Carlo

Carlo

7 am (some italian village undecided)

The streets are beginning to rise out of the deathlike coma they go into every night, not too much longer after dark. It is almost as if the streets need to loosen their stiffened ligaments after a night of bed pans and bed sore preventive measures.  The 5 am sponge bath forces them awake unwillingly.  

It is a small village of only about 5,000 people, so any kind of nightlife occurs within the confines of people’s property.  There is only one bar in town owned by some Egyptians. We jokingly quip that if you end up drinking too much there, your liver will somehow wind up in a canopic jar and put in the vault in the back room.  There are a few remaining decorations still suspended from the storefronts from yesterday’s parade, but other than that, the village is void of any kind of humanity.  I walk quickly, gradually ascending the slight hill.  The air is chilled, and I had forgotten my sweater when i left.  It had been a long night filled with restless sleep and lack of ability to get comfortable in the flat Italian bed. You just never get used to these beds if you have originally come from America.  Sleep last night stayed as far away as my childhood home.

I stop at the bakery to purchase some bread before I make my way homeward.  I notice upon leaving, a young man languidly leaning against the side of one of the shops. The look on his face was one of a sort of innocent petulant aggression.  Like someone putting on a good show of fortitude and irritation, yet not quite coming close to the mark.  Instead of coming across imposing, he comes across as more captivating, giving a sort of mystique to his persona.  As I am walking past, he says “Scusi” in a lower voice than expected.  His clothes are crisp and freshly laundered.  He wears stunning black boots, a white dress shirt, and a thin black tie.  His hair is shorn down into a punk-like spiked style, bleached blonde but with darker regrowth catching up with him. He has a lighter complexion and almost grey eyes that are set off by the paleness of his skin.  He wears a long, dangly earring from his left ear with a shape at the bottom that I can’t make out.  I notice his hands are large and rather strong and masculine,  which stand in striking contrast to the rest of his physicality--he is androgynous.  It was actually difficult to tell from afar what his sex is, but clearly “he” walks a fine line between the genders. He wears an obviously deliberate pout on his lips in order to appear lackadaisical.  He does succeed while adding in a bit of sexiness and a lot of gaunt charm.

“May I ask you where you live?” he says in heavily accented italian.  

I respond in my own awkward italian making me sound like a stuttering American fool, compared to the speed and finesse of which he started the conversation. In English he returns my awkwardness right back to me:

“Then I will escort you home, madam.”

He puts his arm through my own and leads me quickly towards the end of the street.

“Carlo”, he says and holds out his hand.

“Clarissa,” I respond and shake it gently.

His boots click and clack against the concrete of the road, making a high pitched sound that reverberates and echoes against the surrounding buildings.

“Don’t be angry with my italian. It knows not what it does.” I giggle, sounding a little childlike.

There is at best a 20 year difference between us, so perhaps, I was subconsciously attempting to narrow the gap.  There is something about the Italian male though.  Not just this one, but in fact, all of them have this bond that hold them together.  I analyze him as a reflection of “them” and wonder why I am so drawn to them. He is different though, but I can’t quite place why just yet.

“I appreciate your chivalry, Carlo.”

“Chivalry is not dead, bellissima.”  He grins and laughs; his grin a little lopsided and demure.

“I am new here. Freshly moved from Roma.  I am living in the apartment of my aunt on Via Vardi.  So this right here is in fact a true attempt to make friendship with you, Clarissa.”

“Well, it is nice to be part of your welcoming committee then, Carlo!” I respond warmly.

“I have been living here in this village for….well, I guess it has been almost 8 years now!  It doesn’t seem that long at all.  I live at the villa on the top of this hill.  You can kind of see it through these trees if you look closely.”

“Most definitely beautiful. And the views?”

“Amazing! It is why we bought it.  You will have to come visit with us some time.  For tea maybe or a glass of wine in the evening.  I would love to show you my home. I am a little too proud of my garden too, so you will have to suffer through that.” haha.

