Continue reading »]]> “You are late and, therefore, you suck!” she greets him.
He chuckles. “And you are even  more late than me,” he observes. “And as sweet as always.”
She looks at him through squinting eyes. “And you are uglier than usual” she retorts.
He squints back. It’s their thing – the expression they always use when they are “pretend-pissed” at each other.

Then, a smile forms on their lips, and all mock-anger leaves their eyes. His eyebrows soften, his chin relaxes, and she can feel her own face loosening up, as their eyes become livelier… lighter. It’s almost exactly like it used to be, except the rest of their world feels so much heavier now, she thinks.

That’s when the first, innocent raindrop hits the bridge of her nose. She peers at the sky, her tiny eyebrows furrowed, her blue-green eyes turning grey. Fantastic, she tells herself. The one day she gets to go on a walk with him, and the weather sucks.

During the weeks before this moment, she had spent the better part of her evenings fantasizing about what seeing him again would have been like. She had envisioned the two of them lying on the grass after a long, satisfying walk, their faces turned towards the blue sky, their skins soaking up the sun, birds chirping all around and the faintest smell of jasmine flowers tickling their noses.

She had accepted that reality would have differed from her dreams somewhat, but not this drastically: the streets are quickly turning the color of cement, as the light gets sucked out of the sky, and the air around them becomes stickier and gloomier.

“It’s only a little rain” he reassures her, tugging at her skirt, gently. Just like that, she feels a tad less pessimistic, and the two of them start walking, in silence. He keeps his hands in his pockets. She keeps hers crossed over her chest.

“You are not going to be intimidated by a little rain, right?” he prods her. She ignores him, her eyes skeptically evaluating the large black sheet of clouds steadily mushrooming above their heads. The drizzle quickly turns into a light shower, tickling the surface of their skin.

“Do you know how to swim?” she asks.

“Do I have to remind you that I’m a certified scuba-diver?” he replies.

“Then perhaps you should have brought your gear…because you’ll need it,” she tells him, ominously.

Seconds later, it’s pouring.

“Rain in August!” he exclaims. Frankly, he’s almost as pissed as she is. He had been looking forward to this walk for months now, maybe years. And, now, the whole day is ruined.

“This is not rain,” she complains. “It’s a monsoon! It’s…. it’s like Fantozzi’s cloud – Bad luck literally follows us around!”

He looks at her closely, trying to detect early signs of disappointment in the almost invisible line on her forehead.

“What are you staring at?” She quickly places a hand over her forehead. Although she is only twenty-three, she feels old.

“Your boobs” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“Ha… ha… Very funny.” Out of nowhere, she covers his face with her hand and presses hard enough to make a point, while being careful not to hurt him. She then pinches his nose, sighs loudly and calls him “peste,” which is a cute way of saying that someone is being a pain in the ass. Seven years ago, she would have reacted in the exact same way, the only difference being that she wouldn’t have been self-conscious about wrinkles, but about a bad grade she got, or having a big pimple on her forehead. Even though he never understood why, he had missed her slightly overblown reactions, the “pestes” and the nose-pinching. A lot.

“We are getting drenched.” She observes, taking him back to the present moment.

“Should we take shelter inside a cinema or something?”

“You are wearing white pants, and I want to see your underwear, so no!” she replies, her eyes glittering with energy and a shade of malice, which he finds terribly sexy.

“I don’t care: it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” he shrugs.

“Great then. Let’s go!” She grabs his hand and pulls him decisively towards the darkness, the rain now beating furiously on their faces and backs.

They are walking towards the center of Rome. More than walking, it feels like swimming. Water drips from their hair and eyelids, collecting in the creases of their clothes, soaking into his socks, and making her shirt stick to her body. Seven years, and her figure has retained the slenderness of youth. Her breasts have grown, however, he observes. (Or “matured,” as she puts it.)

He, instead, is heavier around the belly. “Long gone are the days in which I could eat junk food all day!” He complains. Then, he gives her a longing look, with those deep, almost black eyes of his. “I remember those days,” she says, placing her hand comfortably around his waist. Organically, perhaps unwittingly, their feet adjust to each other’s pace. Soon, they are moving in unison, warmth irradiating from their bodies, protecting them from the cold.

Apart from getting completely drenched, they don’t do anything special. One of her sandals breaks in the middle of an intersection, so he is “forced” to carry her, like a newly wed bride, down the crowded street of Cola di Rienzo. People stare at them and laugh openly, but that’s okay, because they are the first to find this situation hilarious.

At the store, the only sandal that fits her is a size 40 (which, in case you are not familiar with European sizes, is something that only one of Cinderella’s evil sisters would wear.) He teases her. She calls him “peste” again, pinches him, and threatens to kick his ass. They look at each other in that way, with lust, with brightness, with the faith that you have in someone who has loved you deeply, hungrily – not like the others.

But, this small episode aside, nothing transcendental happens.

——

They talk about light things:

“Only because a chandelier fell over my head once, that doesn’t mean che sono sfigato!” he says.

“What about the time you fell from the never-ending flight of stairs at Piazza del Popolo, crashing into a poor old lady?”

“I only almost hit her… I didn’t crash into her. And she wasn’t that old,” he protests.

“And the time you got hit by a taxi?” …

“That was not bad luck – just the consequence of living in Italy!”

“Fine, but the monsoon…” she says, pointing at the sky “this is bad luck! Pure sfiga!”

——

They talk about heavy things:

“I’m relieved that you are single, you know?” he confesses. “Every time you sent me a message or called, I was always terrified you were inviting me to your wedding.”

“Oh, he would have rather cut his balls than married me,” she says, dismissing the whole thing with a light wave of her hand, as if she were shooing a fly from under her nose.

She is acting tough, but he knows that, inside, she is hurting. Although he wants to stop, turn to her, take her by the shoulders, look straight into her eyes and state the simple truth – “the guy’s an idiot!” – he keeps his mouth shut. That’s what you do when you love someone: you don’t say anything bad about the people they love. Not even when it’s true. Especially if it’s true.

Instead, he changes the subject. “Seriously, I think about it sometimes. Wouldn’t it be funny if…” They are walking near St. Peter’s now. She is wearing her Cinderella’s evil sister’s shoes, he is carrying a box containing her old sandals, and, perhaps not so trivially, they are holding hands.

“If the two of us ended up getting married, you mean?” she says, gently squeezing his arm.

“Yeah.” He nods. And, simultaneously, a thought occurs to him: this is one of the things he likes about her – how she delicately brings unspoken dreams into the realm of the real, by simply having the courage to acknowledge them.

She doesn’t say anything, and, for some time, they walking in the most noisy of silences, overflowing with blaring horns, angry drivers cussing each other, and the annoyingly high-pitched voice of a tiny guide trying to sell her private tour of St. Peter to a group of clueless tourists who probably don’t understand a word of what she is saying.

Amidst the Roman chaos, the two of them are incredibly quiet, their souls incredibly close, their attention focused solely on the warmth of unspoken possibilities.

“It would be funny… but strange,” she says, finally.

“Why strange?” he asks, in a whisper. Honestly, he’s almost afraid of the answer.

“I mean, after all these years… “ she turns around, places her free hand on his shoulder, to stop him. “We were teenagers when we got together.” She makes sure to focus on his dark, deep eyes as she speaks to him. “Now we are adults. It would be insane if the first person we loved ended up being the person we finally end up with!”

“Not insane…more like a fairytale…” looking right back at her. He hopes that, if he looks hard enough, he will not just see her eyes, but know what she thinks, what she feels…

She holds his gaze for about a millisecond, then looks away. He can see she is frowning.

