First week's words:
crackle
snow-trickle
precious
soup
irresolute
POST STORIES FROM WEEK ONE ( see instructions here) IN THE COMMENTS SECTION HERE
crackle
snow-trickle
precious
soup
irresolute
POST STORIES FROM WEEK ONE ( see instructions here) IN THE COMMENTS SECTION HERE
4 comments:
One winter when I was in college, we got a lot of snow. That's not true. We got some snow, and it just refused to leave. It wasn't a year that got named for a blizzard, maybe five inches, okay six, eight? Anyway, there was a snowstorm of some intensity, and the snow didn't melt.
In every way this was unpleasant. One, it was cold. Trudging across campus for an 8 AM class isn't fun under the best of circumstances, but when the temperature refuses to budge above 32 degrees for a month and a half, it gets less and less enjoyable with each passing day. What a tedious exercise was academia that winter.
Also, there was the unpleasant soup along the roadsides, comprised of car exhaust melting some of the boundary snow to hideous grey slush. And, it took forever to get anywhere. The intermittent commute of students from building to building was less energetic than normL, as we all stooped against the cold, anxiously scanning the ground carefully for black ice. Slips and falls happened frequently, especially right at building entrances; somehow the grounds-crew was impotent against the glaciers of smoothed snow that invariably formed by the double doors of every hall on campus; those things seemed to barely crackle in protest when heaped with de-icing salt. Worse were the nearly invisible fingers of re-frozen snow-trickle that lay in wait to fling irresolute pedestrians on their backsides while they dithered over which path across a parking lot would be safest.
Nicole and I stayed in a lot that winter, as much as we could. Going out was such a chore, nothing seemed worth it, except those things that would affect our GPAs. Classes had to be attended, as well as the occasional required recital. Other than that, our priorities were to conserve our precious energy and avoid injury; we spent a lot of time watching videos together and eventually sharing stories. The others living on our floor all did likewise; who wanted to venture out there? Movie nights and study sessions became group events, and we'd all contribute a little something from our kitchenettes to an impromptu potluck. We shared in each other's trials and triumphs, as well as heartaches and happiness. Winter can turn neighbors into friends.
If I started this journal with some sort of overt confession-maybe typing in the first line something like, “I can’t stop thinking about deprogramming myself.” Would you even bother to read on? Or would that sum it up for you? I mean, this is what we’re supposed to do here right? That’s what this therapy journal is supposed to be about. Right? Dr. Siward? You want me to write about me…the man… and me..the robot- the humanoid you created…so that somehow in the future your manufactured beings will be made without my current malfunctions. That’s what this writing is supposed to arrive at, right doctor? Solutions for an electronic soul.
This is much easier done with a cigarette. My irresolute ramblings suddenly take straight shape with nicotine. Five minutes and I will return.
I’m back. (Its odd: I feel most human holding a cigarette.Thank you for allowing my circuitry to engage in destructive behavior. It helps me feel more like one of them.)
I mean, do you need to know what I think of trees in the fall? Do you care? They absolutely talk to me through the rattled skitter and crackle of dead leaves. Their incessant flitter against the bark in the cold distilled autumn wind is a divine message scrawled- an invitation. I mean…that’s the SOUND of death, right? It’s a sign – no? In the end, all will end.
Im not saying the leaves are voicing these suggestions. They are merely the vehicle through which the great voice expresses clear imperatives. A violin does not play itself, right? But in the hands of a virtuoso... Thank you for programming me to love music: I find violins to be the sound of dreams reversed, narrative pulled back into itself until all that remains is the original thought before the words.
I find that while listening to the violin, I am unable to speak.
Is that what you want, Dr. Siward? I mean…will this really help anything? I’m writing the way you told me…just free thoughts. All the worry, the discomfort. Just put it down. I’m trying.
Do you need to know that I hear the same voice of death on the heavy wind in early winter darkness? When, at six o’clock, houselights begin to illuminate ghosts on every sidewalk. My footsteps are louder on those cold sidewalks that time of day, that time of year. My feet drum a death march toward all things inevitable. My shadow is only half formed in the broken light. I feel vulnerable, like someone will detect that I am not what I seem- they will know I am not entirely human.
Note: the paranoia seems more profound in winter.
Do you know that I can hear death in a drop of water? After snowfall, the huge pine that stands at the end of my yard holds snow the longest, especially on its northern side. On cold mornings I’ve walked barefoot over the frigid grass and sat beneath that tree, waiting patiently for the sun to catch the tip top, and the snow-trickle to make its way down through the needles. When the waterdrops finally hit my skin- potent and cold- it burns for a moment. Sometimes clarity burns, too.