“And I am sure my husband would love to meet you as well.  He’s an artist.  Fairly well known and I am...well, I can know definitely that he will show you his sculptures.  Our home is full of them. Both inside and outside. He is eccentric though. I do warn you ahead of time.” I smile.

“Aren’t all artists though?” Carlo responds coyly.

“Yes. That they are! I don’t think one trait can exist without the other.”

He smooths his tie down as we stop to cross the street.  He turns to face me.

“Clarissa, it has been a pleasure to meet you and to talk with you.”

I notice he looks me directly in the eyes without shame or self consciousness.

“I know that we will come to be great friends.”

He grabs my arm again as we cross.  The cars pass by as he hands me off through my gate.

“Safe and sound.” he confidently announces, turns, and tip taps his way back down the hill. He turns and tips his pretend hat.  “Ciao, Clarissa.”

I tap in the security code and enter my lair.

“Goodbye, Carlo,” but he is already gone.

It was a cat at the end of his earring, dangling there. I just noticed that I had noticed it. Curious.

Down Dog

Down Dog

You are late again. The boss is waiting for you at the door to your office.  The look on your face is that of a dog who has misbehaved and is helplessly submitting. He shuts the door behind you and proceeds to go through the general rules of the organization. You watch and sweat as he writes up the pink slip and tells you that you are on probation for 2 weeks. You look like you are about to cry, but you attempt to hide it. This attempt makes it even more obvious that you are upset.  You wander out of the building after lunch time and , when you are beyond hearing distance, you call “him” up:  the one who has caused you to become something that you are not over the last two months.

He scolds you. You desperately search for an explanation. He is not buying any of it.  It is obvious that you are lying. He knows it and you know that he knows it. So you will play this charade until one of you backs down. It will be you.  That is clear from the current conversation. He has you cornered in more ways than one, so the only way out right now is to become another person entirely and drop your life as you know it. You had opened up too much to the person whom you should not have trusted.  He is used to it though. Most people do.  Can one really blame oneself for being manipulated?

I call the number.  It is the last thing I want to do.  My voice cracks as I tell him that I am not going to help him today.  I attempt to explain that I am ill, and I need to sleep. I try to tone down my normal enthusiasm and make my voice monotone and languid. There is silence at the other end of the line. Oh shit.  He replies, “I have another job for you. I expect that you do it. We made an agreement.”  The firmness is almost palpable as he says this.  “Please. I just can’t. I won’t do well, and I will blow the cover I have taken so long to create. Not today. I just can’t do it!”, I plead. I suppose I must sound desperate. But can he tell I am lying?  “2 pm. Markham Square. The man in the yellow.” That’s all he says. There are too many moments of silence that follow. I hesitate on how I should respond.

1:55 pm. You wait.  You have on the outfit you normally wear. You are The Man in the Red. Funny how this phrase can have multiple meanings. Did he give you this intentionally? You pace along the fountain’s edge.  A man walks up to you asking for change. You pace away, stumbling a little, eyes darting around hoping that no one saw this. You are determined. That is clear. But you are obviously nervous, and everyone around you is giving you sideways glances. You are calling too much attention to yourself.  Your backpack is heavy, and it is weighing you down. You start to slouch forward to compensate. The heat is getting to you today, but you are trying not to show it. You continue to pace:  back and forth along the circular path of the fountain. The lady that is sitting at the path’s center seems nervous and is watching you.  She is eating some kind of energy bar. She is wearing a tailored skirt and a floral blouse, all in accents of red. You could both be inside a store display window, you match so well.  “Sir, is there something wrong? You seem nervous. Can I help you in some way?” At least she knows enough to trust me. I haven’t blown that cover.  A spot of yellow leaps into your field of vision, and you are startled. You never respond to the woman.  You see the man stop in front of the hedge in the distance.