“What’s wrong with fairytales?”

Her usually blue-green eyes, now still greyish, look beyond him now, as if they were piercing through his body.

“Nothing” she finally brings herself to say.

Maybe, she reflects, there isn’t anything wrong with fairytales. After all, the time they are spending together has a surreal quality to it – almost fairytale-like, if you wanted to be cheesy about it.

She pulls his t-shirt forward gently and, just like that, they resume their walk.

——

They buy an umbrella.

Photographer: Krista Guenin

——

Then, capriciously, the rain stops.

——

For the rest of the day, it’s as though nothing has ever changed. She leans on his shoulder while they watch a movie; he whispers sweet things to her ear. She gets tipsy on raindrops of wine; he offers to carry her purse. Simple things, really, ordinary gestures of affection that have been exchanged between billions of other people already, for hundreds of years. But, when they hug goodbye underneath the stairs that lead to her house, he tells her: “I am here for you.”

Just like that, her tough façade breaks, and she starts crying.

Her reaction is not out of the ordinary. After all, she has had a rough year. No, the extraordinary thing is that she feels comfortable enough to cry in front of him because, when he tells her that he is there for her, he means it.

With him, she doesn’t only feel safe: she is safe.

Continue reading »]]> When I was a child, I was plagued with a variety of nighttime issues. The majority of them were innocuous things brought on by the simple process of growing rapidly, things like bone-deep aching pain in my calves as the sinew stretched and lengthened in the quiet evolving hours. These would send me creeping softly to the corner of my parents’ bedroom door, where I would cry barely audibly in hopes that I would wake my mother (and only my mother) for help. She was a light sleeper, dad was not. And dad was much more surly when woken at odd hours. But I digress.

What I liked the most – if I can say honestly that I liked any of these things – was the inexplicable wakefulness that occurred every few months. No reason or rhyme to these episodes: I would be peacefully asleep one moment, then suddenly I was as awake as if it were noon. Sometimes it would happen a few times in the same month, sometimes I would go nearly six months in between. But came it did, without cause or provocation, like an old friend sneaking in through the window to take you out on the town.

Photographer: Jessica Lucia

In the wintertime, there were often fires in the fireplace. I would creep from my cozy flannel sheets to tiptoe into the living room, where the soft glow from the dying embers would cast dim shadows to dance on the furniture. I would tuck my knees up inside my long (and usually hideous) nightgown as I sat on the brick hearth, trying to thaw my frozen feet. My feet were always bare, even in the dead of winter, and the fire was always a relief for numb toes. I would dreamily watch as the last remnants of flame snuggled into the coals, not really thinking about anything in particular, simply enjoying the hushed silence of the house surrounded by a sleeping world.

Other times, I might simply sneak to the refrigerator. My family had two growing boys and my mother often bought large quantities of things from Costco, like chocolate syrup, maple syrup, whipped cream, and sour cream. All things I coveted jealously and would gobble up without hesitation or second thought. So, knowing I oughtn’t, I would pad lightly to the kitchen as stealthily as my bare feet could carry me, and gulp down highly sugared and fat-laden foods like a giant invading mouse. Nibbling a bit of cheese here, a pastry there, drinking syrup straight from the bottle, and eating sour cream by the spoonful. A can of soda, a half-eaten candy-bar, even a few of my favorite vegetables weren’t safe. Then, having gorged myself, I would almost always wash it down with several gulps of cold, creamy milk, and furtively make my way back to bed, half-blinded by the refrigerator light.

But best of all was the summer.

The summer time was hot, even at night. There were days when the lowest temperature of the day was still in the 90-degree range. And sometimes it was humid along with it, forcing us to kick off our covers and sleep with the fans on. On the nights when I would suddenly wake in the summer, it was as though the very air was beckoning me outside. And so – in bare feet – I would make my way through the house to the back door, where I would sneak outside to our enormous back yard. Often as not, the moon was brightly shining, and I would walk onto the wide grassy lawn, often wet from the sprinklers, enjoying the cool sensation on my burning soles. I would look up and wave. I don’t know why I waved at the moon. I do it still. And then I would dance.

It was only dancing in the loosest term. It was more like holding my arms out and spinning, face turned to the heavens, dipping and weaving with imaginary music. Sometimes I would hum little tunes, or make up lyrics on the spot to a song that didn’t have any flow or rhythm to it at all, but always quietly so I didn’t wake anyone. Sometimes the dog would join in the dancing, slowly and sleepily, having been roused by my sudden appearance. The wet grass would coat my naked toes, which was always a challenge to wipe off before going back inside, to avoid arousing suspicion.

But, even better than dancing in the moonlight… Water.

The pool was respectably sized, though not the largest by any means, and deeper than I was tall at its lowest point. If I was awake when everyone else was, and it happened to be dark out, the underwater light would illuminate the whole thing. But for some reason, with the light on, I held this terror that an impossibly-sized shark lived in the deep end and would chase me as I got to the shallow end. As a result, when I went to exit the pool – even if it had been a perfectly relaxing swim to that point – I would race through the shallow end. It terrified me, this irrational and non-existent shark.

But if all the lights were off, there was no threat of an unseen imaginary shark. And so it was that – sometimes, just sometimes – I would slowly wade into the dark waters. I only did this on starry nights, when there was no moon. I would move slowly, secretively, feeling the cool water caress my skin where the hot air kissed it only just before. I played a little game to see if I could get into the water without making ripples, feeling almost guilty about marring the glass-smooth surface. And then I would turn, floating on my back, and fall into the Milky Way.

There are no words to describe proper night swimming. It has to be quiet, soft, and tender. Oh, certainly, there is skinny-dipping and other night-aquatic activity, both innocent and risqué. But there is a sacred art to the night swim, wherein the breath becomes a hymn, and buoyancy a prayer. There is truth beneath the surface that will bear you up, and an echo of the womb sleeps in the depths. The stars would rain down on me in their eternal dance, sheltering me like a canopy and yet being as wide and far and welcoming as only they can manage. There was never a coldness to them, only a silvery journey across the endless sky. It was me, the water, and the stars. Nothing else existed. I might as well have been floating in the constellations myself, just a little speck in a quiet, dark river.

Now, the night sky is often hidden by the harsh glow from street lights, and I seldom have the time to indulge my old night-time habits. But somewhere deep within me, there is a little girl, still floating in the starry sky, still dancing in the moonlight, still sitting by the firelight, and who still loves sneaking foods from the fridge. I wonder sometimes if one of my own children will do something similar. I want to be able to give them that gift. But I cannot explain why I would wake in the middle of the night, and cannot predict that they will also. Perhaps this gift was given to me only.

I feel sorry for the world if I was the only one to share in the joy of the gentle night.

Continue reading »]]> Last year, I wrote a post about National Novel Writing Month, expressing my reservations as to whether focusing on quantity at the expense of quality  – hence the slogan: “No Plot? No Problem!” – could ever be a good thing.

Then, just recently, I received a comment that posed a very interesting question: “But anyways, isn’t a bunch of words strung together in an over-all messy story better than no story at all?”

If you are interested in my opinion, you can read my reply to that comment. But, today, I want to go deeper than that, and answer the question: Why is it that NaNo became so popular in the first place?

I think there are plenty of reasons, and some of them are good. For instance, NaNo creates a sense of community between writers: it makes us feel closer, and gives us the warm feeling that “we are all in this together.” Additionally, having a deadline and a goal pushes us to write even when we don’t feel “inspired,” or when we would rather be doing something else. Basically, it ensures that we get something done, and something is better than nothing, right?

