Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Manliness

I'm a man. As a man, it upsets me that so much pain is caused by other men, against women. Regardless of the reasons, biological or sociological or psychological, men hurt women physically in large numbers around the world. As a species, we need to make it stop.

I'm a simpleton, and can't get past the terrible things being done to my sisters around the world. And most men never turn to violence against anyone, including women. Unfortunately, subjugating women seems to be the primary role of so many institutions, mainly religion.

Perhaps I'm too much an romantic, but methinks that most people have an inclination to be compassionate to other people. Empathy is natural. So why is it that so many people around the world are judging and punishing women so harshly? Who would deny that sex is a rather large part of life? Desire. Women in so many places are punished not only for desiring sex and intimacy, but for tempting men.

I'm not going to cite statistics or refer to an anecdote. Anyone with eyes can see that. Anyone with ears can hear it!

Men of faith around the world are afraid of women. They fear them because sexual discipline is more difficult if women are around. And sexual discipline is a part of every religion. Particularly feared are women who embrace their own sexuality. Temptation.

That's pretty fucked up right there. Women are mutilated, beaten to death, imprisoned in their own homes...all because of fear. The men who do this are afraid that impropriety, or just the appearance of impropriety, will have negative social and cosmic consequences. Better to just throw a blanket over your wife or daughter and keep her in the house.

And cut off the clitoris. That will certainly throw cold water on the fire down below.

What a smoldering injustice, such pain caused for such stupid reasons. If common sense and compassion were to guide us, these men wouldn't engage in such pathological behavior. Instead, institutions overshadow our natural instincts towards empathy and compassion.

It sucks.

I'll never forget the movie "Darwin's Nightmare," where a Tanzanian woman was interviewed. She was working as a prostitute, but was still young enough to have hope for something better. In the movie, she sang the anthem of her country, Tanzania, Tanzania. Her soft, lilting voice rising above the din of a busy street. Or perhaps cutting through it. She looked tired, despite her youth. The clip is here.

Later we find out that an Australian pilot, flying fish out of Tanzania, killed her after hiring her for sex.

Her voice has stayed with me. It haunts me.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Open Letter To Matt

Dear Matt Oresko,

Good day to you, Matt. We've been friends for a few years now, and enjoyed countless philosophical and religious debates. You've been a supportive and kind friend, and I look forward to one day buying you a drink. No Saki.

You are a Christian. I am an atheist. It's possible to dress up my atheist in Unitarian Universalism, as a scientific pantheist and meta-ethical relativist. Still, I'm an atheist, pure and simple.

Recently you told me that I'd be a happier fellow if I'd accept Jesus Christ in my life.

Matt, understand that I can't "accept" Jesus Christ for several reasons, and here they be.

1. Jesus of Nazareth was supposedly a real person, but I'm not even convinced that he ever existed. Not a good start for those who want me to accept him as God. :)
2. Asking me to accept Jesus as God is like asking me to accept Spartacus or Curt Jurgens or Wayne Newton as god. Really, it is. All humor and sarcasm aside, I do not believe what you believe, not even a little bit. In fact, your belief system is ridiculous to me. So I can't accept Jesus as Christ and son of god. For the same reason that you can't accept Robin Williams as god. It's absurd. No offense, really.
3. The story of Jesus of Nazareth existed before Jesus. There are Babylonian, Assyrian and Egyptian stories that predate the Bible, but tell the same story. This proves to me that Christianity is nonsense.
4. The implication that people of faith are happier is bogus, as well. Anyone with bipolar, borderline personality disorder and post traumatic stress disorder (from a sexual assault when 8 years old) would have the same difficulties as I do, regardless of religion.
5. Finally, Christianity causes more pain than it alleviates. If you've ever volunteered at a health clinic for women where abortions are performed, you see some of the misery. I've seen women entering such places bullied to tears at the lowest point of their lives by supposedly good and kind Christians.

I'll never believe in a Christian, or any specific, god. While I consider myself to be open to the possibility of a god, no organized religion makes a lick of sense to me. They cause pain and are simply working an angle. It's a con. There are a lot of good religious people, you among them, but the structure of organized religion is to frighten and bully people.

Spirituality appeals to me. The idea of deep consideration of the meaning of life, god, nature, and all that. But anyone who claims to know what it is all about is either lying or delusional. And it is an institutional, generation spanning delusion.