You watch precisely where he places them. He follows instructions carefully. He is calm and relaxed and does not call attention to himself. He deserves a medal.  A few minutes later, after he places the remainder, he walks away. He did not follow the plan. You stop and stand there in shock. Sweat pouring down your face. Now what?? The woman continues to watch you. There is a policeman walking down the sidewalk near the street. You sit down on the edge of the fountain. You are obviously relieved, and this calms your nervousness somewhat.  You watch as the cop turns the corner onto the next street. You catch your breath and appear to think on what to do next. You look down to the ground.

A quick POP is heard. Like a champagne bottle being opened. No one seems to notice. The hum from the crowd and the cars appears to have muffled the sound a little. You fall to the side. Or should I say “slump”. You remain in the same position, just horizontal instead of vertical. There is a far away look in your eyes as the red from your shirt appears to bleed into the surroundings. The fountain fills with your blood as if someone opened up a plug in your back to release it and drain you. Your expression is one of relief and calm, as if the disease has left your body. People start to notice and run around in panic. Your eyes close.

A sharp jab. The pain is unimaginable. So this is how it feels. He shot me. That was the plan. The man in yellow follows through without fear.

So, so tired. I’m going to rest now. My body feels lifeless, and I long to sleep. I will allow it to happen. Why fight it now? Relax and let the inertia take hold. I lie to the side to just feel the calm. I close my eyes and just... let it happen.

Richard's Death

They say it happened at 4:02 am. But how could they know that?  Lying in his own bodily fluids, his breath had stopped at some moment, but there had been no one there to see it.  If the sound of air flowing and the motion of the belly stops, and no one is there to see it, what then? As that night died away towards morning, Richard had lost his own life.  One could argue though that he had only had night towards the end.  He was lost in an oblivion of chemical delusion. Nothing was true or real to him. Like the madness of darkness and its uncertainty, his life became a Bacchanalian farce: hedonism gone completely wrong to the point of pathos.

The day before had been madness.  Clarissa felt something was different.  She was frantic that day, attempting to appease his wildly spinning thoughts.  First he was cold and shivering one moment, then accusatory and condemning as she brought him his blanket.

It was as if she was his guide towards death that day. As she comforted him and made his pain easier, he prepared himself for the uncertainty beyond.  Faith became something that was not to be relied upon.  To Richard, doubt became his faith.  Everything became doubt at the end, even the person with whom he had spent his last years.

She had found him when she awoke the next morning. She was pulling open the doors to let in the sunshine, when she spotted him flopped onto the staircase.  The position he was in was almost grotesque.  He was slumped over as if he were a doll that had had its legs pulled up to its ears.  His clothes were stained with vomit and his mouth was filled with foam and what looked like gastric fluid.  She ran to check on him, but stopped as she approached.  It was quite clear he was dead. She thought to herself how fortunate it was that his eyes were closed.  She dialed the police to come because, although she was sure of his demise (having been sure that this moment would come for years), she wanted the police to do a thorough investigation so that any talk in town would be based on facts, not hearsay.  In fact, no one had been at the villa to visit for days, maybe even a week.  She would give Richard that at least, protecting what little dignity he had left at the end.

When the police came, they noted the bottles all around in their report, with details included of brand name and amounts left in each bottle.  They noted Richard’s position and did some measurements of his body.  They took temperature readings and employed a few calculations to determine however oddly the specific time of death. There was an investigator making some drawings complete with lines of force and mass.  There was zero evidence of any blood.  Clarissa noted this in her mind as being an odd sort of crime scene. They noted the broken black railing and discussed this piece of evidence for a few minutes (merely neglect on our part without any other significance). They asked her questions about his mental state yesterday and whether he had taken any other substances besides alcohol.  They took fingerprint samples of the bottles, the house, the stair railing, the doors to the outside.  They asked her detailed questions about what they had done yesterday.  What time did they dine? Had they left the house? Had Richard alluded to his feeling odd or hopeless? They offered her counseling and gave her the card of someone who could help. Clarissa was evidently numb though. She did not cry.   I am sure that piece of evidence was to be included in the report as well. From the outside apparently emotionless, but what they didn’t recognize was that her insides were being torn apart, pulled inside out with every breath. Does she want the body sent for autopsy? She replied yes, if only to see the proof of what both Richard and she had gone through for years:  the effect chemicals had on his physical body and the strain that was placed on him, explaining his inability to cope, connect, understand, believe, and eventually survive.

