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sunset in maui

Sunset in Maui

As I sit, the sun setting,

Watching the world turn,

The color leaves

Negative space.

Shadows of trees

fade to black.

I avoid the point

On the horizon.

As I watch, the edges blurring,

Bursting the final colors,

The sky converges

To a motion.

Strands of clouds

Crowd the glow.

I avoid the thought

Of her eyes.

As I think, the pallets flickering,

Waving the desperate goodbye,

The light flails

Going out.

Importance of things

Do not shift.

I avoid the emotion

From the other side.

She was not looking at me but past me.

something to mourn

The first cemetery I ever visited was Arlington cemetery in D.C.  It was supposed to be grand and marvelous, but the sky was overcast that day, the white marble didn’t sparkle with honor or glory. The flowers seemed not to give off anything they were supposed to, no emotion of remembrance or forgiveness; just slowly decaying life under that sky. Older sections were tombstones of all different shapes and sizes, mostly big, honoring fallen heroes, I suppose. But the majority of the sections were crosses. Endless rows of crosses. They had run out of space for big ornate tombs for the heroes, our guide had said. Now they were all just crosses. I suppose they didn’t have a choice when it happened. I suppose they had no idea. I felt they’d been cheated. I felt as thought I had borne witness to this betrayal. I felt as though I was a conspirator watching the changing of the guard. I felt as though I could never honor these men as much as they deserved. I wondered if that was death.

The second was in West Virginia Mt. lookout cemetery. It was much smaller than Arlington. Just the families that had lived in that small town their whole lives I guess.  A small patch in the back of the church, where someone thought it would be a good place. Someone’s dewy backyard, quaint. I saw the grave markers of my father’s family going back and back and back. I saw what seemed to be my great-great-great-grandmother, if I could read the moss correctly. I saw that my great grandfather died when he was only fifty. I guess he hadn’t put much thought into where it was he would be in the end. I wonder if he liked it there. But he was only a name on a tombstone. A name and a date. I have seen no pictures. There are no stories. Again I wondered if this was death.

The third was a local cemetery, a big one. I was on a walk and came across it. There was a lady at the gate who was leaving as I was coming in, so she left the door open. It was a gate that could have locked me out. My father used to joke, as we’d drive by cemeteries on trips: “Why do they put fences around graveyards? Because people are dying to get in!” It seemed more like a cage. It seemed like going to a zoo. I had no purpose here. My life had seen no death, save the other cemeteries. I knew no one here.

This cemetery was large and ornate, hills of tombstones of all varieties of rock and shape. It was old and had hosted many a generation. It was broken into sections on a series of rolling hills.

There was a sign near the Jewish section that said something in Hebrew. ‘Cemetery’ I guess. So I walked through the tombstones all isolated from the others, void of uniqueness, except that they were Jewish, and that they had sisters and fathers who lay beside them, with their name. I wonder if this was how they wanted it to be. Defined by faith. I guess that’s not that bad, if they were faithful.

I realized I was alone. There was no one left visiting relatives or friends. I was an intruder. I knew no one here. I had no one to mourn for. I saw the fences and the flowers, the grass shifting in the wind. Everything felt so static. I walked on for fear of becoming rooted.

I walked atop a hill. The dates on these went back to 1870. They had family plots and were ornate, gargoyles and angels giving scriptures, all cracked by earthquakes since. I guess no one bothered to fix them. I suppose no one put up the money.  I wondered who they were. I wondered if anyone ever cared to look up here. I wondered if they are still remembered.

The sprinklers came on. I was an intruder. I had missed closing time. The opening of that gate had let me into a world I was not meant to see. I was a tourist in the after-death. You never think about these things, sprinklers in a cemetery. I guess you just think that it tends itself, when you put a body into the ground with the embalming, it embalms everything around it. That the tombstone never changes.  Only the flowers blow away. But no, they had sprinklers, to keep the grass alive.

Then there came a great slapping noise, of water striking against stone. It scared me. The way you jump when you awake from a dream. I didn’t know what it was. It was the first noise in my trip. It was vivid like the flowers hadn’t been at Arlington. It was defined so clearly, unlike death. But it struck me with the fear of being caught here, wondering with no obvious purpose. And all I could say in defense would be: “The woman left the gate open.”

 This time I saw it. A tombstone, a great pillar of some fancy rock, newish, had been placed only a foot or two in front of a sprinkler. It felt so wrong, the thought of putting it there, that my heart began to sink. The great smack of this methodic system meant to sustain life would hit this poor man’s back, forever. I was finally overwhelmed. I mourned as much as I could. I meant it. I knew that I was the only one that had ever stayed past closing to watch this unfortunate man. I was the only person to see the gifted flowers drenched, and the only one to hear this horrid noise. I finally overcame my need to wonder about my fate. I did not wonder about death. I had found purpose. I was no longer an intruder. I was no longer a conspirator. I was the only one who cared.

