Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Ghosts

Beth stomped up the wooden stairs to her apartment, skipping the half-gone one with the six-inch splinters. They creaked and rattled with every step, but she jogged up anyway, to escape the cold. And when a gust of wind sent her flying against the railing, she flung herself onto the steps instead, afraid that the rotten wood would finally give way and send her tumbling onto the concrete slab below.

When she finally got into the sheltered corridor that lead to her door, she rummaged through her bag for her keys. Pushing aside half-finished cross-words torn out of various newspapers and slippery gum wrappers, she touched the clammy metal of her cell phone, the rough fabric of her wallet. She heard jingling. At last she pulled out her keys by her plastic Mach-5 key chain.

She jammed the key in the door with one hand, pulled the knob toward her with the other, twisted the key, twisted the knob, and pushed. She flew inward with the door and slammed it shut on the wind. But not the cold, the cold had invaded the apartment.

She shuffled over to the thermostat and squinted at the thermometer. Fifty-eight. Not cold enough to warrant the heat. Not when she only worked fifteen hours this week.

Instead she plopped down on the lumpy sofa and cocooned herself in her fleece blanket. She didn't even bother to kick off her Converse.

Her computer was open on the coffee table. The same blank word document's cursor was blinking at her just as mockingly as it had been before she left for work. She stared at it without seeing it and sat very still for a long time. She waited for the pressure building in her chest to subside.

She had been on a high when she left for the bus this morning. The air had been cold and crisp. She'd breathed it in deeply and felt her lungs and body working and humming. The wind had swirled around her and the world had seemed beautiful. What happened?

Now as she slumped on the couch, she knew she should work, but her brain was empty. She only wanted to sink lower.

Struggling against her tightly wrapped blanket, she dug into the pocket on her coat. Grasping the plastic bag, she extricated it carefully from her warm encasing. She yanked her other arm out and unrolled the bag. The pot smelled good. Like rain and sour milk.

Getting up to get her pipe would be such a drag. Then she noticed the little blue pill Steven had dropped in the bag.

"Try it when you've got a while and you want a real escape," he'd advised.

Normally, Beth would never. She'd never done anything but smoke. At least marijuana was a plant. Not something somebody cooked up in their bathtub. But this afternoon, she just couldn't bring herself to care.

She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it dry. Realizing this was a mistake she reached for the mug on the floor and took a swig of the cold morning coffee. She gulped it down, making a face.

I wonder how long this shit takes to kick in, Beth thought. She grabbed the TV clicker and flipped to Law & Order.

By the time the episode had reached Order, she had given up on Steven's wonder drug as a dud. The she realized she wasn't cold. Or hot. Or anything. She didn't feel the cable-knit of her sweater or the springs in the sofa.

Interesting.

The sound went next. Only a faint buzzing remained. Then she dozed off.

When she woke up, everything was black. At first she thought the sun had gone down, but it was darker than that. It wasn't even dark. It was as if she had fallen into some nameless void hidden under one of the couch cushions.

This must still be that fucking shit Steven gave me! Beth began to panic. Just like the first time she got high, the paranoid feeling that this would never end took hold of her. She closed her eyes, to no effect, and breathed deep.

When that wave of nausea ended, another one washed over her. A far more familiar one. Her fear of the dark. Of being alone in the dark.

She held her breath and froze, just like she had done since she was a child. Don't move and they won't see you. Don't look and they won't hurt you. Not that she could look. But that rationale was the same in her mind.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she couldn't take it any more. She opened one eye a sliver - still black. So she threw caution to the wind and open both lids wide. She stared out into the void and wondered what was staring back at her.

The cold was coming back. Or more likely this was a new cold. The chill that comes with irrational fear.

Slowly, slowly, Beth stood. After she was on her feat, she realized she wasn't sure where she had been before. Had she been laying down? Like a snail, she slid her left foot backward, groping for the couch. Nothing. Cautiously she took a silent step forward and didn't bump into the coffee table. She couldn't tell if she could feel the floor. Maybe she was bumping into stuff and not feeling it. But she knew that wasn't the case. This place was empty.

Empty except for - except for someone. Someone else was there. She could sense them. They were only a few feet away, perhaps inches. They could be almost nose-to-nose. She was afraid.