The meaning of life is a question with no answer. Anyone who claims otherwise is, again, lying or delusional.

To put it another way, Jesus Christ isn't there for me to accept! I can't pretend to believe in something, and if I "accepted" Jesus Christ I'd be pretending. I'm happy that JC gives you comfort. But it is a coupon for happiness that is non-transferable.

So there you go. Thank you for trying to bring me into the fold, though. I know you care about me, and that means a great deal to me, Matt.

Darren

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Saturday Entreaties

As I get older, I detect with dismay many changes since, say, 10 years ago. My expectations are more realistic. I'm at a point when, "Your prescription is ready for pick-up" is the best fucking news all day. When I was, say, 25, the best part of life was women. Today, the best part of life is women. The only thing that has changed is that I have a fearful respect for their power. Like Tony "C" who got hit in the kisser with a fast ball and he never hit well again. Or a base jumper who flings herself off a bridge and breaks every bone in her body, and later goes back to base jumping. It humbles you. But you still love doing it...you're just a little flinchy.

Relationships are an extreme sport. It doesn't matter if you're gay, heterosexual, Mormon, or a Samoan professional wrestler...you will one day fall in love with another human being, and it will humble you. It will be great. But you will earn it. No free rides, you get what ya give, as Ken Gage says.

But life is not easy. God help you if the person you love happens to have the same genitals. For some reason that upsets complete strangers. Or is a different color. Or class. Why? Because the world is full of bigotry, and it really sucks, that's why. I mean it really sucks.

Having someone who knows when you're full of shit is just the bee's knees. Love is good.

Age has taught me that being in love and enjoying sex are really good things. I knew that when I was 17, but today I also understand how precious it is. Most people I know, except for my brother Kent (he met his wife through a friend, after that it was kismet) really have to work hard to find the right person. Sentimental thoughts from a 38 year.

There's that great Stevie Wonder song that says it all.

As I get older, I talk to Mr. God or Chancy-McChance, or Dick Cheney or whomever runs the universe. It's always a one-sided conversation, even when I really listen. When I talk, I ask for favors:

"Please, God, don't let me shit my pants." Was on a date at that time.

"God, please let this be an Ace of Spades." Scratch ticket plea.

"Oh, Lord of Hosts, please let there be one English muffin left."

"Sweet, fancy Moses, let her have poor eyesight!"

"Please don't let her find out I like Cat Stevens!" Topical.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sort of a question prayer.

"Lordy, if you can get me out of this, I'd do anything!" This could be anything.

"God, if you don't mind, please let us both come at the same time."

And the Favor of Primary Importance (FPI) is simple. "Please, Mr. Blue Sky, don't make me have to use a bedpan in front of an attractive young female nurse ever again. Please. " That has been the FPI since July 4, 2010. On that day, I had to poop into a shoe box at Mt. Auburn Hospital. When it became clear to me that they wouldn't let me try to walk, and since I was literally tied to a bed, my only option became shit in a bed pan the size of a matchbook.

The horror. The horror...

Not a big fan of shit humor, but it was so humiliating and disgusting and embarrassing that methinks I was traumatized. The nurse was, and probably still is, sexy and beautiful. and traumatized, as well. Poor thing.

You get the drift. Entreaties to the wind, or something.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Random Bite of My Novel

Marcus turned and looked up at Keynis, into him, and motioned as if something needed to be said, but there was an inexplicable hesitation. It felt like he was nervous. Keynis couldn't figure out why he would be nervous, so he stopped and compelled him to speak through action. And the action was simple, he stopped what he was doing and turned to him.

"Are you alright, Marcus? What is it? Go ahead, my friend, you can tell me."

With that, Marcus lost all timidity. He rose and smiled, standing at his full height, thus making himself almost a full meter taller than Keynis. Marcus then spoke.

"Could you talk to me? I have so many questions." His voice was clear and loud and his English was perfect, but there was something exotic about his accent, no matter how slight it was. It pleased Keynis' ear. His physical presence was also pleasing to him. His hair, his soft, black robe, and even his scent spoke of nature. But not of something wild. More like wind and trees, a campfire and home. And cold water made hot for tea.

Keynis considered the question for one second, and then smiled. "Of course, child. Ask whatever you'd like. It will help keep me awake, too."

