So I lay awake at three in the morning, questioning life in a particular way. I look at the women that I’ve known over the past few years and my attempts at that dreaded word known as commitment. My friend Tracie always questions my ethics, in here high pitched tone asking, “why do you go back and then run away again?” That’s the exact thing that got me to start writing the next piece I put together, puzzles. I can’t answer directly what is in my heart or mind when I find myself perched on the barstool, drinking away the sorrows of another lost love affair. Instead I just take that drink and try not to think too much about what I gave up.
Relationships are like puzzles. You begin with scattered pieces and broken images you hope to put together. Starting with the corners you build a base and start filling everything in with rapid success. At first the pieces come easy and before you know it they snap together completing the frame. Then, intrigued on one corner, they continue to find their way in your hands; almost standing out alone. There shapes have minor contours that are simple to match by briefly rummaging thru the pile. You quickly moved forward and get a glimpse of a part of the picture; half the puzzle is laid out in front of you, showing what you so hoped for.
For a while you leave the puzzle as it is. Although not finished you enjoy what has become. while leaving the other pieces in a pile on the outskirts of the border. Then one day you realize you have not finished what you started and are no longer fulfilled with just that portion of the picture. There is the need to find out what the rest displays. So you begin attempting to build further.
This time, however, the puzzle pieces are different. Sharp edges, deep pockets and complicated shapes confuse you. There doesn’t seem to be any pieces that fit together right, no matter how many times you move things around, nothing now falls into place. Mental exhaustion and defeat befall you as the pieces are swept of the table and put back in the box. The picture you once enjoyed, pulled apart, framework collapses as you put the lid on the box and put away on the top shelf of your closet; feeling it was just to hard to finish.
A little while goes by and you come across that box again, dusting it off it’s decided that you miss that picture that you once created. Quickly, the pieces you completed before fall back into place, surprisingly effortless. After that picture has been re-established you realize those other pieces still sitting unsettled. For a while, again, you put those pieces out of sight and just enjoy the half completed puzzle.
Yet as time goes by those pieces find themselves being turned in your hands with scrutiny. Placed down this time, however, you just want the puzzle completed so begin making pieces fit together; pushing them together, with room left between, cutting edges to make things work. The puzzle is finally complete.
Yet, when you look on what you created it’s not the image that you had hoped for. Part of the picture lies clear before you, yet the other half looks like abstract art created from a demented painter. You’re eyes no longer focus on the part you enjoyed when by itself, instead focusing on the mess that was created thru hasty decisions and lack of reprucussions. The puzzle is again swept away into the box and placed back on that top shelf; while hoping someday, someone will know how to complete that puzzle, but it won’t be you.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Suffocation
The young boy sits in the hospital bed, mattress held firm against his back, slightly risen so he could watch cartoons. The iv itches as it digs into the vein in his wrist, held in place by the translucent tape. Everytime he shifts his arm he could feel the needle move inside of him. His other hand is occupied holding a breathing treatment to his mouth, methodically taking breathes to release his lungs from the pressure that will not subside. It just won't subside.
A nurse comes in and checks on his the amount of medicine left in the breathing aparatus. It makes a gurgling sound as it turns the liquid solution into air. He bits on the mouthpiece so to give his hand a rest. The nurse looks at him impatiently. "If you let that drop again, we have to do this all over." The boy rolls his eyes and returns his hand.
He knows the drill. For the past few years he felt the poke of the needle and the throb of his hand holding that damn machine. He was ten years old now and they kept telling him that it would get better; soon he would be able to run with the other kids while playing football, not need a note for p.e. while sitting on the bleachers while the other kids made faces as they rapidly ran laps. Yet that night, just as with many other nights, he awoke with nothing in his lungs but a grasp for breath. At first, hoping to just go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he could run. Yet sleep he could not, he felt like he would vomit and had to get up. And in those situations, as he slowly opened his bedroom door, feeling the guilt of having to bother his mother again, she was already there. "Another one," she would ask, but not of impatience for herself, but of impatience for what she knew he felt; the pain that fullfilled her childs lungs.
