Archive for the ‘the human condition’ Category
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The wind tugs at her hair, longer now than when she lived here, and a feeling that she can’t name comes like something she has always known, and she has no interest climbing farther, because she knows now that the home she remembers is no longer there. Only its shell, humming in the wind, where once she lay wrapped in blankets, smelling machinist’s grease and coffee and fresh-cut wood.
Where, it comes to her, she was sometimes happy, in the sense of being somehow complete, and ready for what another day might bring.
And knows she is no longer that, and that while she was, she scarcely knew it. Read the rest of this entry »
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The Sleep of Reason Brings Forth Monsters
It’s funny, but not in an amusing way, but rather in an odd, “isn’t-it-strange” kind of way, how sometimes it all comes flooding back, the ghosts and the memories they bear. A month or two can go by, and there are no dreams, even though it comes up in casual conversation, that death of a loved one.
But they are never far away though. They are always there, lurking just below the surface, that frail veneer of normalcy you present to the world. You know this, because you’ve lived with it for some years now. But sometimes, there are stretches of time when the environment around you, the fates, and your own mind all collude to lull you into a false sense of security; perhaps you even foolishly dare to think that you are “over it,” as if you ever can or will be over it – as if you have a choice in this matter — when deep down you know that can never be. That at best, you’ll adapt, like an amputee adjusting to losing a limb: her life goes on and she learns how to do without, but that phantom pain never quite goes away — indeed, it flares up when she least expects it.
In much the same way, you never know when something will whisk you back into those moments to relive yet again for the gods-only-know-how-many times those awful, terrible moments, the dreadful movie playing behind your eyes in all its vivid, mental Technicolor glory. Sometimes you don’t see it coming; the most tenuous reminders – a smell, an uttered phrase, an object on your dresser – they can collude to send you back to those moments unwillingly to live them all again. And sometimes it’s just for the briefest of moments before you can return to your façade; sometimes the ghosts even let you sleep unperturbed.
On the Road at 3 a.m. with Bobby and Beth
What is it about the open road at night, nothing but moon and starlight, the hum of tires on lonely asphalt, and the occasional snippet of summer insect song through an open window as I drive along, that soothes my restless soul?
What is it about the humid, warm wind rushing through my hair and over my face as the soft, silky voice of a British siren whispers in my ear through the windy din that brings peace to my restless heart?
Even with no particular place to go, and the knowledge that I’ll have to turn around and point myself towards “home” eventually, well before the dawn comes — what is it about this suspended, sublime moment of sound and motion that brings solace?
A Tale of Wasabic Victory
It is a landmark day, today. In the future humanity will look back on July 13, 2009, and rejoice — enjoying a respite from the ongoing desertification of planet Earth. They will put down their dishes of Soylent Green, put on their respirators and UV-resistant clothing, and run outside and lift their voices in song.
Because on this day, I didn’t make too much wasabi.
Yes, on this remarkable day, at approximately 9:45 p.m., it became clear that I would not have too little wasabi to go with my sushi, nor would I have way too much. But, as the photograph illustrates, there was very little left — perhaps enough for one more piece, had I one. It is a glorious thing.
The Disc Doctor Has Left the Building
And this mortal coil.
Watching all of the fuss over Michael Jackson the past few days, marveling over all of the people mourning his death, holding vigil at his star on Hollywood Boulevard, or wherever those things are kept, I couldn’t help but feel angry. Why are these people crying and carrying on over someone they have never met in real life? Okay, fine, you enjoyed his music … but you didn’t know him, so how can you truly mourn him? Are your emotions that cheap?
I can’t help but think that the multitudes of fans we see on video carrying on over Michael Jackson in the streets of cities all around the world are ones that have never lost someone truly close to them – never had someone they dearly loved taken from them – and that they are fools, one and all. With their crocodile tears they mock everyone past and present that has watched someone they truly love and know die.
But such is life. For the first time in some months, I dreamed of my father, the other night. I guess Michael Jackson’s death is big news even in the realm of the dead; the ghosts are stirring and agitated.