Marcus didn't hesitate. He consumed the opportunity to learn more. "You look scared. Are you scared?" the Ursine Marcus asked.

"Yes, I am." Keynis answered, a bit uneasily, but his fear was obvious.

"And you are afraid of whatever is trying to get into the room, to get to us?" Marcus asked.

Keynis sat on the edge of his desk, carefully avoiding any buttons, levers or any of the other various control mechanisms arrayed there. With an almost playful sadness, borne of resignation, he said, "Yes, I'm afraid of the people trying to get in."

Marcus smiled. "People? They want to hurt us, and kill us? But you won't tell me why?"

Keynis smiled back, although he didn't know why. The young Ursine put him at ease. "In that order, I should think, my friend, and no, there is no purpose in telling you why."

The two of the were quiet for a moment. In the distance, down the hallway and up the stairs, they could hear what sounded like drums beating in discord. It was the sound of the door being weakened, broken, bent, shattered. Keynis guessed they had 3 or 4 hours at most before the seal would be cracked, and then the door pried open. They looked at each other.

Marcus drew close to Keynis, dragging his useless, misshapen leg behind him. He had been born with it, and he negotiated with it easily. Keynis stood up, and the two were inches apart now. The Ursine spoke in a whisper, his warm, moist breath passing over Keynis' ear. He felt pins and needles along his spine. "And you won't let them hurt me, torture me...so you're going to kill me, and then yourself."

Keynis suddenly lost interest in what began to feel like a game. Marcus sensed this, and held fast. "I only say that because, if it is true, and I think it is...then we are more than friends, aren't we? More than comrades? More even than family or lovers, I think. We are...as one."

With that, Marcus rose to his full height again, towering above the human. He smiled broadly and put his hand to his ear, indicating in an exaggerated, mocking fashion that he was listening to the door. The door that kept them alive. The door that would soon come down.

"Since that is the case, let us listen to different music than this! Do you know any songs? A poem perhaps? We can certainly outplay them!" His great arm swept over Keynis' head as he indicated the hallway and door beyond. "Let's live together a bit if we are going to die together soon." And he was still smiling. The smile of a child. A smile that was not cynical or defeated. More like a joyful smile, a playful challenge to a friend. "Sing the poem you were reading earlier, my Otif. It said something to you that made you weep. It took you out of this room. Let it take me out of this room, as well!" His eyes glowed.

With that, Marcus sat down upon a nest of blankets and old clothes that he had been using as a bed. Now seated, his head was just below the chin of Keynis, the human, the lover, the friend, the comrade. The beloved Otif. He looked at the human in an affectionate way, his head cocked a bit to his left, and he was smiling again.

In the background, there was the sound of metal slamming into metal. Every so often, a voice perhaps.

Keynis started to enjoy, and see the value, in the game. He returned the smile, and in that moment Keynis and Marcus were the only two beings on the planet entire. Despite all the noise that spoke to the contrary.

"Okay, I can do this for you. You may find it maudlin and sentimental, the way a 200 year old child would. But it is beautiful to me."

Marcus was almost glowing, he looked that happy. There was a purity in him, an innocence, that seemed to radiate from his eyes, his smile, and even in the way he moved. There was a eagerness and curiosity to him, not unlike a child waiting to see a magic trick, or hold a kitten.

Keynis rose, and walked to the stairs, to the ascending hallway. Three steps up felt high enough for a stage of sorts. It was certainly wide enough, considering the stride of the Ursine engineer who designed it.

"Ok, this poem..." and he was interrupted. Keynis had to speak. He simply said, "I'm happy that you are talking to me now. Very happy!" With that, the small human returned the smile. There was real affection between the two, and that affection now had a voice. Expression.

Keynis took a deep breath, and began to speak.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Long Walk Ends: Young People

My legs are tired as I make my way across the street and around the backstop of the baseball diamond in the park. The field itself is as black as pitch. Impossibly dark. Darker than the midnight sky itself. As my eyes adjust and I listen carefully, I realize that the field is also empty of people. From what I can discern, there are no young couples out for a walk. No bathroom trips for the dog. I finger the extension cord and consider my thirst. A drinking fountain sits near the entrance to the field.