Did you know that the water, collected from the pines, smells like gin?
Life is precious. It’s been repeated to me fervently. I usually have to avert my eyes for fear of screaming.
You know. YOU know damn well that is not true. It’s too prevalent to be precious. I think how -in the eternity before you created me, doctor- I was perfect. Or … I guess because I didn’t exist, I should say “I wasn’t and IT was perfect”.
I didn’t ask for life. And you know, doctor, when you gave me the drugs- mainly the citalopram- I would find myself suddenly awaking from strong daydreams on a regular basis. I can’t tell you how many moments I lost myself staring at light reflections on walls or the hazey distraction of a steaming bowl of soup in front of me. I would jolt suddenly to awareness and realize I had been absent for long periods of time. What happens in those moments where suddenly we disconnect from the physical immediacy of the world and drift into a deeper dreaming self?
That's what I need more of.
5/13/29
The old gray aircraft arced high and higher, churning skyward through a steady snow-trickle of clouds. I sat on one of the long metal benches that lined the interior, goggles looped around my neck, clipped into a nylon harness that felt increasingly flimsy as the plane continued to climb. Mel was all smiles in neon yellow and rainbow legwarmers, sandwiched next to a team of professionals who'd be diving solo and one who talked of flying in a suit, sans parachute, like a bat.
I noted the quilted Jersey farmland below and felt my innards turn to soup.
"Here's how it's gonna work," Oleg the Russian bellowed against the back of my head. "When I tell you, we go sideways to the door. Cross your arms, tuck your head, and we jump. Yes?"
The pilot's voice was a low crackle over the speakers: "12,000 feet, folks. Get set."
The Russian seemed awfully cavalier, leaning back and crossing an ankle over the other.
"Shouldn’t I be clipped to you or something?" I asked, my voice high and hollow.
Oleg laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Don' worry, I'll do all that. What, you scared?"
I caught Mel's eye and she waved, fluttering fingers, childlike. "Fuck yeah I'm scared," I said. "What happens if I can't do this?"
Oleg pulled on his goggles. "We jump anyway," he replied. Standing, he motioned me upward, turned so I faced outward, started fastening my harness to his with what looked like your average camping gear. Surely I’d used more to string up a hammock in the woods.
"But seriously," I said. "You've done this a lot?"
He sighed. "Every day, yes," he said. "For years, okay? You're gonna be fine, precious. And if not, at least we go out having fun, eh?"
I telepathically let Mel know that my tandem jumper might be a bit of an asshole.
With the floor shuddering underfoot and the sky at eye level, I reminded myself – not for the first time – that I’d not only put myself here, but suggested it. Camping in the chalk-dry Nevada desert a few weeks before, I’d sat with Mel and her DJ boyfriend as our campmates spun fire in the blue-black night, poi dancing in the darkness. I was incredibly, skin-humming high – feeling the air, the rough dusty terrain, seeing the stars form elaborate grids. Lit up and alive like the fire sparking before us. Our friend Andy dropped to the ground, crossed his legs and pulled the handkerchief from his face, said this was the time for big questions.
“Like what?” The fire circled and dipped.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked. “What scares you?”
I wanted to tell him that fear was nothing, couldn’t he see how beautiful it all was? But instead I looked to the sky. “Not flying like a bird,” I said, arms outstretched. “Falling.” I thought of the trees I’d tumbled from when I was a kid, before I learned to fear the swimming pool high-dive, before I knew how it felt to have the wind knocked out of me.
Mel looked up from under her boyfriend’s arm. “I’ve always wanted to skydive,” she said dreamily.
My thoughts twirling, I nodded. “Let’s do that,” I said. “When we get home. You and me.” Mel reached out and took my hands, held me to it.
"15,000 feet. Ready." The pilot's voice cut through the aircraft, sliced my remembering. The door trundled open with a loud and excruciating rush.
"Go! Go!" A man at the opening yelled and ushered the pros out first and I watched them drop, catching currents and shrinking. I stood shaky and irresolute as Mel and her guide leapt into the sky.
"Now!" Oleg shuffled us forward. At the door he gripped my arm. "Cross!" he yelled. "Now look down."
Mel's rainbow legs were a flash of bright as I tipped forward into nothing, the wind singing until all I could hear was the uptempo roar of my own heart.
slow the snow trickles
Irresolute
phantom face in cracked window
seeks steaming rice soup
laced with nettles,
steeped in thyme
a memory?
a dream?
crackles of time?
the window is broken
so what’s left to do?
except push shards aside
and step right through…
warm iron pot
surely, will do…
ingredients found
can be old or new.
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