The hospital was a drill, almost like something you see practiced when a women is near giving birth; suitcase in hand, action plan in place. They had their plan and without words carried it out until the young boy was in that hospital bed, with that hard mattress, trying not to lose feeling in his hand so the nurse wouldn't scould him.
Usually his mother would never leave his side, reading her book in the uncomfortable chair, barking orders at the new doctors who always wanted to try something new. "That doesn't work, we know what works, just do what I tell you." The doctor would roll their eyes as though her suggestion was wrong. Later they would fill out the prescription nonetheless, knowing the whole time she knew what was better for that child then they.
This time the boys mother was away getting him a treat from the cafeteria. He knew this weighed on her, he could see sometimes in her eyes the drain from dealing with him, but also knew that the love she felt was deeper then the drainage could reach. Much like a leaf blocked gutter on a stormy day not allowing the emotions to override the need to be strong. But he knew and hated waking her everytime, but it just wouldn't subside.
He was not an unhealthy looking boy, not sickly at all. Besides the whezzing noise that ecsaped his breath, one would think he would have been on the third base man for the local little league. However he wasn't, he was just trying to keep his hand from falling asleep. His blue eyes looked curiously around his room. Although all of the rooms looked the same; the cross on the wall, everything flitering thru white.
Why was there so much white in the hospitals? Is that why everyone thinks they see a bright light when dying, really just the translucent glow of the roof as they stare off losing grasp on reality? Or is it to make one feel pure, as though whatever has gone on before they entered that bed is forgotten. Who knows, he was just a kid, he just knew the room was way to bright for his likings.
The TV hoisted in the corner played a cartoon, however the antenna was bent causing the screen to flicker every 30 seconds or so, just enough to make you not want to stare. He already complained, and they told him that was the best that channel could work. It reminded him of himself. It looked like a normal tv, just couldn't work quite right.
The boy heard voices coming from the other side of the room, vision blocked by the blue curtain....only thing not really white, but of course it was a light blue. It sounded as though a Mother spoke to her son with a polite sincerity you only hear in a mothers voice when her child is sick. Soft, subtle, not wanting to arose any emotion in herself. "I'm just gonna go check for the doctor again, I'll be right back," she assured her son. Of course she would be right back, where else would a mother go, the young boy wondered.
"Alright, you're all done with your breathing treatment for now," the boy already knew this because the gurgling had come to an end. However if he told the nurse that she would tap sharply on the side, hurting his teeth and tell him there was a bit more. Better just let her do it when she feels it's done.
"Now try to get some rest and we'll give you another one in about an hour, then you should be alright to go home.:" The nurse said, dressed in white, and walked away.
The boy sat there for a moment only to realize as any young child would, he was bored. So he reached out with his right hand, causing the needle in the left to send bolts up his arm, and pulled back the curtain to see who needed to be re-assured their mother would return. A young black child lay on the best next to his. Looked to be about 10, like himself, yet skinner, weaker. The young boy stared over for a minute, trying to think of something to say, until the sicky black child turned his head and looked at him. His body might be weak, thought the boy, but his eyes were definitly not. "Hey there, what's your name," the black child asked.
"Shawn, what's yours?"
"Billy, what's wrong with you?" These are the formalites of hospital room guests.
"I had an asthma attack, what about you?" Shawn asked.
"I have leaukimia." Billy informed the inquirer. When he announced this his eyes returned to the roof.
"What's that?" Shawn had heard of many types of illnesses being in the hospital on so many occassions. Especially going thru the emergency rooms, people being carted in with blood soaked shirts, pale white and ghastly looking or clenching for their heart as loved ones scream behind them for someone to do something. But this word was a first.
"It just means I'm very sick." Billy said this without a softening of his voice, without so much of a winch in his nerves. The silence was erie, even for that in a hospital.
"Yeah, so am I," Shawn came back matter of factly. "I can't even play football without using my stupid asthma inhaler."
Billy kind of lauged at this notion, "I've never played football." The boy answered.