The police left and the coroner came to collect what was left of Richard.  She shook his hand with a limp grasp, and he assured her that he would do his best to render the report thorough, leaving out nothing.  He gave her the information she needed about what to do afterwards, and she listened numbly, nothing really registering in her mind at this point.  The van drove down the hill, and she watched as he left her. She thought of him in that van. She felt guilty that she let him go off alone. This is the first and only time Richard had left her.  He stuck around with her for 15 years.  He had loved her, she knew, and she had loved him in his madness. He was 51 years old: a boy trapped inside a man’s body. She said goodbye to him for the first and last time.

Runaway Train

Runaway Train

Adam the player. The name will forever be embedded in my mind now for all eternity.  I think what brought it there was when I was shown pictures of his sorry ass on Facebook; each picture living proof of his ability to either draw women into his presence or pay them to be in his photos, so that he can look like he has that skill.  I may never know. For I never met the guy, only heard about his travails second hand while sitting on a train from NYC. I`ll never forget the idea of a guy who wants his balls tied up either and Rocko. Who could forget about Rocko anyway?

The story began with Adam and Summer. Adam is a troubled guy, newly divorced from a wife who was unfaithful, and who is on a vendetta against the world.  He sometimes wears a condom. Sometimes. So statistically speaking it really is a matter of time. But this really isn't the main danger. Not at all. With every woman, every one night stand, he is brought further into life's meaningless black hole.  Too much time there, and he won't even have the choice to leave.

The joys of the train. I went to NYC to meet some friends.  That was my primary objective. Secondarily, to get away from it all. To clear my head from all the complications that have built up over the last year or so.  It did work. The train ride there gave me that. The train ride back gave me something else entirely. Something entirely unexpected, that is.  

Now let's get back to the point. Not that my life is not the point because it is! Totally the point. A point within a point within a point.

I am going to call the man sitting next to me my train companion now because I feel bad about exposing his real name. He had traveled from Chicago to NYC to attend his cousin's wedding at the Ritz Carlton.  He met his mom there because she had taken the plane instead.  Given the fact that the train takes 20 hours, I can perfectly understand why this choice was made.  He is with me now on his train ride home. I will be arriving in Buffalo at just after midnight, while his time of arrival is at 9 am. He tells me a bit about himself, takes a nap, and wakes up.  We get acquainted a little more  He started by telling me about where he lives in Naperville and about Adam:  a man that lives in his singles complex and who likes to tell him about the girls he has hooked up with. He shows him their photos, tells him how they mean nothing to him.  We look him up on Facebook and he shows me the photos of Adam with various groups of females. We discuss who is pretty and who is not, whether Adam is good looking (No not really. He totally looks his role.), and whether the women really were into him (probably not!)  My train partner was completely baffled by Adam's rakelike behavior.  "What a waste of time!  To treat people like that. I'm a good caring guy you know. I would feel bad about doing that to women. You should see how he treats this girl Summer!", he says. Even though he says all of this and admits it is not so ethically correct, he does get to see all the headless, naked photos these women send Adam.  Privileged to take part in the spoils of Adam's war against the female sex.    "Although I do go to a swinger's club," my eyes widening as he says that.  My mouth in O formation.  "I ask the Lord for forgiveness each time and I know that it is wrong, but I am a lonely guy you know". Visions start to spin in my head over all the lonely people in this world and how there must be miles and miles of swinger's clubs that I don't yet know about. He continues to tell me about the goings on in this particular swinger's club connected to a porn shop in the middle of a strip mall in a suburb of Chicago. There is a couple's area roped off from the area corralling all the single guys, as if they have to be contained for some reason. Sometimes the single guys are lucky enough to be called upon to join a couple in their escapades in a private room.  I am still not quite sure what they do while they are roped off though. My head starts to spin as he continues and I have visions of Roman eunuchs being forced into subservience.