However, I also suspect that there are other, less benign reasons for participating in NaNo, the most dangerous of which is that NaNo feeds off of our modern belief that we should do things quickly, that the goal – getting to the 50,000 word-limit at the end of the month – is a lot more important than the result – writing a novel – or the process – what happens to you as you go through all of the steps of writing that novel.

Thus, writing becomes just another thing we check off our to-do-list: “Writing 1,666 words for the day…check!” This attitude easily extends to all other aspects of life, even some that, like writing, should be more about the process than about the final result. “Earning degree…check!”… “Finding girlfriend…check!”

Photographer: Sean Kelly

The most ironically dramatic example of this was given by Bhuddist teacher Gil Fronsdal, who once told a story in which the Dalai Lama was talking to a large audience, and someone asked him a question. The question was: “What is the fastest way of becoming enlightened?” The Dalai Lama stopped for a long time… was just really silent,” said Gil.  “And then, apparently, tears went down his cheeks. [...] At some point, he said something about how sad it was: this drive, this ambition, this greed, to get results as fast as possible.”

We can all agree that someone who starts practicing meditation with the main purpose of becoming enlightened as quickly as possible is probably very far more obtaining enlightenment. But what does this have to do with writing? The thing is, I am starting to learn that meditation and writing are very similar. Both can be painfully slow, both should be practiced regularly, and both can make you a truly happier human being – provided that you pay more attention to the process than to the end result.

If we meditate with the main purpose of becoming enlightened, we will be immensely frustrated whenever we sit down to do our however minutes of breathing, and come out with no further understanding of anything. In the same way, if our purpose as writers is reaching those 50,000 words, or publishing a novel, or becoming the next Stephen King, writing will never be a truly enjoyable activity for us.

We will not be able to get peacefully engrossed in the act of writing itself because we will always have our goal in mind, and our preoccupation with reaching that goal or the fear of not being able to attain it will take away from our ability to become aware of how the simple act of writing can enrich our lives.

Instead, if we meditate or write without a goal, we can do it calmly, without expectations, fear or time constraints.

How would writing without a goal be?

Everyone probably has their own answer to this question, and you are welcome to leave yours in the comments. I, for one, know that I would enjoy it more. I would write exactly what I want to write, without worrying about whether someone would be interested in publishing it or reading it. I would also write what is meaningful to me so that, if I feel the need to let go of my novel for a day or two, and write a short story that popped into my mind, I can, without experiencing the pang of guilt that sometimes accompanies such decisions. Most importantly, I would write without fear or rush, putting exactly as much time as I need, not worrying if I have to re-write the same page 2, 10, or twenty times, but resisting the urge to rewrite it twenty-one times. For once, I would not let myself be guided by the fear that what I write “will never be good enough,” because I don’t need it to be good enough to attain something. I just need it to be.

Writing without a goal can be difficult and I can’t promise that it will allow you to become a famous writer, or enable you to write 50,000 words a month. Nevertheless, I’m sure that you will still be able to write something, and that the final product you end up with will be more than  “a bunch of words strung together in an over-all messy story.”

Continue reading »]]> When I was seventeen, I lived with my grandmother in a five bedroom house with seven other people, most of whom were cousins of the second and third variety. I had only lived in NC for a couple of years and was fairly new to this side of the family; dysfunction ran rampant throughout. I had inherited a plethora of crack-heads, convicts, or worse, but I was one of them, one of the fold. I felt at home among them, felt welcome.

Photographer: Enviied

Two of the cousins and I were teenagers and, with Gram closing in on 60, we took full advantage of the situation: we came and went at all hours, drank, brought girls in and out as if on a conveyor belt. Gram made plenty of threats, hollered and screamed, but we paid no attention. She had a new boyfriend at the time, and he would try to talk to us, but that only made things worse.
Dave was a tiny little man, short in stature and as skinny as a malnourished puppy. Dave didn’t like to work; he had a simple approach to life: he liked to sit in the yard with a cold beer in his hands, soaking in the sun. As a result, his skin looked like a tanned hide, a dark leathery brown. Dave had been promising Gram that he was entitled to veterans benefits; his daughter was collecting the checks in Pennsylvania, and all he had to do was contact the V.A. and give them his new address to start getting his pension sent to him in NC. Every time she would raise enough hell to get him to try, he would concoct some grandiose story about why the check had been delayed yet again. It soon became clear to everyone that he was a freeloader–clear to everyone but Gram.
She was glad to have someone to talk to, someone she could spend time with; she liked being doted on, even if Dave spent much of his time drunk. He tried to compensate for his employment status by doing chores around the house: cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry and making her laugh, which–I have to say–was a rarity before Dave came along. I can’t speak for his true feelings toward her, but I can say that he made her feel good… for a while, anyway.
Gram soon became frustrated with Dave’s drinking; she tried talking to him about it. When that didn’t work, she started yelling, then the silent treatment and, eventually, withholding cash. Dave replied by going to friend’s houses to do his drinking. He would stay gone a day or two and, when he came back, all would be forgiven. The harder Gram tried to rein him in, the more he would buck against her. Eventually, she started drinking with him; I guess it was her way of keeping him close.
Gram had been 15 years sober by then. At one time, however, she had been what most people would consider a “wino.” My mother had told me stories about my grandmother from when she had first moved to NC. Stories of hiding Gram’s bottle from her, or pouring out the stash she found in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. She had told me stories of Gram, suffering from withdrawals, shaking to the point she couldn’t lift a glass to her lips to have a snort that would relieve the pain. She would wrap a towel around the back of her neck, putting one end in her hand and grabbing a glass of whatever poison she was drinking that day. She would grab the other end in a fist and pull down on it—using the towel as a rope and her neck as a pulley—pulling the glass off the table and toward her mouth. This would get her that first taste or two, until she could manage to do the work on her own, without spilling too much.
It didn’t take long for that woman to reemerge after she had that first taste in 15 years. Soon, she was drunk constantly, and became belligerent to the point that no one knew what to do with her – including Dave – but he was enjoying the new freedom to drink all he could pour down, and wasn’t keen on relinquishing it. So, instead of trying to keep her from falling into that hole again, he babysat her, even as the rest of us grew to hate him for Gram’s backslide.
Things were getting bad, but I had grown up with an alcoholic father, and knew the stories of how Gram was before, what I didn’t know, however, was the one thing that Gram used to do that Momma never shared with me.
I got home in the early morning hours of that Saturday morning. This wasn’t unusual, I was having a great summer, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to see the sunrise before I went to sleep. I went into the rear bedroom that I shared with my two cousins, Bobby and James. I lay down on the love-seat couch we kept back there. Bobby, the one cousin closest to my own age, was already asleep in the bed. I was just starting to doze when I heard Dave’s shrill voice in the dining room.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
I could hear Gram saying something, but her words were a drunken slur, so unintelligible they could hardly pass for spoken English.
“Give me that!”
I heard Gram say something else, then I heard—what sounded like—them tussling; unless I was wrong, he was trying to take—whatever it was—from her. I decided that I was needed in the dining room. I walked out of the bedroom door, and I could see down the short hallway, through the kitchen and into the dining room, but only part of the room was visible from where I was. The lights were on and I could hear them in there; they were definitely in some sort of feeble-old-drunk struggle. My pace quickened, ready to body slam Dave for fuckin’ with my Gram, but, as I entered the room, the scene that presented itself  before me were so perplexing  that I was unable to do anything  other than stare, just trying to take it all in. When I entered the room, they were indeed struggling over something, and they both stopped as I barreled into the room; I could see clearly that it was a kitchen steak knife. I could also see that Gram was bleeding–from her wrists.
“Jason, go to bed, she’s fine. I got this under control.”
Dave’s words spurred me to action, and I started toward her saying, ‘Fuck you, you go to bed.”
Had she cut herself?! What the fuck was going on? I reached over Dave and grabbed the knife from her hand.
“Okay, give me that, and go to bed. I can handle it from here.”
I put my face up against his—so close I could smell stale beer and cheap cigarettes—and I screamed into it, using every ounce of strength in me to force the words into his face.
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, OR I WILL HURT YOU, OLD MAN!”
Dave’s retreat was instantaneous; my message came through, and he responded as I expected him to. I would have hated to put my hands on him, but my grandmother was bleeding, and I needed to see to her.
“Jashun, git ou’ve ere.” Her eyes stayed pointed at the table, as if her shame was too heavy for her to lift her head.
“Gram, I won’t. What happened?”
Dave stepped up close behind me, he seemed desperate to get me out of the room, “She cut herself because I …”
“Who asked you? Shut the fuck up, and let me handle this.”
In a tone reserved for unruly toddlers and disobedient pets he said, “I’m just trying…”
I turned on him allowing the fury that was building in me to show through my eyes and put my finger in his face but said in a level voice, “Not another word. Do you hear me?”
He nodded and took a step away from me. I turned to my grandmother again.
“Gram, what happened?”
“I did it, now you go to schleep and lemme taw shoo Dave.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Bobby? I turn to see him wiping his eyes and standing in the doorway.
“I don’t know. I think she’s cut herself.”
“What!? What the fuck?!”
“Get some towels and put them on her wrist. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