After a deeply satisfying drink of warm water, I find myself spread out on the newly cut grass. My shoes and socks come off as is my sweat-soaked t-shirt, which I'm now using as a pillow. A thin summer shirt is on now, and is mostly dry, and the cool night air is sweet. At this moment, I'm something close to happy, and even peaceful. The extension cord is next to me and is waiting to be used. Like a gun under a nervous man's pillow, it seems to compel its own use. It nags.

I feel so alone in a metropolitan area of 4.5 million people, but at the moment not lonely. There are some clouds, but the stars are mostly visible. My focus is on a star, or perhaps a planet, glowing past in the firmament. I stare at it and my memory turns to a time not too long ago when El and I visited a nudist colony on Cape Cod. There were shooting stars that night, and we were together, holding hands in the dark, naked. It took a long time, but we finally saw one. It was spectacular. As Walter Benton once wrote, it was like, "God lighting a match on a cathedral ceiling."

There are tears now, and I let them come. They are no bother. I've known love, and love isn't permanent, and it is time to move on. Before I stand, I consider the time and distance between myself, my life, and that star up there. My whole life is in that distance, like a long trail of smoke. The fire that burns and makes the smoke will soon be out. But all those moments...where are they now? It pleases me to think that they still exist, between here and that star. As if that star and I are margins with my entire life in between.

Things move quickly now. I put my socks and shoes back on, although I'm not clear as to why. One end of the six foot long extension cord is now tied firmly around my neck. In the darkness, I find a tree behind a small bank of bleachers. Within seconds, the other end of the cord is tied around a thick branch. My neck is bleeding a bit, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps the cord is a bit frayed in places. I'm ready to commit suicide by hanging. All I have to do is drop to my knees and I'll be unconscious in seconds. Dead within minutes. I'm not afraid of pain, as I know how fast I'll black out. It will be over for me after perhaps a brief moment of fear.

Here I stand for one minute. Then two. Then three. After that, I lose track. All the while a comfortable breeze stirs the leaves of the trees in the park. My eyes lock on a chair that is sitting near a door behind an indoor skating rink. It feels like an omen. Like I should get the chair and engage in a more traditional suicide? Like in the movies?

Then I realize that I do not want to die. Just like that. While the thought of going through another night of racing thoughts full of remorse, self-loathing, disgust and regret is agonizing to consider, I don't want it to end like this. It's reasonable to think that something in the future is worth living for, or people, or a person.

Within the next 60 seconds, I decide to take the cord off and put it back in my pocket. As I leave my t-shirt behind in the park, the sprinkler system comes on and I laugh, genuinely. So much was considered in those minutes, so many people and experiences remembered. Tchaikovsky's violin concerto came to mind, when I saw it performed with my father by the Concord Symphony Orchestra. And the first time I made love to a woman, a tender, lovely memory. Our eyes locked in the darkness while she guided me inside, her thighs squeezing me, her face shining with a joyful smile. It was a moment of pure joy, with Nina Simone playing on the CD player and the smell of her Gauloises cigarettes permeating the bedroom.

Music and friends and lovers were in my mind the most. My brother, and the way he can laugh so loud, and that we find the same things so damn funny. Every time I wake up in hospital, be it from a seizure or suicide attempt, he is there. He is everything I am not; stable, wise and thoughtful. Impy, a cat I rescued from under my neighbors back stoop, came to mind, too. There she was, in the pouring rain, curled up in my hand, her blue eyes radiant. Sheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov was playing in a corner of my mind. Those waves rising and falling, roused by a storm.

My mother was there, as well. Her painful bout with cancer, that eventually took her out of the world. She suffered cruelly. She loved the sea, and that is what I'm thinking of in this field, at around 1:30 in the morning.

Unclear as to what to do, I strike out into the night, towards Boston.

At some point I stumble upon a group of young people, spilling out of what used to be the Tír na nÓg bar, but is now Bull McCabes. In Irish mythology, Tír na nÓg is a happy place, full of young people. It's a tiny bar, and I had a drink with a woman there years ago. Another fond memory.

Music is pouring into the street along with the sweaty young people experimenting with alcohol tolerance. Everyone is confident. Many know they are getting laid soon. Smiles and laughter abound. As I pass slowly, to take in the spectacle, a woman who looks like a young Kathy Bates asks, "Are you okay?" and points to her neck, then my neck. It is then that I realize that I'm bleeding a little from where the cord scratched me. Sweat and blood have mingled, producing the illusion of a large cut.