"You've never played football, man that sucks. Well, I can't play much anymore, anyways, none of the kids want to play with me. What sports can you play."
"I've never really played any, but I love watching baseball. Sometimes I dream I'm the pitcher, striking the guy out."
"Well, you can play catch can't you. I mean, I can even do that."
"Not for a long time, I've just been too weak, but I love watching."
"Well, when you get out of here and feel better, you need to play some catch."
This Billy looked over at Shawn, "Sure, yeah, I will." He lied.
Shawn's Mom walked back in the room with an orange juice box in hand. "Here ya go, how about we get out of here soon?" She asked me, as though it were up to me.
A nurse comes in and checks on his the amount of medicine left in the breathing aparatus. It makes a gurgling sound as it turns the liquid solution into air. He bits on the mouthpiece so to give his hand a rest. The nurse looks at him impatiently. "If you let that drop again, we have to do this all over." The boy rolls his eyes and returns his hand.
He knows the drill. For the past few years he felt the poke of the needle and the throb of his hand holding that damn machine. He was ten years old now and they kept telling him that it would get better; soon he would be able to run with the other kids while playing football, not need a note for p.e. while sitting on the bleachers while the other kids made faces as they rapidly ran laps. Yet that night, just as with many other nights, he awoke with nothing in his lungs but a grasp for breath. At first, hoping to just go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he could run. Yet sleep he could not, he felt like he would vomit and had to get up. And in those situations, as he slowly opened his bedroom door, feeling the guilt of having to bother his mother again, she was already there. "Another one," she would ask, but not of impatience for herself, but of impatience for what she knew he felt; the pain that fullfilled her childs lungs.
The hospital was a drill, almost like something you see practiced when a women is near giving birth; suitcase in hand, action plan in place. They had their plan and without words carried it out until the young boy was in that hospital bed, with that hard mattress, trying not to lose feeling in his hand so the nurse wouldn't scould him.
Usually his mother would never leave his side, reading her book in the uncomfortable chair, barking orders at the new doctors who always wanted to try something new. "That doesn't work, we know what works, just do what I tell you." The doctor would roll their eyes as though her suggestion was wrong. Later they would fill out the prescription nonetheless, knowing the whole time she knew what was better for that child then they.
This time the boys mother was away getting him a treat from the cafeteria. He knew this weighed on her, he could see sometimes in her eyes the drain from dealing with him, but also knew that the love she felt was deeper then the drainage could reach. Much like a leaf blocked gutter on a stormy day not allowing the emotions to override the need to be strong. But he knew and hated waking her everytime, but it just wouldn't subside.
He was not an unhealthy looking boy, not sickly at all. Besides the whezzing noise that ecsaped his breath, one would think he would have been on the third base man for the local little league. However he wasn't, he was just trying to keep his hand from falling asleep. His blue eyes looked curiously around his room. Although all of the rooms looked the same; the cross on the wall, everything flitering thru white.
Why was there so much white in the hospitals? Is that why everyone thinks they see a bright light when dying, really just the translucent glow of the roof as they stare off losing grasp on reality? Or is it to make one feel pure, as though whatever has gone on before they entered that bed is forgotten. Who knows, he was just a kid, he just knew the room was way to bright for his likings.
The TV hoisted in the corner played a cartoon, however the antenna was bent causing the screen to flicker every 30 seconds or so, just enough to make you not want to stare. He already complained, and they told him that was the best that channel could work. It reminded him of himself. It looked like a normal tv, just couldn't work quite right.
The boy heard voices coming from the other side of the room, vision blocked by the blue curtain....only thing not really white, but of course it was a light blue. It sounded as though a Mother spoke to her son with a polite sincerity you only hear in a mothers voice when her child is sick. Soft, subtle, not wanting to arose any emotion in herself. "I'm just gonna go check for the doctor again, I'll be right back," she assured her son. Of course she would be right back, where else would a mother go, the young boy wondered.
"Alright, you're all done with your breathing treatment for now," the boy already knew this because the gurgling had come to an end. However if he told the nurse that she would tap sharply on the side, hurting his teeth and tell him there was a bit more. Better just let her do it when she feels it's done.
