George's Nightmare

The Road to Hell, Redux

Knowing matters.  Why does it matter?  Because it does.  It matters.  But that’s the game—the torture—the double bind.  You will not be allowed to have the one thing that could either give you peace or send you off the cliff of despair, or both.  This one thing will be taken from you.  Instead you will wonder whether you have banana Weetabix poisoning, or if you are right but lost in the red straw network, or if you are sort of right but kind of wrong but full of good intentions, or if you are just a nutter.  You will be told you hold the answers, but there are no answers inside.  Just a howling wind, an incessantly buzzing bee, a mass grave filled with the fallen, the ones who foolishly entered into No Man’s Land armed only with a musket and grim determination.  A musket is no defense against an ICBM.  Grim determination and a dollar will get you a ride on the bus.  Or it would have about twenty years ago.  Now you’d probably need a couple of bucks.

You will be denied all knowledge.  Knowledge will die within you, to be replaced with rotting suspicions and wilting hope.  No seeds can be planted here.  You will be left a slave to ambiguity, a prisoner of doubt.  Enjoy the banana Weetabix, because there is no going back.  And I do like it.  It’s quite nice with yogurt.  Not with milk.  Must never eat cereal with milk.  Never ever ever.

The Other Side

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  Dogs.  Cats.

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound

very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.

They shout things at me from

the other side of the

walls.

“You, boy,” they say,

“you shut up, or we’ll cut

you!”

You wouldn’t think a doll

with blonde hair and

pig tails could be so

vicious.

I’m sorry, George,

I reply.

I didn’t know.  I wish

I could fight them for

you.

They would slash you to

ribbons,

he says.  You, who

can’t shout, who

runs in slow motion,

who can’t dial a

phone, or remember

our mission.

I wish you were interested in

our mission.

I have to stay here until

you set it in

motion.

That isn’t going to

happen, I tell him.

Are you or aren’t you

my friend?

Friend, he repeats,

sounding surprised.  Why

would I be your

friend?  What would the

point be in that?

We have a war to

fight,

and I am your weapon.

The boys are nice enough,

and I could do without

the dolls and their

knives, and sometimes

my thoughts echo.

But there is no love

here.

Look somewhere else

for it.

What if I loved you?

I ask him.

What if I loved how you

think about molecules

racing,

or slowing,

about color,

about owl calls in

the night?

Because I know you

do.

You are no weapon.

You are a boy who listens

to the flow of water in a

stream,

who once had a love affair

with equations.

We could end the war,

rather than start it.

George is quiet for a moment.

Well, he says, you will look

up the difference between

reptiles and amphibians now,

so there might be

something in all of this.

How much we will see.

There are still the dolls to

contend with.

Cold

This is my heart in denial                                                          

the scratching of the diamond

against the vinyl

I was young once it seems

and I spun your etched

reflection inside

of me

But reality is the toe breaker

is the dance

is the false teeth sitting

innocent in the glass

Since we tripped across

the recorded line

warped by finality one last time

let’s tango out the side door

let’s slam against the back of

agony once more

because reality doesn’t give a damn if

it makes you cry

we knocked the glass over and so

we must say goodbye

Yet if I could remember how

to listen once more

I would play your parting

heartache and store it in

the vaults of my head

oh you know I would and

the silence in your captured smile

would light up my synaptic

network for years and

for miles

if only I could sing the

words again

Yes this is my heart in denial

the scratching of the diamond

against the vinyl

I was young once it seems

I am old with your

memory carved into me

            It is hard to forget when there

            is broken glass on the ground

            hard to ignore the thunder

            in the emptiness of sound

Let the Rain Fall

Getting my stomach pumped superseded physical therapy as the lowlight of my summer.   Everyone seemed to feel I’d been terribly “lucky” once again, in that I’d suffered no internal damage, but I failed to share their gratitude.  Dr. Kauffman’s appearance on the scene only provided the perfectly awful ending to the perfectly horrible day.  When she asked me how I felt, and I defiantly replied that I couldn’t be better, her demeanor transformed from one of benevolent caregiver to that of harsh disciplinarian.  “This can’t continue,” she told me.  “You need to talk to someone.”

I wanted to ask her why she had bothered to save my life back in May.  Instead I said, “Fine.”

“I’m going to give Bryan the name and number of someone who I have tremendous respect for, and who I think can do you a world of good.  All right?”

“Whatever.”

“I’d like to call her and give her some background, if that’s all right with you.”

“Super.”

“I’ll have Bryan sign a confidentiality waiver.” 

“You go right ahead.”

Dr. Kauffman patted my shoulder.  I’ll bet no one had ever warned her in medical school that there would be days like this.  “He loves you, you know,” she said, now resuming her benevolent doctor persona.  “I saw it, those three days.  Everyone did.”

“Yeah, he can put on a good act.”

“It wasn’t an act.  And before you argue, I know everything that happened between the two of you.”

Not quite, I thought acidly to myself, or she would have been legally bound to report him for child abuse—something that Bryan the lawyer had assuredly kept in mind as he confessed his sins to her. 

“Raising a child,” Dr. Kauffman was saying, “you make mistakes.  You do things you regret.  Sometimes your emotions get the better of you.  It happens to all of us.”

I just grunted.

“You’re only seventeen, Rachel—your whole life is ahead of you.”

That was just great.  Why not plunge the knife straight into my heart while she was at it?  “Where’s Bryan?” I asked, uninterested in hearing about how I had another good sixty years of misery to look forward to.  I hadn’t seen my great rescuer since he’d brought me to the hospital.

“Talking with one of our psychiatrists.”

“I am not going into the psych ward-”

“The hospital is going to release you tomorrow morning,” Dr. Kauffman told me.  “I pulled some strings, so this isn’t being treated as a genuine suicide attempt.  There are just some procedures we need to follow first.”

Wonderful.  Now not even my suicide attempts were being taken seriously.   But relieved that I would not be escorted to the loony bin any time soon, I overlooked the insult and permitted Dr. Kauffman to blather on about my rosy future until she at last gave up and left me alone.

Sometime later I woke up with a start.  At first I couldn’t figure out why I would be in the hospital again.  Seeing Bryan helped me to remember.

He was sitting in a chair a few feet from the bed, his head in his hands.   “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

*From my upcoming novel, The Last Confession of the Sun God, available soon.

Cracked

The driftwood keeps knocking in my head
death toll for who I was
traitor with nowhere to hide
ceramic vase broken
where I stored something
very much alive
tapped until the crack first appeared
encouraged, tapped a little more
and a little more and a little more
until it smelled daylight
sent the crushing blow

this is not the person I wanted to be
this was not where I wanted to live
these are not the memories I wanted
to decorate my hallway with.

But the neglected only answers,

oh, well.

Now welcome home.

Welcome home.

Lost

Something could break every word you spoke

make you sound like you were choking