I guess one of the guys that he is corralled with, he befriends. I don't remember this guy's name, but I do remember that my partner felt he might be at least bisexual given his propensity towards double penetration and having his balls tied up.  Not quite sure why that second part makes him bisexual, but maybe I was seeing a little bias going on. Who knows? Anyway this particular person, we will call him Jay, keeps asking my partner, who is clearly heterosexual, to come over to watch porn with him. What in the bloody hell would two guys be doing watching porn together anyway, unless the guy is homosexual? My partner never seems to have the ability to deduce these things and maybe choose not to go along with these people? It is interesting to me, but maybe he is just an accepting guy. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that.

So let's go back to the point here.  No more side stories, but you must admit those are fun right? Adam and Summer. Rocko and Summer. Rocko and Adam. Sadly no, but if this were a work of fiction, I would be right on that. Incidentally, my train partner did invite Summer to the swinger's club, but she declined. Why? She didn't want to run into Rocko, who lives in that town.  Incidentally, this particular town has the highest rate of STD's in the nation. With people like Adam running around, it is not hard to see why.  What are the chances? I ask?  I am, by this point, completely and utterly amused by all of this. So I ask him, "Are you telling me stories?" He becomes genuinely upset that I have to ask and becomes offended.  So I stop questioning. I can tell by his reaction that it is all the truth. Sometimes truth is better than fiction, and even more unlikely, after all.

So let me try to get these various characters straight for you.  Adam is the player. He decided to surreptitiously get involved with Summer as a fling or conquest. Summer is troubled. She had a baby by Rocko who abused her and liked to tie her up, but according to my train companion, she let him and didn't mind. So of course, she must be damaged and have some low self esteem problems. Of course.  She is now obsessed with Adam. Calls him constantly, but according to Adam, he wants nothing to do with her.  But, see, Adam has had a rough go of it himself. He has a child by some hispanic girl and is divorced. So he has to travel an hour just to see his child. He is also recovering from a divorce so this has affected his ability to form bonds with others. In other words, he treats people badly because he has been treated badly. Summer keeps calling him, Adam keeps responding. Instead of cutting it off cleanly with her, he continues to lead her on. He tries to pawn her off on my train companion, but when he asks her out and tries to get close, she goes to Adam and claims he is stalking her.  All the while Summer is doing the same thing to Adam.  In other words, these are two seemingly damaged people playing with each other.  Getting what they need from each other. Neither one wants to drop the ball and thus, the game will continue indefinitely. I tell my train companion that it sounds like they are meant for each other.  And that maybe, just maybe, they need each other.Meanwhile, Adam begins to find girls online. He figures he can branch out a little and take road trips trying to get even more game outside his comfort zone. First time out there, he gets denied. The girl won't give him what he wants. So he gets pissed. He drove all that way for nothing . Poor, poor Adam.

I tell my train companion flat out that he needs to stop going to those swinger's clubs.  He is obviously conflicted about it and this bothers him. But he says because he is lonely, he just can't.  He tries, but cannot. I guess middle aged sexual difficulties are beginning to get to both him and Adam. Adam needs to take Cialix and my companion claims that he doesn't get as hard as he used to. So maybe that's all it is. Age and the fleeting nature of time. They both see their ability going away and they aren't getting any younger.  Better enjoy it while you can.  There are more than enough girls to go around for Adam though, but what about for my companion.  He is a nice guy, and I am sure he could make some girl happy.  It is the question of the ages. To want what you cannot have, to never be happy with what can be acquired easily, to never be content unless there is some sort of game or challenge involved. Life is not fair. And unfortunately, my companion does not have his fair share of luck. Or does he?