Theatrically, I stop, smile, turn and say, "I'm fine, beautiful woman. 'Tis but a scratch. Know, however, that your concern means worlds to me. I'm having a night of heavy-breathing...contemplation. This scratch is due to the hangman's lack of skill. Always use union help when possible." The words just tumbled out. It was so good to speak to another human.

At that, she laughed. Not that it was funny, but she was in a frame of mind where just about anything could be funny. Out of my left eye I noticed her friend sizing me up. I ignored her. A feeling of unease enveloped me as a couple of other people in the crowd took notice, loudly. Some shouted unkind words in mockery. But I didn't take it to heart.

At last I turned, but this time towards home. "Good luck with all that" the tall woman shouted, smiling. Happy. For some reason, I spun around and yelled to all assembled:

Consider how much more you often suffer from your anger and grief, than from those very things for which you are angry and grieved.

Some laughed, most people ignored, some just looked. "Mark Antony said that," I said, and then very loudly, with the cord in my hand, I shouted, "Will anyone grant Mark Antony an honorable way to die?"

Three people laughed, many ignored me, many more just looked at me. All the while the music flowed out the door of bar, like songs and witty stories. I found my way home after that.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Long Walk, Part 2: The Armory

The lights of Porter Square begin to disappear behind me, and my attention shifts to the aesthetically interesting railroad signs, lights and tracks of the Commuter Rail. The sidewalk is about 30 feet above the tracks, providing an odd perspective on the now inactive line. While I can't be sure of the time, it has to be past 1am. The moon is visible now, just above the horizon. It is orange.

Walking on the sidewalk next to the sunken, fenced-in train tracks is not unlike walking along the lip of a ravine. The mercy of a summer breeze is heard in the trees and felt upon the skin, but besides that there is very little happening. Every so often I espy another human being, waiting for a ride or walking somewhere rapidly. I'm surprised at how alone I am as I reach Craigie Street. My thoughts turn to that night over a decade ago.

Adam and Mikhail invited me over to their humble home at that address, and when I arrived a tour was provided, by Adam. He was ebullient, and there were women there. Two women from Harvard University, and they were both beautiful and young, rich with the future they had yet to spend. They laughed easily.

On the second floor we found our way to The Armory, which was another name for Mikhail's bedroom. So called because of all the replicas of medieval weapons; a mace, a model of a trebuchet, a sword, and I'm sure other instruments of death. I felt that it was meant to be taken ironically. Mikhail wouldn't hurt a fly. The young man also had an interest in history, particularly ancient history, evidenced by dozens of books arrayed in several bookcases. I noticed a book about Hannibal, which provided a subject for conversation.

General Hannibal of Carthage really scared the shit out of the Romans when he crossed the Italian Alps with 5,000 horsemen and about 25,000 foot soldiers (and elephants, of course) and emerged from the Col du Mont Cenis in Northern Italy. He may as well have landed on the moon in the eyes of the Romans. He had done what they thought impossible.

We made our way downstairs, and enjoyed conversation and hummus and pita bread. The conversation lured many smiles and laughs from each of us, and we continued to drink Russian vodka. Several hours later Adam and I got into a mock argument, which we liked to do back then. I had tried to play his saxophone, and failed. The result of the mock fight was pita bread scattered all about, two amused (perhaps slightly annoyed) Harvard women who had withdrawn to the couch in the living room, and a missing Russian. Adam and I laughed our asses off, and I refused a ride and decided to enjoy the walk home.

I want to see the house before I kill myself, and be reminded of what it is like to have friends, to be human and happy and full of hope. And no small amount of joy. After a long walk, here the house is, and I'm smiling. It doesn't last long, however, whatever "it" is, as a young man is nearby and clearly wondering what I'm up to. I decide to move on.

Moving on means walking past a car wash, and a lot of pressure to finally bring this evening to a close. The suicide note I left on my blog surely has garnered attention. This has to end tonight. No more hospitals. That goodbye has to be my final goodbye. My right hand is in my right pocket and I can feel the cord, waiting to be used.

A patch of darkness cuts into the continuous string of lights along the horizon. That patch is Conway Park. With a deep breath I conclude simply that I've found my location. I'm going to hang in that park tonight, but I am not at peace.