"Now try to get some rest and we'll give you another one in about an hour, then you should be alright to go home.:" The nurse said, dressed in white, and walked away.
The boy sat there for a moment only to realize as any young child would, he was bored. So he reached out with his right hand, causing the needle in the left to send bolts up his arm, and pulled back the curtain to see who needed to be re-assured their mother would return. A young black child lay on the best next to his. Looked to be about 10, like himself, yet skinner, weaker. The young boy stared over for a minute, trying to think of something to say, until the sicky black child turned his head and looked at him. His body might be weak, thought the boy, but his eyes were definitly not. "Hey there, what's your name," the black child asked.
"Shawn, what's yours?"
"Billy, what's wrong with you?" These are the formalites of hospital room guests.
"I had an asthma attack, what about you?" Shawn asked.
"I have leaukimia." Billy informed the inquirer. When he announced this his eyes returned to the roof.
"What's that?" Shawn had heard of many types of illnesses being in the hospital on so many occassions. Especially going thru the emergency rooms, people being carted in with blood soaked shirts, pale white and ghastly looking or clenching for their heart as loved ones scream behind them for someone to do something. But this word was a first.
"It just means I'm very sick." Billy said this without a softening of his voice, without so much of a winch in his nerves. The silence was erie, even for that in a hospital.
"Yeah, so am I," Shawn came back matter of factly. "I can't even play football without using my stupid asthma inhaler."
Billy kind of lauged at this notion, "I've never played football." The boy answered.
"You've never played football, man that sucks. Well, I can't play much anymore, anyways, none of the kids want to play with me. What sports can you play."
"I've never really played any, but I love watching baseball. Sometimes I dream I'm the pitcher, striking the guy out."
"Well, you can play catch can't you. I mean, I can even do that."
"Not for a long time, I've just been too weak, but I love watching."
"Well, when you get out of here and feel better, you need to play some catch."
This Billy looked over at Shawn, "Sure, yeah, I will." He lied.
Shawn's Mom walked back in the room with an orange juice box in hand. "Here ya go, how about we get out of here soon?" She asked me, as though it were up to me.
"The nurse said I had to rest."
"Well, rest away, just let me know when you're ready. Oh yeah, got you some baseball cards."
The boy laid there for a moment, then looked over to his side. Realizing for the first time just how sick this boy was, not from what he said, but just the way he said things. Shawn knew then this boy wouldn't play catch, or football. Yet at this age, what does one do to offer solace to another.
After a few minutes, the nurse returned, "Ready to get out of here?" again asking the boy.
"Yeah, please." Shawn responded. The nurse took the iv from his hand. Shawn went into the restroom and dressed. As he walked out, Shawn thought for just a moment on what lay before him in life. Complications, yes, but complications to be overcame.
He started to walk out the door with his mother, then stopped and walked back to the sickly child that laid quietly staring at the roof. "Here you go," Shawn said, handing the boy his baseball cards.
"Thanks," was returned with true sincerity. Besides, what more can be done, when you're only ten.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Always wear clean underwear
It's been a little while since I wrote anything. I've tried to focus on my book, yet continue to be-little my own efforts as a lost cause of improper grammer and soft dialouge. I've also got caught up with the "real" world of fast decisions and long reprucusions. The decision to get my own apartment, with the stress of how I'm going to sustain my lifestyle of booze induced hazy adventures. The decision to create new projects at work, with the fallen satisfaction of overseeing the projects with little benefit to my own self worthiness. Everyday a new decision, most of which leads to the question we all ask after, was that the right decision.
Why do we feel the need to question our decisions so intently. Maybe I'm alone here, and for the reader with the perfect marriage, perfect job and perfect waistline, my writings not for you anyway; so let me loan you twenty bucks, go get a lap dance, ruin your marriage, become a drunk, lose your job and let your stomach start hanging of your tight beige Dockers. This is for the rest of us. The kids in high school who worried too much about that zit eyeing back at you in the mirror, laughing as it symetrically alligned itself on your nose, perfectly placed between your eyes. This is for the ones who worry they're not getting enough excercise, so to subdue the thoughts of insecurity, grab another beer to relax. This if for the ones who always seem to question things more then just accept the printed answers of life.