Both she and Dave protested loudly, but I ignored them. I dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. I then dialed my mother’s number.
The two of us hadn’t spoken in months; whenever we had an argument, it would end in me packing all my things into an army duffel I kept just for such occasions. We wouldn’t see or speak to each other for long periods of time. But this transcended that; I was obligated to tell Momma.
“Hello?” It was her; I could hear the twenty years of chain smoking in her husky drawl.
“Momma, it’s me. I think Gram cut herself. I called an ambulance. They’re on the way. I don’t know what to do. You have to help me. What am I supposed to do?”
“Wait, what?” I could hear her brain deciphering what I had told her. “Is she drunk?” Momma hadn’t been aware of Gram’s drinking. I certainly hadn’t told her.
“Yes.”
The conversation didn’t last long; I relayed the pertinent information, she absorbed it—better than I expected—and then we hung up so she could make the journey to Gram’s. I went back to the dining room, where Bobby was receiving a thorough cussing. Dave, having gotten no more sympathy from Bobby than he had gotten from me, had resorted to patting Gram on the shoulder while rubbing her back, cooing in her ear all the while, like a pigeon on a stoop.
In that moment, I could have beaten him, pummeled him into a coarse powder and threw it to the wind. The rage building in me threatened to consume me, to overcome my willpower and force me to lash out at him in response to the fear and confusion that were ripping at my mind like ravenous hyenas. He never knew it, but he had been within a whit of walking with a limp for years to come.
“Momma’s on her way.”
“Ammit, Jashun, Why canth you mine your own damn biznith?”
“This is my business, and you left me no choice. I had to call her.” My patience was wearing thin and it was evident in my voice as I said this.
“Mother fucker,” These words were spoken clearly, as if she hadn’t drank a drop, spoken with an ease that comes with practice, “You a pain in an ass.”
I turned my attention to Bobby; his face bore the shocked look of a young man that has just woken up in the Twilight Zone. He was holding a towel to Gram’s wrist and staring at the wall on the far side of the dining room. I don’t know where he was in that moment, but he certainly wasn’t in that room.  Wherever he was, he was furious.
“Bobby.”
He didn’t even flinch; his name had soared over him like a loosely gripped balloon at a parade. I thought about leaving him be, letting him continue to dwell in his fantasy, but I wanted to know what he was hiding under that towel.
“Bobby!”
He snapped to this time; his head whipped around, forcing his neck to crackle. He didn’t say a word, but I could see in his eyes that he was with me now, shaken, but not useless.
“How’s it look?”
“I don’t know, haven’t looked.”

I walked to where he was kneeling beside the chair Gram was slumped into and stood behind him, peeking over his shoulder. Gram grumbled something that was hardly recognizable as human in nature when he removed the towel and turned her wrist so we could see.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined. The amount of blood I had seen when I first walked into the room had convinced me that Gram was not long for this world, but what I saw then  told another tale altogether. Her wrist was scratched several times in lines that ran parallel with her wrist joint; a couple of them still showed splotchy bleeding, but she could have done as much damage pruning roses.
Just then, headlights lit up the window, and I realized that Momma was pulling into the driveway.
As Momma charged into the house; her eyes wore a glaze that whispered of dreams lost to this nightmare. Her mouth was set in a rigid line, and I could see that she was frantic with worry. Her actions would show none of her trepidation. She took full control of the next thirty minutes.

She started by looking at the wounds. She stepped around Bobby without uttering a word to anyone, and he knew to get out of the way.
As she pulled the towel from Gram’s wrist, I said, “I just saw it. It’s not bad.”
Momma looked at the scratches on her mother’s wrist, and even though she didn’t actually do so, there was a visible sigh of relief.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Momma looked up into Gram’s face as she spoke, but before Gram could say a word Momma asked her, “Are you fuckin’ stupid?”
Gram’s face twisted into an angry snarl, and she started to speak, but the words that came out of her mouth amounted to nothing more than incoherent blathering.
“And you’re fuckin’ drunk.”
The accusation was laden with hurt and anger; Gram cringed away from it like a hand was sure to follow, aiming to slap the alcohol out of her. It never came.
Just then Dave spoke up, apparently hoping to finally get the sympathy he was due. “Robin, she wa…”
“You better shut the fuck up, you little motherfucker. My mother has been sober a long time. Then you come along… look at her. This is your fault. So, you better just shut the FUCK UP!”
Dave huffed and puffed like a card sharp caught with a sleeve full of aces, but uttered not a word. From the look in Momma’s eye, it was a good thing he didn’t.
Just then, an ambulance pulled up out front. Momma went out the back door to usher them in that way; the front door had long ago been nailed shut. She held the door open for them, and I heard her talking up a storm.
“She had a few drinks, mixed her pills with it and had an accident. It looked really bad at first, but once we cleaned it up it looks like she’ll be fine.”
“What kind of accident?”
“She scratched herself up pretty good, but we can’t figure out how. She’s too fucked up to tell us.”
“Okay, well we’re here, and we have to at least look at it.”

They did, and the police came, but by then the paramedics had bandaged her up and never acted like they suspected anything was wrong, so they all left us there with Gram, who was fading fast. She was hanging her head and unwilling to attempt conversation anymore.
Momma went through the house looking for sharp objects. She took knives—even the plastic butter knives you get with those prepackaged utensil pouches that come with to-go orders—she took pins and razors, anything that had an edge went into a bag. When her search was finished, she called me into the kitchen.
“I’m going to go home. It’s late, and I have to work in the morning. She should be fine now. She’ll go to sleep. Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me if anything happens.”
“What the fuck is going on, Momma?”
“She used to do this all the time. Haven’t you ever seen the scars on her wrists?”
I shook my head.
“Well, when she gets drunk, she cuts herself. Usually, it is just to get attention, but sometimes… sometimes she really tries. Anyway, go get some sleep.”
I kissed my Momma good night for the first time in months, and she left as quickly as she had come. Bobby had gone back to bed when the paramedics arrived. Dave was shuffling Gram to their bedroom.  I went into the back bedroom once again and laid down on the love seat to finally get some sleep.
What’s she doin’?” Bobby asked, from the darkness. He had been lying there quietly, no doubt reliving the last hour over and over.
“Goin’ to bed, Dave is putting her to bed anyway.”
“Kay. Fuckin’ crazy right?”
“Fuckin’ crazy.” I echoed.
There was no more chatter, nothing really left to say. Fuckin crazy had summed it up nicely.