Monday, August 09, 2010

The Long Walk, Part 1

My attention moves away from the television and to the window and street noise beyond. In the courtyard below, children are playing with a football. One child throws the ball, and many try to catch it. The result is noisy kids near my small garden by the back stoop. Sometimes they are in it. Normally, I would yell for them to clear out, but not now. Now my focus is on the closet, and the cord within.

From where I am sitting, on a steamer trunk near my bedroom window, the inside of the closet is mostly hidden in darkness. But because I know that a white, 6 foot long extension cord is hanging from a hook in the back, I can see it. It is looped twice and plugged into itself. The faux antique clock near the door reads 9:14pm. Now that the television is off, the flat is quiet. The neighborhood, however, is buzzing on another hot July night.

With a sigh, I rise. Annie looks at me, her tail now wagging in the hope that I mean to take her with me on my walk. I do not. A few pats on her head, and I reach into the closet and take the extension cord, fold it, and tuck it into my pants. With that, I begin to head for the back door, but not before pausing and considering the night I have planned.

Suddenly there are tears, but they disappear just as quickly. My plan is to find a tree and hang myself from it. I've no desire to be stopped. This is not a "cry for help." How many times have I been to a psych ward? A dozen times, perhaps? Each time there are countless questions, numerous assessments, four-point restraints, locked doors, medication, and an "aftercare" plan. Once there was shock therapy. In the Men's dormitory at The Arbour there were fist fights, of no consequence. People at the limit of what they can endure, seeking kindness, or any sort of interaction. Even if that be a punch in the nose.

Tonight, however, I have no appetite for a new beginning. No desire to start again. As the high, weak aura of sunlight disappears from sky, I find comfort in knowing that I'll never see another morning. For what must be the 10th time in the last hour I wonder how much hanging myself will hurt. I don't think it will hurt very much at all. Not at all.

Down the stairs and out the door I go, first heading toward the Mystic River, and then back toward Davis Square, Somerville. In my mind, the Mystic River bank is a perfect place for a suicide. As I get closer to it, however, an odd fear grips me. The riverbank is impossibly dark. Black. The water is unheard and unseen. My eyes refuse to adjust, and the moon is hidden behind a sliver of low clouds.

In addition to the practical concern of how to commit suicide when one can't see three inches in front of his face, a sentimental thought creeps into my brain. It occurs to me that I should see something beautiful again before I die. For some reason, that place is the recently renovated, historic Somerville Theatre. With her green owls with red eyes, and the smell of popcorn pouring through the door on an air conditioned breeze on a hot, summer night. Yes, I'm going to see it before I let gravity strangle me. On the way I can go see 5 Cameron Avenue, as well.

Five Cameron Avenue as a place is hardly special. Just a two story house set amid countless other two and three decker houses. It only matters to me because of something that happened there 16 years ago. A young lady who had my attention invited me to a party there. She was, and perhaps still is, an artist. Her Bohemian world entranced me, and I wanted nothing more than to get lost in it. Lost amid the artists of Somerville.

It was a cold night in November, and I left my flat with a bottle of Fat Bastard wine. The party was a pre-Thanksgiving shindig. Turkey without the family. A baggage free meal more about the future than the past. We enjoyed ourselves, laughed heartily, and in the end threw food about like children. It was magnificent. And the woman I had my eye on? She laughed at all my jokes and seemed to enjoy my company. The world can be a fine place, and sometimes is.

With an extension cord in my pocket, I walked the mile or so to Cameron Avenue. The house looked the same as it did in my memory...pretty much. For two or three minutes I took it in, and then began walking to The Somerville Theater nearby. It didn't take long. These were steps taken while deep in thought. Distance was measured in preoccupation, and I was preoccupied with thoughts of friends and family, life and death, and countless useless memories. One thought brought Craigie Street to mind. Another party, more women, and the company of friends.

For now, however, I stood in front of the wide open doors of the Somerville Theater. Green owls, eyes glowing red, were perched above my head on either side of the marquee. Magnificent to my eye, countless couples passed beneath, uninterested. Cold air. The smell of popcorn. And a movie poster boasted about a 35th anniversary showing of Jaws, in the main theater. I smiled.

The cord was still in my pocked, against my sweaty leg.

