”

“What for?”

“He’s been looking for us every weekend, he’ll check here.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty.”

“Good.”

Skin traced flames into the bottom of the steamy window.  He wrote the backwards message with a flourish.

“Watch your back.”

They split the Dodge to join the fog.  Reilly wanted to stay and check it out.  Skin said if VanSickle did see the message, he’d search the entire place.  They maneuvered past the old body parts and were slowly sucked into the soft grey.  They hopped a fence and walked it.  It was one foot exactly in front of the other while leaning each ankle to the side against the fence boards. Step by step on the top of a two by, eight feet, over the four by, another eight feet on the two by, and over the next four by.  It would take them to Joan.

Rage wailed behind them.  Old body parts started crashing, glass windows shattered.  Then the crazed howling, “You son of a bitches, I’m gonna find your asses!  You’re dead men!  You’re fuckin’ dead men.”  Another howl, more glass breaking, suddenly a hair hat forced a hoarse whisper.

“Tommy, the cops.”

The flathead roared to life. A cream Impala screamed and leapt through the fog.  Tires screeched.  Steel crunched steel as the flathead rammed a tower of old body parts that crashed and fell back into the fogged up windshield.

A badge yelled, “Driver, get out of the car and put your hands over your head.  Passenger, get out of the car.  Put your hands up, NOW!”

They came off the fence on Joan.  Reilly was the pumpkin again.  “He’s busted man, he’s going to juvie, he’s busted.”  They relished the victory as they headed two more invisible blocks up Joan where they’d be home free.  Dim lights were squinting through the fog, Impala lights.  A searchlight tried to sweep the sidewalks in vain.  Skin and Reilly faded over a lawn and into oleanders.  The Impala’s searchlight didn’t even come close. It snapped off as it passed.

Hysterical VanSickle bleated with shrill urgency, “They’re here, keep looking, they’re here.  They did it, we tried to stop ‘em, you gotta believe me!”  The badge shot back, “You screwed the pooch, VanSickle.  We got your ass now.”  Sound travels easily through ground fog.

Skin and Reilly continued up Joan.  The pumpkin was about to burst.  “Too much and a half.”  He turned to Skin.  “Man, nobody else can find out about this.”  Skin was a grin.  “No problem.”

A gate silently swung opened as they passed.  A mushroom vortex of mist wafted up.  Terri stepped out barefoot in baby dolls, even more invisible than Skin or Reilly.  She watched the ground fog envelope them, wiggled her toes and slipped back behind the gate.

Skin and Reilly went back through their windows, conquerors of all they encountered; the night was still theirs.

 

Then came morning, again.  His mother crashed his door, again.

“ALL RIGHT YOU KNOW THE DRILL UP AN AT ‘EM GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED.”

There was no Michael there to scream at.  Her eyes exploded.  Her jaw clenched.  Her fists clenched.  Her neck muscles knotted and stretched out wider than a cobra.  She gave a low hiss and bared her fangs.  Her eyes gleaming blood red, she coiled and shot off.

Michael got up from his hands and knees, went to the sink and started to rinse the filthy towel.  The cobra was lurking at the kitchen door, its eyes crimson slits.  It hissed.  Before it could strike he turned.  “It’s OK, the wax is dry on this side of the kitchen.”  Not quite good enough, but the cobra’s hood did dip, the coil loosened.  The venom dripped but the words didn’t come. Michael was pleased with himself.  The stalking began.

“How long have you been up?”

“Since five.”  Big smile.

“What?” Eyes narrowing further, searching for the lie.

“I woke up.  I decided I’d get started.”

“What are you up to?”  Suspicion.

“I’m just trying to get everything done early.”

“What brought this on?”  Unsure.

“You said I shouldn’t wait to be told what to do.  I should take the initiative.  I’m done, can I go?”

The cobra’s neck unknotted, knotted, teeth ground, fists opened to claws and clenched to fists again, lips stretched tight over teeth, still unsure.

“OK.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Where are you going?”

“Maybe Jim and I’ll go down by the creek.”  He knew he had to give her something or she’d be roiling and hissing in a fit for the rest the day.

“DON’T YOU BRING ANY OF THOSE DAMN CRAYFISH BACK HERE.     “

The stare got cold; the eye slits froze, still looking for a fight.

Michael Riki Tiki Tavied around her and headed out.  Mim was coming down the stairs as he hit the door.

“Are you already done with everything?”

“Done and gone.  Good luck.”