Before long, I heard the deep, rhythmic breathing that will give away anyone sleeping soundly. I too fell into sleep quickly; it was a fitful and restless sleep, but deep, nonetheless.
Sometime later, I was startled awake by a noise. I wasn’t sure about what I had heard, wasn’t even sure I had heard it in the real world and not just in my dreams. My ears listened intently for a few minutes, but there was nothing there.
I closed my eyes again, trying to doze for the third time that night when it came: a shrill voice charging from the inner part of the house.
“What is that… where did you get that… give it to me… HEY, give it to me, NOW!”

Dave. Again.

I ran for the door and heard Bobby right behind me. We were headed back to the dining room. Déjà vu isn’t an accurate word for what I felt as I ran for the dining room again that night, but it’s close. I was awash in it, flooded by the feeling of having been there before. I tried to shake loose the idea that I was running into a macabre scene of blood and misery starring my grandmother, but it clung to me like an infant chimp to its mother.
I raced into that room fighting the truth; I wanted to imagine that I was crazy, confused; I wanted to believe that Bobby was falling prey to my madness, that we were both having delusional fragments of the night’s events steering our consciousness into this hysteria. I wanted—needed—my grandmother to be asleep; I needed to be dreaming, or wrong, anything but admitting to myself what was really happening.
You see, my grandmother was bleeding again when I entered that room; she was fighting Dave over a tiny piece of metal that she had used to open her other wrist. There was blood flowing down her raised forearm as she held it away from Dave.
She had ripped open a disposable razor and extricated the sliver of metal inside, using it to slice into herself. The wounds would prove to be superficial once again; Gram wasn’t ready to die—she was just begging for help; screaming for it.
My mother would end up moving into that house, along with my step-father, to keep an eye on Gram. Dave would be gone soon after. Gram missed him when he left. She never said it aloud and would vehemently deny such nonsense, but we all knew it.
In the months to come, I would look for the scars on her wrists, when I could get away with it, when her attention was elsewhere and I could look without her seeing—her knowing—what I was doing; never really hoping they would be gone that time, never really praying the gods would have erased the evidence, but allowing myself the time to check.

A little over a year later, I would cut myself much in the same way that Gram had. I was sad, and lonely; I was confused. And yes, I was drunk.

I went into the bathroom and took out a razor. I nearly took a piece of my thumb off trying to pop the top off of it so I could remove the steel inside, but I got it out after a little concentrated effort. I toyed with the idea of getting into the tub; I knew that water was supposed to help slow clotting, but I decided waiting to die warranted television. So, I sliced into my wrist, wincing at the horrible sting that it produced, and went to watch some T.V.

I woke the next day to a horrible headache and a puffy red wound on my wrist that felt like fire when I moved it. I was ashamed and scared, full of relief and sadness; I had lived, but I was still sad, still lonely.

I washed as much of the blood off as I could and went to the bar, where Momma was hustling beers to the kind of people you’d expect to see drinking in a redneck bar on the south side of Wilmington at eleven a.m. She was unusually busy, and I waited patiently for her to have time to walk over to me. When she did, I slid the sleeve of my shirt up so she could see what I had done, never saying a word.
She looked at it and said, “Oh Jesus, Jay. Come back here.”

She walked toward the storeroom in the back of the bar, and I followed. She never asked me why, never yelled or cried. She never called anyone; she just cleaned it up, put a bandage on it and went back to work.
There was an instant, while she was bandaging my wrist, when our eyes met. They locked onto one another, and I could see there what we both knew: it was in me. I had inherited this—this constant battle for happiness—from her and her mother; I had witnessed my legacy and was taking tentative steps towards claiming it.

I don’t consciously think about Gram when I think about dying, but I have a feeling that she’s there, somewhere deep inside me, whispering that, if I just take a little off the top—just open it enough—then someone will come along and save me.

Continue reading »]]>

Photographer: Rob Friesel

Being an online publisher, I wanted to reach out to writers, because I am aware that trying to get a book published can be a stressful time for a fiction writer. You have to struggle with feelings of self doubt, worry about rejection, and agonize over changing your beloved work to please others. With all these emotions swirling around, the last thing you want to worry about is if you are taking the right steps in your quest to get published. This is why I have written this article: to demystify the process and guide writers through the steps of what they need to do and in what order. This way, instead of hopping up and down haphazardly on the stairs of  publication, possibly slipping and breaking some bones in the process, writers will be able to swiftly reach their goal without too many scars (and, most importantly, a lighter load of rejection letters!)

1. Write your book!
It may not be surprising that the first step to getting published is to have something to publish. Ah, you say,  you know that already? Good! But, too often, writers delude themselves into thinking that a query letter and the first couple chapters of a novel are all you need – they can always write the rest while they wait for responses, right? Ehm.. only if you want to be ultimately rejected by the rare publishing companies who will even bother to ask for the rest!

In the world of fiction writing, the unbreakable rule is to have your book finished (and thoroughly edited) before you even begin thinking about publishing it. With other types of writing, you may be able to get away with a few chapters or pitching an idea but, while you may only be submitting a few chapters at first, publishers will expect the entire book to be already completed. The last thing you want to do is grab the attention of a publisher only to leave them dry later. So get writing and make sure you have a sizable manuscript before you put all the extra work that publishing entails. A good range to shoot for is between 75,000 and 120,000 words. This is just a general range so do not be afraid to stray outside of it should that fit your purposes better. At the same time, be aware that longer books are harder to publish. This is why even Proust had to self-publish, after the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past – a “mere” 500  pages long – was rejected with this statement: My dear fellow, I may be dead from the neck up, but rack my brains as I may I can’t see why a chap should need thirty pages to describe how he turns over in bed before going to sleep.” In general, shorter is better. However, if you can come up with a compelling plot that holds together even after hundreds of pages, write to us and let you know how you did it!

2. Get feedback
This is a nice way of saying: make sure that what you wrote will bring some enjoyment to the editors who read it…not just make them want to quit their job and become Scuba Divers!* If you are one of those who think that your NaNoWriMo sketch of a novel, or the first draft that your boyfriend likes so much, are ready for publication…well, you are not ready, I promise. You are, however, past step 1, and encouraged to keep reading!

After you have written your initial manuscript, make sure you let some other people read it and get feedback. While this step can be excruciating for many writers, it is necessary to get multiple opinions on your work. As much as you hate having others tear your work apart, your writing will ultimately be better for it. You will be surprised: people might find confusing details or plot-points   that you, as the writer, thought were clear as day.  “Wait, I don’t get it: why would Luke go save that squirrel? Isn’t he allergic to fur?” a friend might ask. And you would embark in a lengthy explanation of why squirrel fur is not like cat fur … then reread the scene with the squirrel, only to realize that the scene doesn’t make any sense, anyway, and that you have no idea of how or why that squirrel made it into your story.