On I walked, half looking for a good tree to hang myself. Between Davis Square and Porter Square I began singing The Internationale to myself. At the subway station in Porter Square, I sat down. My muscles contracted and I felt my ass conform to the bench, and I knew I'd be there for awhile. It felt like it was getting late, as the crowd came and went with the train, like a pulse. Here, then gone. Here, then gone. Here, then gone. I was at the heart of something. But people didn't live here. With the exception of an old woman nearby, everyone seemed in a hurry to go elsewhere.

A few minutes later and I was up again, walking into the city. Boston.

Saturday, August 07, 2010

Threshold

And the fortune teller says, "There is no fortune to tell. Your future is all used up." Every second that passes is a bit of your future turning to dust. Happy or sad, memorable or easily forgotten, distinct and punctuated with emotion, or bland, banal and bleeding into the next moment, it doesn't matter. No matter how you spend your time, that's exactly what you are doing.

Spending time.

But it's not like any other currency. You may have people in your life with whom you'd like to spend your time. So there you are, with time to spend and a person to spend it on. The problem, however, is that they may not want to spend their precious time on you. They call it unrequited love when it involves romance. But the dilemma has many names. The end result is the same, however...loneliness.

Take my hand and I'll lead you to a room, away from the crowd. We'll set up a life together and share a bed. There will be laughter and loving looks. I'll awaken early and cook a fine breakfast after a night of conversation and love-making. The aroma of coffee will stir you. And over our meal there will be more laughter, and my chest will ache with affection.

The day will pass with little notice of the world outside our flat. Everyone else will be little more than a rumor. The only reality that matters will be on this side of the threshold. And there, another laugh, another smile, another meal shared. If I should fall asleep and wake up next to you, it will be with a smile.

"Treasure these moments," I'll say to myself, "for they will pass." As if it were possible to prepare for loneliness. It's not. And then you are gone. The value of time itself changes.

To be naked is to be vulnerable again, where once is made me feel close to you. I don't know where you are anymore. Somewhere on the other side of the threshold. Somewhere in the crowd. Somewhere far away from me, because that is what you chose. There is nothing novel about this pain and emptiness. It's common. It is everywhere.

When the wound is new, you gauge it. Test how much you can move the limb this way or that. You wonder if it will kill you. But over time you have to accept it, no matter how much it hinders you. It simply is. So you move on, slower now, but still moving.

Monday, August 02, 2010

Visible, But Unseen

Some of my friends are intellectuals. A lot of people claim to be an "intellectual" these days. For me, however, an intellectual is someone who actually gets paid to chew things over, as it were. Hard to imagine that anyone like that would give me the time of day, but many do. You know who you are, and don't try to hide, I can hear you thinking.

I'm going to eschew labels when it comes to mental illness, as they have been robbed of meaning through casual use. Consider Lindsay Lohan spontaneously becoming "bipolar" because she doesn't want to go to jail. She's working an angle. While I understand her motives, it gives the rest of us a bad name. I'm not smart enough, or even practical enough, to embrace a label for such a purpose.

My general approach to life has been this: Try to look like you understand until you can figure it out later. In high school, my goal was very simple, to get out of high school as fast as humanly possible. So I did, I bolted. My adviser seemed confused when I left. On my way out the door, literally, she begged to know why I was leaving. So I told her that it had more than a little to do with my weighing 430lbs and there being a physical education requirement. See? It figures.

From there to years in a crappy job as a grill/short order cook at a local college. One day, a co-worker left a paper he was writing in plain view, and I read it. It sucked...really sucked. I was standing in the coat room when it hit me; I really need to go to college. So I took the SATs and, since I got my name right, did well enough to go to either Northeastern or UMass Boston or...well, you get the idea. So off to UMass Boston I went.

Pure heaven, even when I was working the overnight shift at the Fairmont Copley Plaza full-time and was mostly unconscious during the day. Dr. Gibbons took an interest, and over lunch we would talk about the ovarian bursae of the tree shew and what that meant to primate taxonomy. And women. Not in that order. Dr. Gibbons was also a fighter pilot in Vietnam, and still worked as a test pilot. He loved women and they seemed to love him. He liked to give advice, and I liked to take it. So we had a lot of lunches together.

Women and apes and shrews, oh my!