He did escape all the mess of life. Never married, no children. He can take a 20 hour train trip to NYC no problem at all because he has no ties. He is free to talk to whom he wants, free to be with whom he wants, and doesn't have much of a care in the world.... He can laugh at others' foibles confidently knowing he is basically doing right by himself.  And that, my friends, is a very good thing..  He also knows right from wrong, even though he may not follow his own rules. He still has rules to begin with. Now that is saying something. Something that Adam does not have.  He is still trying to feel his way through the world and all of its intricacies while my companion has the wisdom of an observer. That cannot be bad.

I arrive in Buffalo and my companion asks me, " Have you remembered everything? Should you write this all down?" I confidently state that I will never forget, and I won't.  This is the strangest trip I have ever taken. I give him the website to my blog and tell him to wait about two weeks for me to finish the story.  I am sure he will be pleased to see I have kept my word.  His stories have become part of my stories. And my own story has been affected by his. It is like a nesting doll made of stories continuing down, each wrapping around and nestling within the other.  I can only hope that my own story affects his as well and that just our small connection continues to create change in both of our lives miles and miles away.

To my dear travel companion,
Thank you for this.  I am honored to be given the opportunity to allow your words to/live on.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Anais Nin, how did you do it? Put your thoughts on the page in such a way as to be, not only interesting, but spoken from the heart?

For instance, just these few simple lines tell us so much of your story:

“A summer evening.  Henry and I are eating in a small restaurant wide open to the street.  We are part of the street.  The wine that runs down my throat runs down many other throats.”

Did you know others would be reading this or is the freedom that you felt through privacy what gave you the ability to remain open?

Like you, I wish to document my own life.  But there is always that fear of exposure, the knowing that my words will be twisted and misinterpreted in such a way to break down my character in the end.  I don’t want my concrete words written to be “the end”.  I want them to continue on infinitely until, not only am I understood, but I cannot be pinned down, at the same time.  Seemingly a contradiction of sorts, but not really.  Not in my mind anyway.  To be given our own true voice: unique, non-categorizable, strong, true, honest, forthcoming, sometimes, blunt, other times, subtle.  At the same time, we are left with vulnerability, openness to criticism and hurt: some of the bad effects of writing straight from the heart.  The ideas, thoughts, feelings that are most precious to us are what will kill us in the end potentially.  So we board them back up again, put them away safely, so no one can access them. Sad though because no one will understand them either, or us for that matter. So we are lost.  Our lives don’t matter.

Anais has not been lost though.  She left us nine volumes of diaries and four journals spanning 60 years (1914-1974). We have all of her own words, thoughts, and impressions on paper to be read by millions of eyes through time.  Was she afraid?  Were you afraid, Anais?  Did you regret it or was documenting who you are a part of who you are? We even get access to Henry Miller’s own words that he had written to her: just as raw, just as open.  Their relationship must have been one of a rare sort of closeness for her to have access to thoughts like these:

“Why don’t I get down on my knees and just worship you? I can’t, I love you laughingly.  Do you like that?  And dear Anais, I am so many things.  You are only the good things now-or at least you had me believe so.  I want you for a whole day at least.  I want to go places with you.  Possess you.  You don’t know how insatiable I am.  How dastardly.  And how selfish!”

I struggle. Every time I take pen and paper, I wonder what to actually write down.  Which of my million and one thoughts should I capture?  It’s like trying to capture one raindrop.  Are all raindrops a valid sampling of the sky?

Here is my first raindrop then:

What if we had no set character to ourselves, just moments in time?  What if we were all made anew with each moment, saying goodbye to that person we were the day before? Farewell to the old and on with the new? Make a fresh start? Reminds me of the movie Groundhog Day. He perfected himself in the end and each day he learned his lesson in order to move on to the next with more knowledge in his storehouse of experience.  If only. If only we were given chances like this. But, aren’t we?

