I woke up today in awareness of the Sun - I sensed its boiling heart seething. I felt the sun circling around my life. Around my past memories, it rolls around carelessly.
Grant Fitzgibbions. There are memories so comforting to me, so warm and stoned and a little hazy in the summer. There is my friend's house - James - he had great, blue, ocean eyes with lashes that curled up into his brow. We'd get stoned and sit in a circle on the back porch. It can't be said for certain what anybody talked about. But in the air of the memory there is an eternal freedom. There is a youthful arrogance. There was my long hair and a cigarette and an inescapable feeling of endless possibility.
And when I sit with this memory, I am weighted by it's lightness. I am sobered by the idea of Grant, having moved out to Los Angeles. The weight and tedium of listlessness. The tiresome days of work and class. The frustration of not having been published.
All the while, the sun circles around like a prison guard. Always on the clock.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Death and Pancakes
I woke up this morning in a panic. I was dreaming that a gang of hillbillies were cussing at me and demeaning my car. Which I told them was a two-cylinder. "That's not possible!" The bigger of the three said. I woke. I went to the bathroom to take a long piss. I remembered that a monk said that if you have a nightmare, disregard it as a senseless collision of dharmas, and practice walking meditation. I didn't do that. I went back to bed and laid watching the wall. I fell asleep and the dream continued where it had left off - now the hillbillies had boarded their car and were driving straight for another parked car. They hit the car, and when they did a man jumped out holding a knife. He quickly approached Kate and I (Kate was now present) and Kate went to the ground and tossed her wallet at him. He approached me. I turned so that my wallet was pressed between my buttocks and the ground. I woke.
I imagined him maybe slicing my throat. And I was reminded of a passage from a book I'd been reading, about a schizophrenic boy who had nightmares of having his flesh eaten by a pirate and finally his throat slit and thrown overboard, and the sinews of blood meshing with the seaweed.
I made some tea and wished Kate good luck on her interview and listened to the Beatles. Afterward I went to the funeral. I drove first with the radio on but decided on silence. My mind went haywire, or 'the drunken monkey'. I tried to concentrate on my breath. In and out, in and out. I arrived at the funeral home a few minutes late. When I walked in a man in a black suit waved his hand as if assisting my plight. A placard marked "Ludsick" was on the wall - I turned right and a small, teenage seminary student was reading from a piece of paper he'd prepared. He discussed death timidly, admitting it a "touchy subject." He read from the bible, the story of Jesus visiting Martha and her proclaiming her faith that he was the son of God and that for this she would go to heaven. He talked about heaven, a place of infinite luster, and no sorrow or pain. He talked about purgatory, a place "specifically made in the infinite mercy of God for those souls to go through the final stages of purification". I thought of my alcoholic uncle standing next to me, his jaundiced soul being waxed away to a shiny, luminous pearl.
My grandmother fell asleep during the service. I thought maybe she was dead. But she wasn't. Just sleeping. The service was short and the burying of the casket was "private", a move which my father thought better of. "I bet they'll just dump her in the ground and sell the casket." I thought, maybe he's right. We stood around and talked. My father and mother, my uncle Eddie, my aunt Barbara, my Grandmother (in a wheelchair and forgetful - apparently she forgot she was in a wheel chair), and a handful of cousins. One woman, who wore a pink sweater and had large, eye-widening glasses, began crying hysterically. Her husband walked her out into the hallway and consoled her. She continued to cry boisterously. Through all of this I realized I had forgotten Lud. She had always been a sweet woman, kissed my sister and I and complimented us. She invited the family out to a chain Italian restaurant, Bravo, every new year until her sister died, and she began to sort-of fade away.
There she lay. Lud. My mother said she looked good. That she was glad I didn't see her at the home. That she looked like a crazy lady. That she wouldn't even acknowledge them; she just stared at the wall with her arms crossed and a shit-eating-grin on her face. My father screamed, "Lud!" and she glared ferociously at him, "What!" and that was that.
There were a few awkward moments - like when Eddie and his cousin were comparing their heights. An older woman with a good sense of humor said, "That's because you fluffed your hair today!" (she made a motion as if pulling off a toupee and beating it with a fist). Everybody laughed then there was silence.
After the funeral I went to breakfast with my parents. I drove around the strip district looking for a parking spot. I cursed silently at the drivers in front of me. Finally I found a spot and realized I needed quarters for the meter. I went into a business that sell Steelers paraphernalia and asked if he had change for a dollar. "No, no quarters."
"No quarters?" I said disdainfully. "Do you know any business that does have quarters?"
"The bank."
"The bank! Thanks for being so friendly." And I stormed out.
At breakfast we discussed the funeral. My father was very quiet. He's becoming more and more quiet. He likes to watch television. He's also gaining weight. And he's often tired. As I was eating my blueberry pancakes, he pointed to a pair of skates. "Remember those?" he said to my mother. This sparked a conversation between my mother and the woman sitting alone next to us who had been casually sipping from a blue porcelain cup. We fell into a comfortable conversation. She told us about her roller-skating days and how she would just roll around this and that parking lot. And after dark a certain business would let them just skate around joyfully. Anyhow, she began talking about how kids now-a-days have no common sense, that they have no social skills. That teaching "critical thinking" in schools is just a gas. I sort-of defended the kids, saying maybe they excel in areas where previous generations do not. But she didn't buy it. She began talking about her missionary trips to Hati and the Dominican Republic. How there is no time there. Asking of a church service, she said to the pastor, "When will mass start?"