But then again, maybe thats just me.
Anyways, most of us spend so much time questioning things, the real world seems to swim by in a haze. I wish I could run a mathmatical equation as such - Time spent worrying, stressing or questioning things divided by total Life Span equals percentage wasted. Thats right, wasted. But wait, you might ask, some of the things I worry about our necessary for survival. If I don't worry about losing my job, then I might lose my job, then I might not be able to afford my mortage, then I might be collecting bottles in the dumpster behind those tattered blue apartments, then I lose everything. Possibly, but you might just keep your job.
When I was in college, I worried a lot about my future, as most college students do. "What do I want to be?" I would ask myself with delusional thoughts of what life would be like in each scenario. I graduate with a Business Degree, but no, then I would be a suit, working for corporate america as a pawn in its long drawn out game of chess. I could get my Communications Degree, wait, what the hell does that even mean. Am I going to be a sportswriter for the Daily Post, oh crap, I don't even like sports, thats not going to work. A continous attempt at different subjects in search for what best fits your personality and makes you happy, constantly causes you stress in those first days of independent thinking. And whats it all worth?
I finally relinquished the idea of becoming a Teacher in inner city schools. That's right everyone, I was going to "save the world". Help one economically challenged individual at a time. Self rewarding, not to mention when you're 21 years old, fifty grand sounds like great money! I launched myself into this idea of my future whole heartedly. Studying not only the subjects in which I would teach, but how to be a great teacher; kind, patient, understanding. After I completed everything and got my degree, I was ready to teach.
But a Teacher I did not become. Instead I answered a Monster.com ad, low and behold I now manage an operations center... who would have thought. So if I knew then, what I know now, would I have not wasted those hours stressing for the future and instead utilized them to enjoy the luxuries of college life; i.e. booze before hangovers. Does questioning and stress simply waste time in a life that is controlled by forces other then our own?
It has been confirmed by a scrawny, pasty looking guy in a white lab coat that for every action, there is a re-action. Well what if an action of another, causes a re-action that affects my action; therefore a different re-action then I had anticipated. Huh? What? No, I assure you that I have not been drinking.....yet. However, think about it, we are not truely in control of our re-actions.
Why didn't I become a Teacher. Well, someone in California Legislature felt that they needed to cut the budget, then advised someone to look for cuts...an action. That caused the re-action of another looking for cuts and finding the cost of education to be substantial and should be cut, they cut the number of increasing teachers by ending the "emergency credential" program; therefore all teachers needed to have the Teaching Credential before being allowed to teach... an action. I could not get a job teaching after graduating without going thru more school, a re-action; therefore I went on Monster.com to look for a different career path.... an action. Now the education system will be in crisis without my thorough abililites to make every student a better person. Alright, maybe that parts a farce, but the rest is true.
In todays world of economic crisis, the end result of most actions are decided by an outside party. I could stress every night about losing my job; however that won't change the fact that if the budget is tight, someone can make the decision to lay me off. All I can do is continue working to the best of my abilities, without fear of the future. Our ability to control our lives has been stripped by the fact we don't control our re-actions. There are to many factors involving other people for anything to truely be controlled by your own decisions.
Wait, says the smart ass in the front row, with their hand waving back and forth impatiently, "I control my own health by what I eat." So great, you might live to be an old fart wearing diapers depending...no pun intended, on some underpaid nurse to wipe your ass, trying to remember what it felt like to get laid. Good Luck with that. Or you might get struck by a bus tomorrow, so don't worry about if you should walk on the sidewalk or stay at home. You have no ability to control the drivers reactions...just make sure you wear clean underwear and whistle while you walk.