Always penultimate

Xeno Fish            Draft one

Always Penultimate

“If you could see anyone in the world Mr. Abernathy, who would you see?” This was Jason’s way of talking to me. He would ask questions to get me to talk about my life. He thought it made me feel better. He would come to the home every Thursday without fail. He would take us for walks in our wheelchairs. He would ask us questions to get us to talk. Maybe it made him feel better. It made me a little angry.

“I’d see the salmon, Jason. Don’t matter where. I’d see the salmon.”

“were you a fisherman?”

“Nope. Never fished in my life. Didn’t like water much. Didn’t like fish.”

“Then why do you want to see the salmon?”

“Because they’re beautiful Jason. Jeez.”

Of course I have gained a new appreciation for the salmon at the end of my life. That’s what this is, the end of my life, has been for years now. The salmon is a simple creature. It hatches. It swims downstream. It grows. It swims back up. It has kids. It dies. The cycle starts again. I find that beautiful. It lives for a bit, has children, and dies content that it has done everything it needed to do. The Salmon has no midlife crisis. Of course I had a conversation with Vern once about animals and humans. He said that humans were so great because they didn’t die. He said that we don’t live just to have kids, we live to live; and in our lifetime we accomplish, we build great society. Vern loves life.

We are both old now, at a nursing home, and we live in rooms across from each other. Vern and I have both done many things in our life. We had kids. We had wives. We had jobs. We did things. We got old. Now here we were at the end of our lives.

“I mean if you could see any human being at all, anyone, there is no one you’d see over salmon?”

“Never seen the salmon before. I don’t have any long lost mistresses, never betrayed Iris. My heroes are all long gone. And I spent most of my life raising my children. But I’ve never seen the salmon before. Talked about them. Never seen them. There isn’t anybody that I could meet that would change anything for me now. I already had my time. I’m dead.”  I was not dead, of course, when you got down to it. I’ve woken up every morning the last ten years, having thought that each night I’m on my death bed. It’s an annoying miracle. It gets old. I worked the hell out of my will. Crafted that piece of paper into the finest little masterpiece I could. I’ve had time. When you come to a nursing home you think “that’s it”, some place to just fade. I’ve ridden the train of life to the final destination and they won’t let me get off the train. Of course when I say ‘them’ I don’t mean the nurses or anything. Heck, eight pills sure as hell don’t keep the reaper away. I mean the conductor.

“Don’t talk like that, Mr. Abernathy. You used to speak so fondly of things. You had a certain prose.” Yeah, Jason’s been coming here a long time. And what I used to do before I got tired of the whole idea, thank you Vern, was tell him my last words. I would create long speeches about my life. About my love, my family, my ideas. I believed so devoutly that this man would be my record. At my funeral he would give that speech, whatever it was the day that I died, to the fullest of his capabilities, and people would know my final words were beautiful, that I had known I was going, and had made something beautiful. But, always penultimate last words seem to lose their meaning. And Vern ruined it.

 There are those that are senile at the home, and before I talked to him, I thought Vern was one of them. He would come into my room, the same time every night, using the last strength of the day to wheel himself in there, and say:

“I will always love you, Linda.”

Staring off out my window, not looking at me. The audacity of this man, using me as a record. He didn’t think he would die and still doesn’t, sitting out in the sun uncovered for however long he can, he is happy to be alive. I was just his failsafe. If somehow, that unfaded life force just dissipated into the night, I would tell everyone that he always did, and always would love Linda. Far as I can tell, he’ll out live his children and his children’s children. He has the will to live that long.

                And I am stuck in limbo. The wheels of my chair just keep turning, guided by whoever. Right now it was Jason. “Do you ever think those thoughts anymore, the prosy ones?”

                “Not much anymore. I found that with less energy it’s easier to be taciturn.”

“You talk to Vern though. That’s what the desk tells me.”

“I guess that’s because we have something to talk about.”

“Even though it’s just talk? I thought you were dead.” I am surprised, he doesn’t talk like this. He, apparently, has had enough of a dying man’s moaning. After all, he has a point. It doesn’t matter. It won’t matter. I talk to Vern. Why?

                From my chair I look back at him. He looks away, marching me onward. He finally did it. He stumped me. I talk to Vern. I argue with Vern over things as trivial as salmon. That’s my life. As far as I can tell, I’m consumed by it. I’m angry that Vern will live forever, and that I want to go so badly. Our conversations are meaningless. 

But I guess they’re good enough for final words.

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the longest stop

It is raining. I am on a monorail. I am standing with my hand in my pocket feeling my phone, and the other holding my duffle bag. I can see the view of a dark sky and hills. It is only midday I think, the sky is too dark. It is also wet. There are, inside the train, lots of people, all wet, trying to hide their shivering. Most are standing, clinging on to odd poles sticking out at whatever angle. They are all quiet. There is the sound of the train’s rumble and the pitter patter of rain as it hits the window. Splat, I think, and then there is no more raindrop. It comes from the heavens, descends for a fleeting second, then splat. It gets hit by a train. No more raindrop. What a climax; what a fate.