Oh god this seems to be getting long. I’m not saying very much, and I am sure it is boring. But then again if you are still with me reading this, you must not feel like I am wasting your time.  Unless of course you have a gun to your head.  There is always that possibility.

Next raindrop:  Why do I potentially wish to entertain even with the words in my own diary?  Why do I always request an audience?  Can’t I write purely without a receiver? Can’t I let these words go out into oblivion for no one to see?  Like a letter in a bottle sent floating out to sea, only to return eventually to that same lonely shore from which it left.

Yet another raindrop: I hate polished writing.  It seems false to me, less earthy, less raw and from the core.  It is as if we are editing away our essence, who we are right at that moment.  I want to keep every first draft ever written in a gigantic volume as proof that people are real and what we see every day in our lives and experience is the truth, not a digested published form of the truth. I want to see beautifully flawed individuals, not perfect versions of themselves.

Human. What a word. Still an animal, yet different.  The word “human” is different than the term “humanism”. Humanism is the idealized form of humanity: humanity reaching its highest potential. “Human” accepts flaws and imperfections. As humans, let’s keep our writing going, let’s not be stifled or edited out.  Let’s keep ourselves intact. Let’s keep our voices free and our minds open.

Perhaps the final raindrop:  I feel perpetually misunderstood. But taking a step backwards, it is perhaps only due to my wish to be understood by everyone and anyone at all. In reality I know this will never happen.  Life is not designed this way. I still wish for it though in my idealistic fantasies. Problem is I try to meld reality with fantasy.  Naive? Maybe. Forever disappointed? Definitely. How about being more selective? Yes.

I always speak in questions, never in answers. I have no answers! Only feelings and how I respond to reality, always asking more questions, and I how I respond to how others respond to me. Confused yet? I am sure. So am I. This is how I navigate my life daily.  I ask the questions i encounter and continue on. No wonder I usually feel disappointed and a failure by the end of the day. I just cannot win with these kinds of expectations.

I cannot end this journal entry on this note.  Such a negative feeling to leave on.  To leave whom? I guess me. I suppose I should ultimately be kind to myself above all else so here’s to the last raindrop:

Last raindrop, The One to Sum All:  Life is struggle. We all know that.  Even speaking about life is a struggle. We wake up everyday knowing that it won’t be easy.  Yet we still wake up, most of us anyway, to the sun, greeting it with open arms and endless hope. The day is what we live for.  To have the ability to open our eyes once again, like we have been doing every morning that we can remember, and have the privilege to breathe, eat, move think, drink, feel, touch, listen, truly see, merge, and love with abandonment.  We all have this in common-whether we like it or not. Those who don’t? Well, they don’t get to see that sunrise. But perhaps they simply don’t wish to.

Anything is possible.

"We March": An Experiment with Monologue at Its Core

We March

We finally make it to the beach in one piece, after marching like soldiers, each equipped with our compatible loads on our backs: beach blankets, towels, umbrellas, food cooler half full with beer, football, sunscreen, blow up floats, still deflated of course. We help each other to set up our territory among the scattered blankets around, careful not to upset the others, leaving the appropriate distance between us.

We sit down in our chairs with our beers, to relax at last, when, over the sounds of waves and seagulls and distant music, Carl begins to speak, out of the blue.  Ordinarily a very quiet guy, always reflective, he now becomes animated and engaged, as if the beach itself has enlivened him:

“By any chance did you see the crushed and tattered egg that we passed on our way over the stony area of beach under the trees?”

None of us admitted to having remembered or even noticed.