Fear grew in her eyes as Michael got out while the getting was good.

 

Reilly was in his garage filing a spark plug from the Briggs and Stratton.  “How’d you get away so early?”

“Didn’t go to bed.  Got all my CHORES done before she could strike.”

“That must have made old Momzilla happy.”

“Yeah, I thought she was going to choke.”

“She still fighting with your dad?”

“You mean Johnny?  You betchum Red Ryder.”

Reilly screwed the sparkplug back into the mower and closed the garage door.  They headed down on Joan.  Terri emerged from her front porch, walked across her lawn toward them with wet toes.  She let her baby blue bathrobe fall open.  They could see her baby dolls.  “Hey guys, have a good time last night?”

Skin and Reilly came to an abrupt halt.  The fog was lifting.

“Hey Terri, what’s up?”

“I’m going to go paint my toenails, want to help?”

They both tried to swallow but couldn’t.  Skin cleared first.

“Uuuhhh.”

Reilly was a close second.  “What color?”

“Does it matter?”

“Uuuhhh, no, guess not.”

“What about you Micky?  Do you do toes?”

“Uuuhhh, well uuuhhh, I have before but uuuhhm, we’re kind of busy right now.”

“Well let me know when you’re ready for me.”  She turned; her hips swayed their way back to her porch.

Skin and Reilly finally closed their mouths and walked on for a while.

“She knows.”

“She can’t.”

“She knows.”

“How?”

“What’s the difference?  She knows, man!”

They didn’t look back.

 

They grabbed a couple of navels from an overhanging limb and started to peel.  They were just beginning to sweeten.  They got to Huckleberry and the field that would never be a shopping center.  Hodad was hanging with Ed.

Hodad was Greg, a short, broad-shouldered transplant from Oceanside, where a couple of years earlier, he’d fought the marines with his surfboard to lay claim to the best Pendleton breaks.  The Marines had won.

Ed was then and always had been, Ed.  He was a tall and lanky hard guy, science geek.  In the future he would be Sir Edward but that’s over the mountains and through the jungles.  He had been pushed into Sputnik’s math and science fast track but he had pushed back, hard.  It pissed off the Prescott Valley admin who figured they were losing cash because he wouldn’t play the game. Reilly and Skin split their navels and pieced them off.

A closet full of white shoes sauntered down Huckleberry.  Irwin, a half-assed fullback led the charge, “Hey guys, it’s the four freshmen sucking their navels.”

Suddenly they were in a crowd.  Skin was the fresh meat in the neighborhood especially to the white shoes.  He was an easy target.  Even full of Dixie Peach, his hair was unmanageable and always falling over his forehead where it nurtured little blooms of bright pink pimples.  His marionette arms and legs were a bully’s amusement park.

The white shoe figured to do a Grauman’s Chinese down Skinny Micky’s back.  Skin didn’t have a chance so he tried to fake it like a joke, but the white shoe had no sense of humor.  The more Skin tried to make him laugh, the harder Irwin pushed and pushed again.

Then Ed gets fed up with it and smears his Keds over Irwin’s bucks.  “Fuck off!”  Irwin can’t believe it and stares, speechless.  Ed takes a swing, catches him on the jaw.  Irwin staggers back.  Ed tries to punch him in the gut but Irwin clinches him and starts to pound him down.  Ed struggles free as Irwin lands a left to his head.  Ed falls.

Skin jumps to help Ed up and pull him away.  Ed shakes him off, Hodad pulls Skin back.  Ed gets up and charges.  Irwin knocks him down again.  Ed gets up.  Ed goes down.  Ed gets up.  Hodad and Skin try to hold him back but he breaks free and charges.  Ed goes down.  Hodad and Skin help him up.  Reilly blocks Ed and tells him not to do it.

Ed pushes them away and charges.  He swings and misses.  Irwin catches him hard in the gut and follows up to the side of his ear.  Ed goes down and out, a cauliflower starts to grow.  Irwin plants the smudged buck on the cauliflower, twists, laughs and walks away.  Skin and Reilly try to pick Ed up.  Hodad, who had treated skeg gashes in shark surf, stops them.  “He’s breathing evenly so he must not be hurt too bad.  He’ll come to on his own.”  Just like on Ben Casey, MD.

Ed flashes awake and jumps to his feet; they try to restrain him but he throws them off, sees the white shoe walking proudly away and yells for him to come back and fight!  Irwin flips him the bird.

Ed’s cauliflower starts to grow.  He looks at the three of them.  “That white shoe belongs to me.”