Alternatively, a fresh eye may catch inconsistencies within the story that your eyes, red from sleepless nights spent writing and inured to the abominable grammatical errors they have basically committed to memory, might miss. Writing workshops are great for this step. Ideally, you want feedback from other writers and the target audience of the book as well. Once you have a good amount of feedback, rework your manuscript to take the best advice into account. This process should also help you with proofreading your manuscript. A manuskript filed with speelling and grammatical  horrors will be hard t read, an wil reflekt pourly on u (see, I can feel you looking down on me right now!) So please, please, have you manuscript be edited thoroughly, before you shop it around!

* Or any profession that doesn’t require writing or reading!!

3. Decide if you want an agent
Once you have a tight manuscript in your hands (Yay!), you have to choose between contacting an agent  to help you sell your work, or reaching out to publishers directly. This is an important decision to make, as it leads to two drastically different paths. (Of course, you can always self-publish… But, today, we are explaining how to do this the traditional way.)

Many writers loathe the idea of an agent, and see them as the layabout middlemen of the publishing world. However, there are good reasons to work with an agent – if you can build a good relationship with one. The benefit to getting an agent is that they already have relationships with people in publishing houses. They know what the publishers want and how to best position your book so that it will be published. They will also be able to make suggestions to strengthen your work and edit it to ensure publication (even though these changes can be hard to stomach). Basically, they will do all the work to get your book published and will take a cut from the profits, usually around 15%. However, their experience and negotiating skills may get you a better deal than what you would be able to get on your own, (hopefully) offsetting the cost of their fees.

Your other option is to contact publishers yourself. This option involves much more work on your part. You must conduct research first, and determine which publishers to target your manuscript to. Then, you can start sending off queries, (and pray that someone is reading them.) If you decide to go riding solo, don’t worry too much about being successful: the experience you will gather during this process could always be useful to you later (as in when you self-publish your book or, disappointed by all the rejections, decide to play a prank of those “damned” editors). Irregardless of what happens, learning more about the process will serve you well: you may even be able to help other writers in the future (for a 15% cut!).

4. Follow your agent’s advice
If you decide to get an agent, follow the submission guidelines on their websites carefully. It might seem obvious to you, but one of the main obstacles to getting published is the writer’s inability to follow directions. If you get a rejection letter, move on, (or nail it to the wall, a la Stephen King). Unless… the agent specifies a condition on which you can contact them again. However, beware of delicate breakups: agents may be so graceful in their rejection letter that they may give you false hope. But we all know that the “it’s not you, it’s me” approach to things isn’t one we should believe in. Hence, if you do try to get the editor to give you another shot, do it without getting your hopes too high – similarly to the other kind of relationships, having low expectations can sometimes help to be hurt a little less when we get rejected.

If you are now so nauseated that you want to skip to the next step directly, I understand. If you do get an agent, though, it may be wise to take to their advice, as they have experience in the field and you do not. This is not to say that an agent always gives good advice, but it is often best to at least hear them out, because, after all, this is why you hired them, right? Agents are not as scary as I depicted them in this piece (at least, not all of them!) Try to find an agent that you like and admire, maybe someone who has worked on pieces of literature that you have read and liked. This way, it will be easier to follow their advice when they tell you something like: “the ending sucks. Don’t you know that even Tom Clancy couldn’t get away with what he did in Teeth Tiger?”

OR

Find a publisher
For the fend-for-yourself types, you will probably decide to contact publishers yourself. If this is the case, you should research extensively to find out who is publishing content that is similar to yours. For example, if you have written a book geared towards young adults, go to a bookstore or library and look around the Young Adult section to find out who is publishing the newest and most popular books. Submit your manuscript to the publishers you have targeted and be sure to follow all instructions in their submission process (just because you decided to lone wolf it does not mean you do not have to play by the rules!). They may suggest changes, and you won’t have much say in it… But, then again, remember that finding and improving good books is their job…they might know a little bit more about it than you or I do..give them a chance! Ultimately, just take it as a learning experience and don’t get too caught up in it: self-publishing is always an option, but it’s useful to at least try going through the traditional route: your book might improve because of it!

Continue reading »]]> Everyone has scars
Everyone carries rocks in their knapsack
Little injuries that they’ve picked up along the way
Or terrible wounds from battles they waged alone

Photographer: Karsten Kneese

Brother, I know you

We started as innocents
Pure, unblemished, trusting
But none of us make it far
It is our fate as mankind
To struggle and bleed
Even if we win every fight
(Which almost never happens)
We bear the fears and learned defenses
The mental anguish and regrets
Our hearts never go unbroken
And some will have to endure multiple fractures

Sister, I feel you

We act as though there’s nothing wrong
That we’re “well-adjusted”
That we’re strong enough, we’re okay
When inwardly we’re shaking, screaming
Slowly bleeding to death internally
From all the cuts and tears
From where we’ve rent our flesh asunder
Trying to claw out the painful parts
Hiding it in the darkness
So no one will see you weep
Because it looks like everyone else is fine…
“What’s wrong with me?” we ask

Mother, I see you

It is a terrible lie we perpetuate
Telling ourselves we’re sick
That something is bad and wrong about us
When it is what we have survived
That makes us who and what we are
And we do each other disservice
To tell ourselves this untruth
Because we persuade ourselves so completely
That we convince everyone else it’s true
Which makes them believe that THEY are unwell
And perpetuates the madness

Father, I hear you

We build up walls to protect ourselves
From ourselves, and each other
We tell ourselves lies and convince the world
So that they tell themselves the same lies
Spreading like a plague
And soon we trust no one
Hiding our secrets, buried deep
Where they fester and breed vermin
Until they burst loose and flood the room
With fury and fear and addiction

LOOK AT ME

Look me in the eyes
And know me
Tear down your walls, as I have mine
And behold the naked, scarred truth
In all its hideous beauty
The keloids of lessons learned
Embrace these faults
Drag them into the light
Uncover this mockery of ourselves

Look at me

And know that I have flaws, just like you
That I have fears, just like you
That I seethe and froth in bitterness
And hate and seek vengeance, like you
And, like you, I hope and love and laugh
I am vulnerable, I have weaknesses
I am nothing more than what I am
And nothing less
Look at me
I have embraced my Shadow
Reconciled my humanity
And you, too, can be free

Look at me

Accept me or reject me
It will not change me
Tear down your wall
And let yourself out
For I will let you in.

Continue reading »]]> Recently, I was asked a question and, in pondering the answer, I was suddenly overtaken by the memory of that day. It came upon me like a hungry tiger, tearing me to shreds and leaving a disemboweled lump of meat where, only moments before, was a thinking, feeling, functioning man.

Photographer: mayu**

Cotton Candy. The smell of it is floating through the air and sweetening each breath. This, in no small part, is making the day better. What else could I ask for? Not only did I get to ride The Bullitt this year (a big kid ride if there ever was one) but to walk in the parade too! I am eight years old, and my Father and a group of his “friends” (other men who lived their lives in the bottom of a bottle) are members of a Veteran’s group for people who saw combat in Vietnam. They have been asked to bring their families to walk in this year’s parade during the regional Franco-American festival.

We have known about this for weeks, and I hardly slept last night. We each wear a little t-shirt with the logo of the Veteran’s group on the front. I couldn’t be more proud. Some of us have little flags, and others pass out bumper stickers, but we are all having fun. There is something about everyone looking at you, waving, and just generally having a good time that puts a smile on my soul. Next, I’ll run for Senate and become an Astronaut. I am on top of the world.

Now, we are being addressed by the Governor of Maine. He is speaking of things I can’t and have no interest in understanding. I have better things to think about at my age: baseball cards, my next birthday, how to stop that stupid girl at school from pulling my hair every day. I start to imagine pushing her down the next time she does. My imagination runs wild while the speech continues. I wish Knight Rider would come out next. That would make this day complete.