“A potential life is discarded there amongst the stones from its home like a piece of trash on the beach. Discarded even before it has had the chance to pop its head out and look around to see if it even likes our world.” He pauses for a few moments. “When we were born, did we like it here? Or did we find the world cold, harsh, unwelcoming, sterile--like a hospital operating room filled with the scent of betadine and latex and the faint smell of stale expensive cologne coming from underneath the doctor’s scrubs? Was that cologne given to the doctor by his wife, carefully chosen to provoke the desired reaction, primarily from her own physical response to the scent, not even having touched his skin yet? Does the newborn baby wonder what all of this means? What were those smells and why did they both appeal to him and revolt him at the same time? Does the baby want to return to his safe haven, pull the blanket back up so that he is comfortable again, back to a place where he did not require a thing? All of his needs were met by his mother. No questions asked. No intrusion by enemy environmental irritations. Just bliss. Throughout our lives, do we search for this bliss? Do we wish to return, forever longing for that which we left behind?”

Carl adjusts his lounge chair so that he can lie back more comfortably. He looks out to sea for a while, a far away look in his eyes.

“Did we even belong here? Or would someone, our mother, our father, have thrown us out of the nest had they the choice? The nurses that are present on that day, on that shift, at that hour and moment, care for us with confident hands. Bathing us, washing away the afterbirth, allowing us to become one with the present moment in time. We are not after birth then. We are wiped clean, and our slate becomes fresh and untethered. We are then, and only then, allowed to become one with the present moment in time.  For the first and only time. Once we are given a name, placed into the family line, the biological evidence is discarded to make room for the genealogical, the social and familial hierarchy. So, I ask once again, do we belong here? or have we been forced here against our will? Did we even have a choice?  Could we actually admit to ourselves and to others that life is, in fact, the ultimate imprisonment, the biggest lie that we face? And again do we even belong here?”

Sophie drops her beer and gasps.

“Carl, that’s enough! What in the world has gotten into you today? Let’s just enjoy the beach, ok? I didn’t come here to get all philosophical. Jeez.”

She sighs and lays back down, flipping over on her stomach. After a moment, she decides to put her earbuds in her ears, to block out Carl’s musings entirely, entering her version of bliss.

John and Carol are still just sitting there. Listening silently. John is smoking and has a far away look in his eye. Carol is staring at Carl, admiring his tanned legs, a longing look in her eye. Carl is still gazing out to sea.

He gets up suddenly, throws open the top of the cooler and takes out a hoagie. Tuna, maybe? He begins to eat ravenously, like a man who has been on hunger fast for weeks.He turns towards the ocean, his back to Carol. He brings the hoagie to his lips and starts to sing. Softly at first, then louder. People are starting to turn around. The song is not recognizable, but his voice is stunningly strong. He continues to eat and tenses his muscles as he belts out the tune. The whole beach watches in awe.

Carl has now become, through his own devices, the star of his own show, the key player in his own life, if only for a moment. That particular moment in time. For that moment, his past and future disappear. He is only himself. Not Carl. Just himself. The guy with the tanned legs, the voracious hunger, and the limitless spirit.

Clearing off the dust of an old poem.

A Poem: written in the morning

So many nights of struggle, of convincing and persuasion. 

I am lost in a sea of words forgotten or misread or even twisted now 

 into words proclaimed in anger or hate or apathy

It is not so

I would never do this, never be unmasked as your villain. 

I want to understand this prison you're in 

that possesses this strange power to  create the bars that hold you with every word or action that is uttered or made

I want to do this out of love

Not some sort of masochistic revenge on myself to make myself suffer

Not a desire for misery or self flagellation

Love

And the feeling that I am strong enough now to endure

I do see some of myself in this 

Maybe that's why

Maybe I do understand deep inside

Maybe you recognize me and it scares you

Maybe we are good for each other

Maybe we can endure mirages and those storms of emotions that won't let go

Maybe we can endure this because we both understand 

We can both feed and nourish the other

Not kill and annihilate like it has always been.

Before we were two maelstroms left to rage in emptiness

Now we connect and impede the storm

We will hold the storm inside our arms so it cannot get out. 

Don't drift away because then I can't reach you

Don't drift because now

You are just out of reach of my arms

I can't help to keep the storm away that way

We will keep the storm away.