The wheels started really coming off my little bus over several years, but I remember a very specific moment of unique terror. A few months into a job at a medical bookstore, where I could finally put to use my knowledge of what is a xiphoid process, I gave my notice for no reason other than an inability to function. No one is ever happy in a job, because a job is a place you must go. Humans don't like to be forced into anything. This wasn't difficult, it was totally impossible.

So you might say that I was content in my lack of contentedness. Like just about everyone else. But at some point it devolved, and everything became less real. This is pure function I'm talking about, not ennui or general dissatisfaction. Everything became strangely urgent and incredibly noteworthy, but meaningless at the same time. The unspoken judgments of others became sharp and almost constantly heard. The soundtrack changed, as well. It was frantic. Fast and furious.

And then I took the job at the Massachusetts Bankers Association. Things were looking up. It was a good job, and my boss left me alone to do it. However, it was not to be. And I really wanted it to be.

All incoming information started to get processed a little differently. Stability of thought and action disappeared. There was some property damage. Police were involved. Being in restraints in a psych ward began to feel more normal than having a job.

So, without using labels like "bipolar" and "borderline personality disorder," does any of this sound planned? Was I happy and carefree, until the application of these magic words could get me out of trouble? No. Mental illness was a total blind spot. I hadn't studied it in college, and when they started coming up with labels, it was like another language. You mean they have a name for this? That's nice.

Names are nice.

But there are no names for what happened to me last week. It's not easy to fix a label on putting an extension cord in my pocket and heading into the night. On walking 7 miles like it were 10 feet and finding a dark city park, a tree and solitude. And I can't quite affix the proper words to how it felt to wrap the cord around my neck, then around the tree branch, and then stand as a self-condemned man on the edge of the Void.

Can't find the words for why I didn't jump, and thus hang myself.

And it is impossible to digest how it felt, never mind explain, what it was like to get home around 4am to find that not a single soul noticed my absence. One imagines tearful friends and family, wondering why this had to happen. But to somehow survive the scariest, loneliest and most painful night I could imagine, only to find that nobody noticed or cared...there sure as hell aren't words for that, whatever that is.

The closest I could come to describing it is to say that I felt like a ghost. That I had already died, a long time ago. A ghost walking on the bottom of the sea. Unseen even when visible.

Sunday, August 01, 2010

The Four Women Who Love(d) Me

I've just realized that there is nobody in my life from whom I can ask advice. That's sad, especially since I'm 38. Equally sad is the list I started. It's made up of women who, without question, loved me. Even if only for a moment. Family members not included.

The list has four people on it.

It's debatable as to how sad it is, exactly. Even if one person really loved me for a moment, that's something. It's not nothing. While compiling the list, many large, heavy-breathing concepts were considered. Naturally, one is love. Images of Burt Lancaster as "Elmer Gantry" danced in my head all morning. What is love? Love is the morning and the evening star.

What inspires melancholy instead of bliss and rapture, however, is not that four people not in my family have loved me. One can't consider that without tripping on another hairy fact; those four people are now all over the known world and perfectly happy without me. Worse still, they are all very tired of me.

In a way, that's the worst part of all this. They have all lost their patience with me and my shenanigans. I'm an exhausting person to live with, love and even know. But I've known that for a long, long time.

Today's epiphany, as I mentioned, is that there is nobody to even speak to for advice. Everyone has better things to do than counsel a mental patient. So with nobody to speak to about a major life decision, I have to stare at the dot on the wall and think about it.

I suppose that that's part of being a person of no consequence. And if any of the people on the list call to provide advice, I have to feign well-being. Because I sincerely, with all of me, want them to be happy. The prime directive is simple...

Do no (more) harm. Be there for them only if they want you there.

It's sort of like owing a lot of money. If you can, you pay it back. But even if you can't, be sure not to borrow any more.

These four women. All of them are the bee's knees. And at any time it would have satisfied me to die for them. Protect her from a mugger? That would have been sweet. Very romantic. Put her on a plane with her true love, and make a great sacrifice for her? Oh, if only. If only.

Instead, I got to live long enough to become the person they needed to be saved from, and that's a dagger that gets caught up under the ribs. Nothing clean or honorable or romantic or beautiful about that. And all the time in the world to think about it, with a strong inclination to do so. Why did it have to play out this way?

Will no one grant Marc Antony an honorable way to die?