Beth was afraid, but she raised her right arm, extending it in front of her. The air was so still, it seemed to cling to the hairs on her arm like water drops from a fog. She reached out, her fingers trembling. And a hand took hold of hers. It was sudden, and grasped her fingers tightly. All the muscles she had tensed up in anticipation relaxed and made her feel like she was floating. She didn't need any light to see who the hand belonged to. The soft, but worn skin and firm, reassuring grip was enough.

She didn't say anything. She just let out her breath slowly, through barely parted lips. She knew that it would be him, waiting for her in the dark. Coming to meet her in this empty place. She didn't need anything else when he was there.

He pulled her closer. She laid her head on his chest. She hooked her thumbs in his pockets. The feel of his denim pants and old t-shirt came rushing back to her from months and years ago. She burried her face in his neck and took in his scent.

Beth breathed deep for the third and final time that day and knew how hard it would be to wake up.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

holes

I've been in and
I've been out
of this hole.
And in and
out of it
some more.

I've leapt in
guns a'blazin'
I've snuck in
like a navy seal.
I've climbed down
finding every hand hold.

But I only fell
in once.

Friday, October 24, 2008

sleep-over anyone?

I have a hard time falling asleep on a normal night. But when I'm home alone, it becomes a near impossibility. I worked eight hours today. I have to be up at 6:30 to go and work another eleven tomorrow. I am tired. I know I should sleep. Friggin' TV commercials for the "The Strangers" DVD. I wonder how many one night stands result from a fear of the dark?

I can't explain it. There is nothing rational about fear. If fear was rational it wouldn't be frightening. But somehow the empty spot I was starring at when I flicked the light switch suddenly, immediately, impossibly has the possibility of being occupied by a menacing figure once the lights are out.

I wish my dog were here.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

soundtrack

"Thunder" by Boys Like Girls is a terrible, terrible song. It is ridiculously sappy and pre-teen love idealistic. And, dammit, I like it. "Your voice was the soundtrack of my summer" is a stupid, ridiculous thing to say. But it struck a chord with me. Personal soundtracks. What is the soundtrack of your life? You can have one now, because of Apple's gift to man: the iPOD. But really the music you filter through your brain while you're on the bus or in line for krishna lunch is not what you remember. Other sounds make up the soundtrack to your life.

That intensely creepy version of "A Few of My favorite Things" that once issued from century tower. Those same bells chiming 10 p.m. on a cold and foggy night after poetry class. Frank, the Jesus-guy shouting about why we're all going to hell. The fire alarm in Graham Hall. Flip flops. Bike wheels zzzing over pavement. Drunken chants of "It's great to be a Florida Gator." These are the sounds that make up the "UF" track on my life's soundtrack.

(Another terrible song on the CD at work that got me thinking about this stuff: Taylor Swift's "Our Song.") Even when it comes to my spotty track record with boys. Of course I have a particular song that I associate with each guy I have cared about. (Incubus's "Wish You Were Here," The All American Rejects's "Dirty Little Secret," Peter Sarstedt's "Where Do You Go To My Lovely?") But these men have contributed much more meaning full tracks to my life's album.
Let's take "Dirty Little Secret" for instance. He provided a critcal piece to my "Time Spent Alone in my Dorm Freshman Year" track: a voice mail greeting of "Hello Darlin." The sound I hear when I picture him is not AAR's crooning, but they way he says the word "gorgeous," the plop of icecream dropping into the bottom of Trudy the vending machine, brushing sand off of denim, and the scraping of my desk on the tile of Ms. Hansen's classroom floor.
"Wish You were Here's" track is comprised of shuffling sneakers, soft snoring, trumpet rendition of the wedding march, my bedroom window sliding open (the loudest sound EVER), flicking a lighter, car doors, sneakers on the tile in building 11, and unwrapping fast food.

"Home" includes such selections as Cosmo's barking, Sonic theme music, golf commentary, old pages turning and crackling, the slapping of bare feet on tile.