 

The one stop on Cape Cod filled the entire mustard bus.  When Mick and Jim got there Ed stood alone, jaw set and silent, cauliflower beet red and blooming.  Greg came up from Pickwick.  They all stood together.

“You OK?”  Greg was checking the cauliflower.

“No problem.”

Mick peered through the fog.  The mustard bus was coming up Cape Cod as Irwin turned the corner in his 51 Chevy.  He cheerily waved at Ed.  Ed slowly extended his arm and pointed, tracing his track to the corner and around the turn.

A murmur rumbled the crowd.  Word had traveled fast.  Ed’s beat down was the talk of Canterbury.  The tone subsided as Ed stared straight into the eyes of every single person standing there. The rumble stopped.  There wasn’t a sound.  The bus came up to the corner and it slowed right down.

Nobody looked Ed in his eyes.  The bus began to fill up and the whispering started again.  Ed was in a dark spotlight.  As the four of them got on all eyes were on the cauliflower. A silent shudder passed through the bus.

Pat, a voluptuous, raven-haired, 15 year-old beauty always rode the bus with her older sister and younger brother, Ron.  She had a different agenda.  Mick caught a seat in front of her.  He couldn’t help turning back to look at her, her smoldering blue eyes, her dark hair pulled back in a curling ponytail, and her blazing Jane Russell-red lipstick. As she talked, her Maidenform breasts stretched her angora sweater.  She had no pimples.  She wore white shoes.

She told the story of how she had been cast in a film that shot in town the previous summer.  She was just walking by with her large breasts in her tight sweater and they just happened to ask her to be in the movie.  Go figure.

Mick figured Ed needed time to himself.  He looked back at Pat.  As much as he tried he couldn’t take his eyes off her.  It had been going on for weeks. When she’d see him staring he’d turn away, quick.  After that she started to watch him.  He tried to ignore her; his very tenuous cool was at stake.  She’d stare at Mick, especially if he looked at her; he tried not to but… those eyes.  White shoe sophomore girls just did not purposefully encounter freshman boys, unless it was to humiliate them.

Pat had no interest in Ed or the cauliflower.  She was focused on Mick.  The older girls began giggling, especially the pretty ones.  Not laughing but giggling. Pat focused a stare that bore through him with deep mysteries oozing moist things he could only imagine.  But he was ready for it; it was what he had been waiting for.  He had a plan.  He’d seen it on TV.  And now was the perfect time.  He glanced back and, cool and smooth, stared right into those eyes.  Pat smiled and locked on him.  He sneered a little sneer like he’d seen Elvis do in the movies.

“Take a picture it lasts longer.”

Terri raised a dubious eyebrow.  Mick didn’t blink.  He stayed cool and stared Pat down.  She devoured him with her eyes and timed the perfect pause.

“I am.”

It’s surprising how quickly the blood can flow to a teenage boy’s face.  Fuchsias started to bloom, first in his ears, then bursting across his cheeks.  A scathing comeback failed to materialize; he was wordless, mouth breathing.  Pat, with breasts you could live in forever, was smiling at him like he was dessert.

“Oh looook, he’s blushing.” She purred to her friends.

The fuchsias caught fire.  Ron choked back a laugh.  Ed, Jim, and Greg didn’t.  Terri was amused.  Mick faced forward with Buckwheat eyes and finally got his mouth closed.

All the freshman girls, sophomore girls, junior and senior girls had seen the whole thing.  All the cool girls, all the awkward girls, all the still-trying-to-come-of-age regular girls joined each other for a whisper and a giggle.

It wasn’t so much that everyone broke up, he wasn’t cool or uncool enough for that to happen, but he had been set up and sacrificed.  And in the midst of it all, of course, humiliated.  He had seen it coming but instead of getting out of the way, he had stepped right in front of it and gotten run over.  The dark spotlight left Ed and focused right on Mick.

When his head cleared, Mick was walking through the parking lot with Jim.  Ed split for the locker room and Greg stopped to hang with the gremmies.

Terri slipped in between Mick and Jim as they passed the crowd of hair hats; who were in conference.

“You hear about VanSickle?”

“No what?”

“He’s in juvie.”

“No shit, what for?”

“He caught those punks who trashed his custom paint job; framed their bods through the plate glass window in the Signal on Prescott.  Blood all over the place.  He split but the cops chased him down; totaled his flathead.”

“No man!  What happened to the punks?”

“They got away again.”

Jim and Mick didn’t miss a step.