In the middle of my fanciful daydreaming, my Father taps me on the shoulder and says, “Let’s go.” I don’t know where we are going, but I have little time to ask before he starts walking.

Walking with him is always hard. He moves with fast, long strides that eat up the ground in front of him in big gulps. Today is especially hard because there are people everywhere, milling around lazily, languidly looking at the trinkets being sold by the vendors and watching the children on the Merry-Go-Round. I am small and not exactly built to push my way through a crowd.
We walk only a few short blocks when we come to this house. It looks like every other apartment house in Lewiston: run down and begging for paint, sheets in more of the windows than the shades that are popular now.  Huge chunks of the asbestos siding are gone, wasted by the years of harsh winters and its bitter cold. In front of the apartment is a bicycle, missing both tires, and its chain has discolored the concrete of the sidewalk from years of sitting there, rusting. The body of the house is yellow with a dark brown on the windows and the one door that once had glass in the top third of it. A condemned sign wouldn’t look out of place here.

My Father knocks on the first door we come across after entering the building. We hear a yell from inside, and we enter. I already know what is in store for the rest of the day. I can smell the distinct odor of old beer that has been sitting in the can and getting hot and stale, a smell that I loathe.

I see that the room holds the men from the veteran’s group, and I can also tell within moments that few, if any, had stayed as long as we did after the parade. The slurring of their words, apparent in their voices, says that they have had a few drinks already. Five, maybe six men and a woman that must be somebody’s wife.. They are sitting around a glass topped table, with legs made of what looks like bent pipe―four separate pieces, connected, shaped like a large squarish C. The walls are dirty from years of cigarette smoke and not being cleaned, making what should be white look as though it were river mud; yellowish brown with hints of green.

In the adjoining room there are two other kids, so my brother and I know that these are our friends for the day, and we run off to see what games are currently afoot. This room is the same color but much smaller and contains a couch which I am sure has come from the side of the road. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor lingers everywhere, and I know it is safest to not be seen or heard for the next few hours—if we can help it.

The afternoon progresses like most of this nature; there are beer runs and arguments, the voices get louder as the hours pass by, and the thoughts become less coherent. I have been in this situation as often as I have been in a room with a window.

********

I am playing and not really paying attention when it happens. Why? To what end? Have I looked too much like I am having fun? Was there an instant where I looked too much like my mother? I do not know. What I do know is there isn’t a warning―no loud crash or even an instant where I can feel the malevolence building. One second, I am playing happily, waiting for word to get ready for the few miles home with my Father weaving on the sidewalk, and the next there is a hand on the back of my neck, and it is squeezing. Hard.

I instinctively try to duck and run, but it’s too late. I have been caught unawares, and the fear grips me like a blanket wrapped around me in a restless sleep, getting tighter with each attempt at escape.
“Come ‘ere, I wan-na show you summten.” His breath hits me in the face and my stomach turns, exacerbating the terror that has begun to settle inside me. It smells of cheap beer, Marlboro Reds, and the not unfamiliar stench of hate. It’s a seething anger that I know well. He had had it rough, and I was ungrateful for all his sacrifices.  Just a spoiled little brat that doesn’t know how to be a good little boy―stupid and too much of a sissy boy for his tastes, in need of a little mettle in my blood.

As I am being dragged across the floor, trying to wrestle myself from his grip and getting nowhere, nobody seems to notice. There is no apparent lull in the conversation. No people crying out for my Father to release me; nothing out of the ordinary going on here at all.

“If you don’t quit squirming, you little motherfucker…” The threat is left open, allowing me poetic license to finish as I see fit. The options that my brain offers are no less frightening than anything he would have managed.

Where, I don’t know, but from somewhere, a set of handcuffs appears. The metal ones, not exactly like the ones issued by the police, but not the cheap kind with a lever that will unlock them if you can manage to get your finger on it. He reaches down and seizes me by the wrist and clicks the first bracelet on me before I see what he has. The other people in the room have stopped talking. They have all noticed that something is happening and are transfixed by the spectacle of a man dragging his son across the room. They watch, fascinated as it unfolds, rubberneckers to the car wreck that is in front of them.
Before he clicks the other bracelet in place, he slides it under the leg of the table so my wrists are close together. Had he been compassionate and put the other bracelet around the leg, I would have had some freedom to move. However, he is desperate to blame someone or something for the ruin that is his existence, and it is my turn. Again.

My struggles to free myself prove fruitless very quickly, and I start to cry. Not a whining wail or a screech―just tears, silent and accusing, dripping from my chin, streaming down my face and washing streaks of red into the pale color of my face.
“Whassamatter, crybaby?” he asks, bringing laughter from the other men in the room. I am too young to tell if this is uncomfortable laughter, or if the hate has spread to the others through osmosis.

I get tired fast, and my efforts to free myself start coming in spurts. I sit and try to find a comfortable way to position myself in order to rest between the attempts to free myself. I try everything. Picking up the table. Pulling helplessly against the pipe. I am just too small and weak to get anything accomplished. My father insults me and pushes me down with his foot while the other men laugh at his words and even have a chuckle or two when confronted with my tears. It always makes these types of men feel better to see someone suffer and writhe in pain. It makes them forget that they are miserable human beings, each lost in their own tragedy.

After I have been sufficiently humiliated and defeated, I become boring, and they lose interest. They resume the conversation as though I am not even there. The only woman  waits until it is obvious that she will suffer no ill will for doing so, and gets up to find the keys. I have been under this glass table for almost an hour, and the men are no longer even glancing through the glass to get a look at the kid trapped down there. The woman comes back with a bobby-pin, because the keys are nowhere to be found. She mutters something about how mean they all are. Her comment is greeted with some vulgarity and a warning to mind her business lest she find herself locked there in my stead.

My wrists begin hurting from all the pulling and moving about, red and scraped from the cheap metal of the handcuffs. My shoulders are burning from the struggle with my father as well as the exercise of trying to lift the table.
The woman manages to free one hand and looks at me with what little compassion a woman resigned to such a life can muster. She whispers, “Go in the other room, sweetie, and I’ll try to get the other one.”

I run into the living room, where I was playing so quietly only an hour before. There will be no more playing for me. Not today. Not for a few days. Once again, I have been reminded of my station in life and the reality of it all.

The woman comes in behind me and eventually does release me from the other bracelet of the cuffs. It takes her a few minutes, and the men start demanding she forget it, do it later. Eventually, she gets tired of their remarks and risks their wrath by saying something back. I do not hear it against the thunder in my eardrums that is my heartbeat. I internally beg her to stop, scared that her mouth will make this day worse for me.

I watch as she walks away after freeing me from the second bracelet. She sets the handcuffs on the table and grabs the beer she left there to help me. She sits down and tries to steer the conversation away from herself by saying something light and funny.

I sit on the couch, scared to move for fear of being noticed again. The tears are slowing down now, but still trickle down my face as if they’re not sure I am finished needing them, each one releasing more of the emotions that are holding me motionless―washing away the pity and the anger that consumes me.

This time, when it happens, I hear his chair. It drags across the floor ever so briefly. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, not fingernails, but nails. I am afraid to hope he is going to the bathroom. Too frightened to turn my whole head and watch him,  I try to use my peripherals to see―but the question is answered when I hear the clink of the handcuffs as he picks them up. I try to make myself smaller. Try to climb into the couch as if I were really the cockroach he makes me feel like.