I lost my iPOD this summer. At first I thought I would never get over the loss, but now I'm almost glad. Of course I still love to listen to music. But I want my life's soundtrack to be more unique that that of a dramedy romcom or episode of Scrubs.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Catch 22 Rant

I'm caught in a conundrum. When you're gone, I sink into a bout of depression. I feel tired and lazy. All I want to do is sleep. School work bores me and seems pointless as I continue to be malcontent. I work, but I spend too much money on things to make me forget I miss you. Mostly coffee and snacks and outfits to impress you when you return. When you're here I don't want to do anything but spend time with you. I fill our days with fun activities. And when I run out of those, I just want to get buzzed and lay around the apartment with you. I skip class and call out of work. I spend my money on the movies we see and the fast food we can't get enough of.

I want the life I cannot have. I want to be responsible and productive during the day and come home to goofing off with you at night. I don't want to worry about missing you tomorrow or how to get through today.

I want to go to sleep until you get back. I might as well, I'm already sinking into another three-week emotional coma.

Where did my friends go? Courtney got a boyfriend, so she's not inviting people over or dragging me along. Everyone is busy, busy, busy. I'm such a wall flower. A few weeks out of sight and I'm easily out of mind. Court throws a party and I'm worried the neighbors will complain. I throw a party and get 14 maybes.

And why do I feel like my life has become an episode of Friends? At least I don't have to change my name to play the part. I cried and he said this wouldn't happen. It did and I went back to my long-distance bipolar emotional cycle.

Friday, October 17, 2008

sweater weather

Somewhere that's not here the leaves are changing colours. And though there's beauty in my sky, I miss the reds and oranges from my crayon box. And when a chill wind cuts through the muggy high at mid afternoon, autumn is calling me from a place that isn't this one. I want to cocoon myself in cable-knit and feel the satisfying crunch underfoot. I want to rake up the fallen flames and hurl myself into their inferno. I want to to look out my window at a crisp blue sky and aniticipate the shiver of the fist step outdoors. I want to experience this mythical fall and savor my hot chocolate as it warms me from my hands and my throat. I want the friction of your hands on mine and a cold-lipped kiss that warms with lingering affection. It is such a stark visual in my head: us in sweaters and scarves and jeans and the trees on fire behind us. We're iceskating figure eights forever.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

revisiting a poem from last spring

raw emotion outside Pugh Hall:

If I stop to think about it
That struggling, fleshy pump of mine
will explode
It's already operating at full capacity.
Just to move stuff limbs away from you.

I would strip the flesh from my bones
In reverse paper mache
To stop your self digestion
Keep peeling back till
tendons pulling on my bones exposed.

Feeble organic cords are nothing
next to the steel wires
of my puppeteering ex-lover.
Fused with every major artery
Strategically cutting of blood supply to the brain.

I've spent eons hacking away
At these predatory vines taking root.
But I'm infected - system error.
I can only hope to qurantine the virus.
Are you sure you want to delete this file?

No.
No.
No.

A week later's revision:

If I stop to think about it
That struggling fleshy pump
will explode
Already operating at full capacity
To move stiff limbs away from you.

I would strip the flesh from my bones
In reverse paper mache
To stop your self digestion
Keep peeling back till tendons
Pulling on my bones expose

Feeble organic cords are nothing
Next to the steel wires
Of a puppeteering ex-lover
Fused with every major artery
Strategically keeping blood from my brain

I’ve spent eons hacking away
At these predatory vines taking root
But I’m infected. System error.
Are you sure you want to delete this file?

No.
No.
No.

should be doing homework at present:

Too late to hit the breaks
Hydroplaning on salty solution
that never made it below the bridge
Brine that eats away at the hull
I watch those molars gnashing

flesh stripped from my marrow
in beautiful reverse paper mache
To halt your self-digestion
I'll peel myself in a strip tease
guaranteed to over-expose

feeble organic strings snap,
splatter on the copper wires
of my puppeteer's design
to keep the oxygen from the brain
Bitter metal in my mouth I taste

the delicate hacking of an old blade
at predatory vines taken root

bleh. it may never be good.

By the time the hot tears make it down to my lips, my mouth is dry cotton and and I lick them up. They taste like the ocean. The ocean tastes like you in the shower, after the beach, after a hard night's work. My face in the crook between your chin and your chest is just like my face pressing into a pillow sobbing. How could I have not seen this coming?