Terri didn’t either, “Exciting weekend.”  She watched Jim and Mick exchange glances.  “Whoever Tommy VanSickle did over must be pretty cut up.”

Jim and Mick were silent.  Finally Mick chirped, “I guess.”

“See you later, guys.”  And off she went for a smoke.

 

The junior side of beef was still on guard at the door to D-building head.  Jim and Mick tried it again.

“I told you ‘No freshman.’”

Jim tried again, “C’mon man…”

“Don’t piss me off, Reilly!”

Getting known.

They went through D-building out toward the football field.  Ed jogged by with his cauliflower, making a run for “the hill”, a 45% incline up the butte to the old cemetery and the police academy.  It was the training ground for Prescott’s soon-to-be-national-champion cross-country team and the part of the home course that defeated all opponents.  “C’mon man, suit up, run the hill.”  Ed wasn’t on the cross-country team but if they could do it, he could.  Jim and Mick waved and walked into the fog.

 

Jim popped the Zippo.  They lit up.  They were dragging Camels as the fog thinned.  The ambling frame of the Maxx was materializing before them.  The Camels got dinched quick.  Jim was about to fade away to the side but Mick grabbed him.  “No man, too late.”  He pulled him straight for the Maxx.  When they were close, Mick began.

“I told you we shouldn’t cut through the orchard, we’re gonna be late for homeroom!”

“You’re the one who had to stop and tie your shoes.”

The Maxx was there.

“You made us miss the bus.  Hey Mr. Maxx, we’re not late for homeroom are we?”

“No, but you better hurry.”

“See, I told you we’d make it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Maxx.”

And off they went without a hitch.

 

Later in the day, during algebra, Ron nodded at Mick.  He was OK, a blond-haired, blue-eyed police cadet.  His real last name wasn’t the same as his sisters but nobody in school knew that.  And even though he looked like a blond Norse demigod and his sisters were raven-haired beauties Raphael would have would have killed for, nobody knew their family was a product of divorce and remarriage.  That wasn’t talked about then.

In just a few years, a Black Panther Party Minister would shoot him dead and beat the rap.  He’d tell the Oakland jury how those piercing blue eyes and shining blond hair challenged and berated him, made him crazy.

After it happened and the headlines were gone, it took years to realize that it was Ron.  Mick had never seen Ron as a hard nose or racist as the Black Panther has described.  But then Jesse, who was still a year away and had been a blond-haired, blue-eyed hoodlum, told him he and Ron had been bitter enemies because Ron had Jesse pegged as a criminal.  Jesse did have that rep.  Ron became the first of Mick’s peers to find his moment of fame.

 

But that would be then.  This was now and the fog was lifting.  Their invisibility was fading.  The days were getting longer but the night had much more in store.

 

 

 

Life After Love, Part 2

Life After Love: Part Two

Cheri Bermudez

 

Each raindrop could hold a galaxy for all I know, she thought to herself. Considering things such as time, space and perspective always cheered her up. It reminded her how insignificant she really was in the large scheme of things. That was comforting. Grounding. It reminded her that out of all the things she knew the most important thing to remember was that she really didn’t know anything. The universe was too complex a place to understand, so there was no use pretending. It was human nature to wonder why the world was so and it was a curse of the human condition to never know the answer. She liked to think death provided clarity, but didn’t get her hopes up.

Time was a continuous, unstoppable force. Or was it? Was it possible to manipulate time through space? Was now all there really was? It couldn’t be. That would be so disappointing. So anti-climactic. She liked to think that time existed on different planes and in different dimensions. She hadn’t quite figured out how yet, but she liked to think each moment in time had its own special place in the universe. It’s own little niche. Each moment was occurring simultaneously at all times and so there really was no such thing as time or death or beginnings or ends. There were just different stops along an infinite timeline. Right now was just where her consciousness happened to be.

She liked to think that when she slept she traveled light years away, around the universe and back. Maybe she traveled to different lifetimes, different forms of existence. The possibilities were endless, which was exactly why she liked considering them. There was no right or wrong, just infinite possibilities. Just like there were infinite raindrops.

So maybe, somewhere in time and space, she was with him. Somewhere in the universe they were together, happy and in love. Maybe that’s where she went when she slept. Those moments in time when they were together. The moments had been brief, but they were the happiest she had ever known. If she could choose anywhere in time and space to be, it would be with him. It didn’t matter where or when. As long as she was with him. And as long as he loved her again. She wasn’t so naive to think he loved her still.