The tears start afresh as his shadow comes near me. This time, the sobs overtake me. They are so powerful and deep, the world swims around the edges from oxygen deficiency. I do not fight him this time. Years of life with him have taught me to know that I am better off not resisting him too often. It doesn’t matter, though; his grip is a vice around my wrist and the nape of my neck.

He is saying something that I can’t hear. The anxiety and fear have deafened me to anything other than my thoughts. I wonder why he hates me; why his love always hurts. What I do hear, though, is the click of those handcuffs as he starts putting them on me again. Snatching me around like a doll to put me under the table once again. This time, he puts them on so tight I think they are cutting into me.

I don’t hear the second one click. I hear my innocence being severed from my eight year old soul. I hear my sanity as it grips the edge of the cliff and struggles not to fall into the darkness that awaits it. I hear the sobs of a little boy that I once was as I enter a maturity I won’t catch up with for almost twenty years. One I still struggle to keep in front of me.

When I think about it now, I can’t remember how long I was locked there the second time or how I got out. I can’t remember going home, or whether my Father tried to be nice to me later. I can’t remember anything after the snap. If you ever ask me what I once wanted to be when I grew up, you will see me think about it, but I won’t remember. I can’t. I don’t remember ever wanting to grow up. I can’t remember anything about that child; who he was or what he dreamt about. He is a far away little boy that couldn’t be invisible. Couldn’t not look like his mother. Couldn’t find love in a world he never asked for and never wanted.

********

That little boy is still handcuffed to that table. Still struggles to free himself. He will never learn to hate himself, never think about death when he wakes up in the morning. He will never find the release of drugs and alcohol, or be mean to someone because that is how he thinks people are supposed to deal with disappointment. No, those are my crosses to bear and I left the innocence of that little boy behind me with those handcuffs. He still sobs in my heart late at night as I try to fall asleep and lures me into thinking I deserve the trials I’ve endured, but I’ve finally caught up to my maturity and am trying to leave that little boy’s pain in the past where it belongs.

Continue reading »]]> With each deft movement

They glide effortlessly through time

Old as the trees they wander past

Each scale glimmering, glittering

Unblinking eyes ever watchful

Photographer: Roger Sanderson

Black and white and gold and orange

Sometimes a mixture of all

With hints of unearthly splendor

Behind each iridescent scale

Each sleepy movement of a tail

Whisks them forward lazily

Until at once, from some unseen disturbance

They fly from sight with great speed

Each pattern in sunlight glows

And in clouds they shine alone

Fluid, graceful, flexible, effortless

Unhurried yet purposeful

Each gossamer fin in quiet repose

Until a flick of the wrist drives them

To some new direction

A gaping maw breaks the surface

The greatest one has come to visit me

An old friend and trusting gaze

With patient eyes, watches

I stroke the slippery nose carefully,

My fingers slip and my nail pokes the sensitive snout

I apologize, but the trust is damaged

And my visitor glides away

I wait, as patient as I can be,

But they are old, and trust heals slowly

At last, returning, cautiously this time

My fingers are still and extended

The soft heart bumps them with a velvet nose

And nibbles my fingertips with toothless affection

Peaceful here in the place between

Lush Springtime and the lingering Winter

I sit in quiet awe of them

Beneath a soft grey sky

And in the bitter winds

I envy them their peaceful home

It is no wonder the Eastern World

Believed in Dragons, for here they are

In a myriad of colors, patterns, sizes

Serene and wise

Impetuous and bold, the younger ones,

But always graceful and liquid in motion

I, bent and crooked, accident-prone,

Watch them with approving respect

Wanting to be like them

The Dragons of the Water

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Photographer: Stephan Mantler

Even among the most creative of writers, there are many times when we look at our blank piece of proverbial paper, and have no idea what to do with it. Perhaps it’s just exhaustion — maybe you’ve been cooped up for too long, and need to get out more to draw some fresh inspiration. Regardless of the reason, there are times where we all lose our creative touch, and especially for those that make a career (or obsession!) out of writing, getting back that mojo is our top priority. So here are some ways you can get it back:

RANDOM CONVERSATIONS

Talk with random people, about crazy topics, in the most spontaneous of conversations — you’d be surprised how much interesting writing you can generate in this way. In fact, psychology today points out that sparking conversations with random strangers can inspire big ideas, and also improve memory retention. The reason for this is that your brain responds more enthusiastically to new information.

LET IT ALL GO

There’s a reason why many people feel most creative when they are high on marijuana, or more rhythmically confident when they’re drinking, and it’s not something you need drugs to experience: just let it all go, and (as Morpheus elegantly puts it) “free your mind”. Studies confirm this can, in fact, positively impact your creative potential.

ROLE-PLAY

The phenomenon of role-playing, popular among fans of anime, video games, and dice-and-paper games like D&D, isn’t just useful as a form of entertainment — it’s also a highly effective means of brainstorming! So much, in fact, that people write volumes of creative material every day, without even realizing it. One popular role-playing portal has a longest roleplay (titled “Multiverse”) of a whopping 50.3 million words of story-telling! Role-playing is a good way to inspire yourself, brainstorm for fresh ideas, and learn the value of social collaboration. “Multiverse” is a fairly well-written story with the cohesiveness of a work written by a single person, and yet it was crafted by thousands of people around the world and spans hundreds of thousands of pages. The creative potential of role-playing is simply astounding and, if you can tap it, you’ll get your mojo back.

USE THE SYSTEM

There are plenty of tools and writing systems that will help you to get rid of writer’s block and regain your creative edge. One tool that I found to be immensely useful was Automattic’s Plinky prompts. They ask you thought-provoking questions that you can use as a launchpad for your creative shenanigans. It’s a surprisingly effective way to tap into your creative mind and, as they never run out of questions, you’ll never run out of answers, or inspiration. Plinky also has the added bonus of allowing you to automatically forward all of your posts to Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, Tumblr, and many other online blogging services.

HALLUCINATE

I know this might sound crazy (well actually, it kind of is!), but summoning visual, auditory, and tactile hallucinations is a good way to get your mojo back. In the movie “Stranger than Fiction”, the author enters into a trance-state to find out how the main character of her story would feel when he dies, vividly envisioning herself dying in various ways.

Evidence of this method’s effectiveness is mostly anecdotal, but I challenge you, if you’re feeling creatively stagnant, to go outside and start experimenting with your imagination. Slice through the street light with your mind, watch it spontaneously combust into a million pieces. Then, force the reversion of time, channeling those pieces back into their original form and order. You will witness a full cycle of destruction and recreation, perpetuated  by your mind. There’s a link between creativity and mental illnesses like schizophrenia for a reason, and you don’t have to be crazy to make use of it!

MENTAL EXPLORATION

The mind is a powerful tool, and its creative potential is nearly infinite. While some are more predisposed to creativity than others, and even they can sometimes encounter roadblocks to their creativity. If that happens, and none of the other strategies outlined in this post work,  the best route to getting back and keeping your creative mojo might be to explore the potential of your mind, so you know how best to make use of it. Know yourself creatively: know what drives you, what moves you, and what keeps you going. This kind of knowledge is what empowers you as a writer, as a thinker, and as an artist. Go exploring, get to know all the things that make you tick, and you’ll find the key to unlocking your creative potential… Perhaps you’ll even find a part of yourself you never knew in the process.

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I watched as my father lay on the couch, sagging.

His face ashen like the November sky.

I listened to the wheeze in his chest,

wondering what was wrong, knowing it wasn’t right.

The trees bare of leaves, feigning death, unlike my father.

His eyes rolled in his head, searching for focus, failing.

He was falling like the last leaves of autumn towards six feet of earth.

Covered, buried, in love.

 

Photographer: Scott Robinson