"You will know," he said.
"How will I know?"
"You'll hear the singing."
She went on to discuss the social and cultural differences between the Haitians and the Dominicans. "Dominicans are great, but Haitians are even better. Everything is a celebration. Everything - a reason to celebrate."
Shortly after I had to take another piss and leave so that I did not get a ticket. My father looked as though he might pass out.
"Are you alright, Dad?"
"Yup, just tired."
I imagined him maybe slicing my throat. And I was reminded of a passage from a book I'd been reading, about a schizophrenic boy who had nightmares of having his flesh eaten by a pirate and finally his throat slit and thrown overboard, and the sinews of blood meshing with the seaweed.
I made some tea and wished Kate good luck on her interview and listened to the Beatles. Afterward I went to the funeral. I drove first with the radio on but decided on silence. My mind went haywire, or 'the drunken monkey'. I tried to concentrate on my breath. In and out, in and out. I arrived at the funeral home a few minutes late. When I walked in a man in a black suit waved his hand as if assisting my plight. A placard marked "Ludsick" was on the wall - I turned right and a small, teenage seminary student was reading from a piece of paper he'd prepared. He discussed death timidly, admitting it a "touchy subject." He read from the bible, the story of Jesus visiting Martha and her proclaiming her faith that he was the son of God and that for this she would go to heaven. He talked about heaven, a place of infinite luster, and no sorrow or pain. He talked about purgatory, a place "specifically made in the infinite mercy of God for those souls to go through the final stages of purification". I thought of my alcoholic uncle standing next to me, his jaundiced soul being waxed away to a shiny, luminous pearl.
My grandmother fell asleep during the service. I thought maybe she was dead. But she wasn't. Just sleeping. The service was short and the burying of the casket was "private", a move which my father thought better of. "I bet they'll just dump her in the ground and sell the casket." I thought, maybe he's right. We stood around and talked. My father and mother, my uncle Eddie, my aunt Barbara, my Grandmother (in a wheelchair and forgetful - apparently she forgot she was in a wheel chair), and a handful of cousins. One woman, who wore a pink sweater and had large, eye-widening glasses, began crying hysterically. Her husband walked her out into the hallway and consoled her. She continued to cry boisterously. Through all of this I realized I had forgotten Lud. She had always been a sweet woman, kissed my sister and I and complimented us. She invited the family out to a chain Italian restaurant, Bravo, every new year until her sister died, and she began to sort-of fade away.
There she lay. Lud. My mother said she looked good. That she was glad I didn't see her at the home. That she looked like a crazy lady. That she wouldn't even acknowledge them; she just stared at the wall with her arms crossed and a shit-eating-grin on her face. My father screamed, "Lud!" and she glared ferociously at him, "What!" and that was that.
There were a few awkward moments - like when Eddie and his cousin were comparing their heights. An older woman with a good sense of humor said, "That's because you fluffed your hair today!" (she made a motion as if pulling off a toupee and beating it with a fist). Everybody laughed then there was silence.
After the funeral I went to breakfast with my parents. I drove around the strip district looking for a parking spot. I cursed silently at the drivers in front of me. Finally I found a spot and realized I needed quarters for the meter. I went into a business that sell Steelers paraphernalia and asked if he had change for a dollar. "No, no quarters."
"No quarters?" I said disdainfully. "Do you know any business that does have quarters?"
"The bank."
"The bank! Thanks for being so friendly." And I stormed out.
At breakfast we discussed the funeral. My father was very quiet. He's becoming more and more quiet. He likes to watch television. He's also gaining weight. And he's often tired. As I was eating my blueberry pancakes, he pointed to a pair of skates. "Remember those?" he said to my mother. This sparked a conversation between my mother and the woman sitting alone next to us who had been casually sipping from a blue porcelain cup. We fell into a comfortable conversation. She told us about her roller-skating days and how she would just roll around this and that parking lot. And after dark a certain business would let them just skate around joyfully. Anyhow, she began talking about how kids now-a-days have no common sense, that they have no social skills. That teaching "critical thinking" in schools is just a gas. I sort-of defended the kids, saying maybe they excel in areas where previous generations do not. But she didn't buy it. She began talking about her missionary trips to Hati and the Dominican Republic. How there is no time there. Asking of a church service, she said to the pastor, "When will mass start?"
"You will know," he said.
"How will I know?"
"You'll hear the singing."
She went on to discuss the social and cultural differences between the Haitians and the Dominicans. "Dominicans are great, but Haitians are even better. Everything is a celebration. Everything - a reason to celebrate."
Shortly after I had to take another piss and leave so that I did not get a ticket. My father looked as though he might pass out.
"Are you alright, Dad?"
"Yup, just tired."
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