They were done for this lifetime. He had moved on, moved past her. He was happy with someone else. She didn’t understand how it was possible to love someone so much that didn’t love you back. It seemed so very illogical and self-depreciating. It went against all biological instincts. That was because love was selfless. Evolution, on the other hand, was selfish.

Those that loved too deeply would be weeded out by natural selection she figured. At least those whose love was unrequited. It hurt too much not to be fatal.

 

Going Nowhere

by Jacqui Talbot,  http://justjacqui2.wordpress.com

I am almost home when the street ends abruptly at a high wall.  The bricks have faded and mortar crumbles at the touch.  Odd, I don’t remember seeing it before.  I shake my head and turn around, only to find a dense forest of pine trees instead of the cars, pedestrians and cigarette littered pavement that were there just a moment ago.  I listen for the hum of traffic, but all I hear is the wind.

I wonder if I’m dreaming. Must be. Otherwise, I’d probably be screaming by now. Instead, all I feel is mild surprise.  I lean forward and touch one of the trees.  It seems solid enough, the bark rough against my palm.  Pine needles cover the ground.  The clean, fresh scent of evergreen makes me smile.  I’ve spent so much time inhaling hospital disinfectant and exhaust fumes that I’d almost forgot what fresh air smells like.

The forest is dark, the canopy overhead blocking most of the moonlight.  It’s chilly beneath the trees.  I pull my worn cardigan closer and shrug.  I’m not going to get home standing here and waiting for the street to reappear.  I start walking, my surprise replaced by a dreamy feeling of contentment.  I don’t know why, but being here feels right.  It’s as if someone or something has taken control of my emotions.  There is no fear, no uncertainty, only a driving need to move forward.

The wind grows stronger, ripping at my sweater.  Long strands of brown and gray hair blow around my shoulders, the rest straining against the small army of bobby pins holding it in place atop my head.  As I walk, my footing grows uncertain, my orthopedic shoes unable to get traction on the slippery pine needles covering the forest floor.  Finally, I stop and take them off.  I know I won’t need them anymore.

The wind grows calmer.  The night air presses against me, not in a suffocating way, more like a warm, fuzzy blanket made of air.  In response, I remove the ill-fitting nurse’s scrubs uniform and look down at my pale, fleshy belly. Time has not been kind. Varicose veins mar the once smooth perfection of my legs, seeming to squirm with every step.  Stretch marks squirm up the sides of both legs

I keep walking, cheered by the sight of my freshly painted toenails against the dark green and brown pine needles.

The forest floor changes. Slimy, purple loops of intestines lie underfoot. They squirm with every step, and I have trouble keeping my balance, but I’m not afraid or even disgusted. The squishy feeling reminds me of the thick black mud along the banks of the Mississippi where I grew up.  I spread my toes, dig in, and keep walking.

Then he is standing there, naked, arms loose at his sides. Norman. Five foot-eight, balding on top and working the comb-over, shoulders rounded from too many hours spent hunched over books and computers. My Norman.  I rush forward to embrace him, only to falter when he doesn’t respond.  Confused, I stumble to a halt.

Suddenly, I am afraid but don’t know why. I look around and see others roaming through the forest, each one lost in his or her own nightmare.

“Where are we?” I ask, startled by the tremor in my voice.

He shrugs.

“Am I dead?”

He shrugs again, a small smile on his thin lips.

“Oh.”

He is still staring at me, and I’m starting to get angry.

“Where are we, Norman?”  But I already know.  We’re in the Forest of Broken Lives, the place where dreams and might-have-beens are buried. Everyone ends up here eventually, each of us paying for acts we committed in life. But to whom were we paying? God? The Devil? Ourselves?

Norm turns, picks an apple from a tree that wasn’t there a moment ago, and passes it to me. When it touches my hands, the fruit turns into a fetus. Small, about the size of a peach, with ten heartbreakingly small fingers and ten tiny toes. Perfect, except that it is dead. Hundreds of trees surround us, each branch bending under the weight of unborn children suspended by their umbilical cords, all dead, swinging gently in the wind. Occasionally, one drops to the forest floor with a soft plop.

I stare at the dead child in my arms, and then at Norman.

“You knew?” I whisper.

He nods and turns away.

The child in my arms is so small.  Tears threaten, but I blink them away.  I made my choice.  The time for crying has passed.

“Forgive me.”

Norm turns, takes my hand and our little family – such as it is – ventures deeper into the Forest of Broken Lives.