The train approaches the station and I take out my phone. I look at the clock, and its pixilated hands tell me nothing I don’t already know. I have an incredible sense of time. I know what time it is whenever I think about it. I know just how much time has been wasted since I last thought to think about it. Yes, it is exactly the time I thought it was. This next is always the longest stop, I think, so much dark sky and hills before we get into the city. There’s never any action on the train. The people are always silent, especially in the rain. These people live their lives doing nothing for a solid ten minutes, looking blankly out at the landscape, trying to avoid, heaven forbid, a brief awkward moment where two people are both looking at each other, both trying not to be misunderstood and completely misunderstanding each other. It’s like that quote from that thing… “Your soul is temporarily gone while on the subway, it takes a few minutes to catch up”.

The doors close while I try to remember the name of the author and the work. She is female, but the speaker is male, and it’s a play. The train begins its slow decent from the hill, which it must do before rising again, and falling again. For ten minutes they will be without soul. No, maybe she was wrong, or he was wrong, I think. I could bring their soul back. I could see how much one can possibly care while trapped in a box for ten minutes with people that one dares not make eye contact.

I open up my phone and punch in the national suicide help lifeline. This is the first time I have ever done this. I am put on hold. I lose my momentum. They have hold music. I am in some way disgusted. I am not sure why. I unzip my duffle bag just enough to slip my other hand into it. The gun is not as cold as I had wanted it to be. This wasn’t what I had imagined. This was not how it was planned.

I take a moment to justify what I am about to do. I look around and see all the blank, soulless stares, looking at literally nothing, all the bodies standing slightly aloof with the motion of the train. They are just living day to day lives, I tell myself. That’s the trouble, one can only guess that this is not their climax or their epiphany; only in retrospect can we see that an event was or was not, actually, the climax.

“Hello?” The man brings me to the present.

“Yes, I am considering committing suicide, right now.” I have the desired reaction. The soulless bodies begin to shift to give me room. They are now looking at me. I am suddenly important. Their eyes are no longer empty. I try not to crack a smile. It was going better than expected. I will have enough time, I think. I will get across what I need to say before the next stop. The hills will go unlooked. I am the focus. This is perhaps the first time I have ever been looked upon with such importance. My words up to this point have never been received with the desired impact. They would reach the ear, but they would not go any further. They were all plot, transition from one act to the next. I had to live with being plot. No longer. Words seem to have so much more meaning when someone is going to die. They are no different really; William Faulkner said “Yes Jim, I will.” And that was it. No more William Faulkner. It’s not the death that gives the words their importance; it’s the prospect of it. The person does not need to die. People just need to think he is going to die. They look at me with open eyes. They are ready to receive my last words. I drift off into the romanticism of it, and lose for however long my grip on time.

“Is there any way I can help you?” again, back to the present. I grip the gun. It is not cold, and it is getting hotter, my palms sweat. It’s not as heavy as I wanted it either. I hesitate and I think the window of my climax might be closing. I let the bag slip to the ground revealing the gun. It is a matte black. It should have been shiny.

“People get on and off the subway and no one cares. They could never get back on the next day, and no one will care. The train will keep coming regardless of its passengers. They build these walls up so no one cares. Everyone is an island. They’re all raindrops separate from each other, all moving in the same direction down, all independent and doomed. And in that moment where one hits the ground it simply creates the pitter patter of rain. So much falling at once, that it becomes just a background. It’s so desensitizing, watching ephemeral rain fall. One cannot care for every raindrop, so they care for none. What’s the value of one human life if nobody cares? …Right?”

I was not supposed to have said right. This was not how this was planned. The gun is not cold. My hand shakes. They stare at me. They do not drift off in the beauty of the idea. I have not incited epiphany. I am just plot.

“Come on, let’s calm down,” the voice crackles. I can’t calm down. I have gone too far. I grip the gun under the bag. I feel the trigger. Not enough resistance. I fumble for more words to come out. I do not know what I was going to say. I’ve spent my whole life complaining about how my words are meaningless, I think, and now that they might mean something I have nothing to say.  Where were all those words? Where were the romantic ideas?

“Hello?” says the man on the phone. The people are tense; they look at the gun. It is not heavy, cold, or shiny. I realize the train is approaching its stop. I hang up the phone. I lower the gun and my head, and fire off an airsoft pellet into the ground. It was not at all how I imagined it. It was not how it was planned. I am just a story, just someone on the train, free to come and go, and the train will just keep going regardless. What a fate.

The doors open and I step off, not daring to look at the faces of the people I had tricked into caring for a brief awkward moment. This is always the longest stop, I think.

Pulp Fiction Scene - "Hamburgers"