Why do we feel the need to question our decisions so intently. Maybe I'm alone here, and for the reader with the perfect marriage, perfect job and perfect waistline, my writings not for you anyway; so let me loan you twenty bucks, go get a lap dance, ruin your marriage, become a drunk, lose your job and let your stomach start hanging of your tight beige Dockers. This is for the rest of us. The kids in high school who worried too much about that zit eyeing back at you in the mirror, laughing as it symetrically alligned itself on your nose, perfectly placed between your eyes. This is for the ones who worry they're not getting enough excercise, so to subdue the thoughts of insecurity, grab another beer to relax. This if for the ones who always seem to question things more then just accept the printed answers of life.
But then again, maybe thats just me.
Anyways, most of us spend so much time questioning things, the real world seems to swim by in a haze. I wish I could run a mathmatical equation as such - Time spent worrying, stressing or questioning things divided by total Life Span equals percentage wasted. Thats right, wasted. But wait, you might ask, some of the things I worry about our necessary for survival. If I don't worry about losing my job, then I might lose my job, then I might not be able to afford my mortage, then I might be collecting bottles in the dumpster behind those tattered blue apartments, then I lose everything. Possibly, but you might just keep your job.
When I was in college, I worried a lot about my future, as most college students do. "What do I want to be?" I would ask myself with delusional thoughts of what life would be like in each scenario. I graduate with a Business Degree, but no, then I would be a suit, working for corporate america as a pawn in its long drawn out game of chess. I could get my Communications Degree, wait, what the hell does that even mean. Am I going to be a sportswriter for the Daily Post, oh crap, I don't even like sports, thats not going to work. A continous attempt at different subjects in search for what best fits your personality and makes you happy, constantly causes you stress in those first days of independent thinking. And whats it all worth?
I finally relinquished the idea of becoming a Teacher in inner city schools. That's right everyone, I was going to "save the world". Help one economically challenged individual at a time. Self rewarding, not to mention when you're 21 years old, fifty grand sounds like great money! I launched myself into this idea of my future whole heartedly. Studying not only the subjects in which I would teach, but how to be a great teacher; kind, patient, understanding. After I completed everything and got my degree, I was ready to teach.
But a Teacher I did not become. Instead I answered a Monster.com ad, low and behold I now manage an operations center... who would have thought. So if I knew then, what I know now, would I have not wasted those hours stressing for the future and instead utilized them to enjoy the luxuries of college life; i.e. booze before hangovers. Does questioning and stress simply waste time in a life that is controlled by forces other then our own?
It has been confirmed by a scrawny, pasty looking guy in a white lab coat that for every action, there is a re-action. Well what if an action of another, causes a re-action that affects my action; therefore a different re-action then I had anticipated. Huh? What? No, I assure you that I have not been drinking.....yet. However, think about it, we are not truely in control of our re-actions.
Why didn't I become a Teacher. Well, someone in California Legislature felt that they needed to cut the budget, then advised someone to look for cuts...an action. That caused the re-action of another looking for cuts and finding the cost of education to be substantial and should be cut, they cut the number of increasing teachers by ending the "emergency credential" program; therefore all teachers needed to have the Teaching Credential before being allowed to teach... an action. I could not get a job teaching after graduating without going thru more school, a re-action; therefore I went on Monster.com to look for a different career path.... an action. Now the education system will be in crisis without my thorough abililites to make every student a better person. Alright, maybe that parts a farce, but the rest is true.
In todays world of economic crisis, the end result of most actions are decided by an outside party. I could stress every night about losing my job; however that won't change the fact that if the budget is tight, someone can make the decision to lay me off. All I can do is continue working to the best of my abilities, without fear of the future. Our ability to control our lives has been stripped by the fact we don't control our re-actions. There are to many factors involving other people for anything to truely be controlled by your own decisions.
Wait, says the smart ass in the front row, with their hand waving back and forth impatiently, "I control my own health by what I eat." So great, you might live to be an old fart wearing diapers depending...no pun intended, on some underpaid nurse to wipe your ass, trying to remember what it felt like to get laid. Good Luck with that. Or you might get struck by a bus tomorrow, so don't worry about if you should walk on the sidewalk or stay at home. You have no ability to control the drivers reactions...just make sure you wear clean underwear and whistle while you walk.
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