whispered secrets

It had been months since I'd seen her, and I knew this would be our only half hour together for months more. I didn't know what I'd say. Thirty minutes. The length of a mindless television sitcom, if you included the commercials. Not enough for anything substantial.

She was there when I arrived, seated at a table for two. She smiled at me. I waved and sat down, and we talked.

We had thirty minutes. I felt like I should try to inject that time with meaning, with significance--we should get the most out of this little sliver of time. Instead we talked about the weather and the bands we just got into and the movies we were looking forward to. No deep infusions of meaning. No whispered secrets. And I regret only that I spent so much time planning for anything else.

making up stories

It was a few drinks in and, lightweight that I am, the whole of the night was already starting to blur. I met a lot of people, talked to them a little bit. Some part of me always knew I would never remember them. Not really. By morning, when I'd be in a cafe drinking coffee until the headache went away, there would be a some faces--I'd remember a pretty girl with a blue shirt she wore on one shoulder, whose name I never did quite catch, or a guy who talked too much and told stories that I never quite thought were true. I'd remember telling all those stories, and why I only ever tell them when I've been drinking. I'd drink coffee and smile at the waitress and leave her a poem, because--as the morning would so poignantly remind me--I only do things like that for people who are bound to forget me.

everything must go

I'm browsing a thrift store and a broken clock catches my eye. I run a hand along its face, wondering how many family dinners it's seen, ticking away inexorably. How many arguments had happened under its watch? How many emotional breakdowns? How many embraces, how many jokes, how many of those priceless moments? Did it ever remind those who looked at its face that time kept going regardless? Or was it forgotten until the day their father decided to sell it? I could picture them on that day: he is a kind man, reluctant to be rid of this timepiece even though it's broken, even though nobody really paid it much attention even when it worked. It seems like getting rid of it is getting rid of part of his life, however small. But it is broken and he does not have the time nor the energy to fix it anymore. Perhaps some new owner will be able to restore it to function and give it purpose again.

The shopkeeper notices me admiring the clock. It's a great deal, he tells me. Should be easy to fix--he shows me the broken part--I even have one of these you can have, they just wear out sometimes. Easy to replace, and it'll last for years. A genuine antique. It's a real deal.

I tell him I'm not interested and he keeps telling me what a bargain it is. If it was working it'd be worth hundreds, he says. I try to tell him no, that's not what I'm interested in. It's the stories--what's the story behind this clock? He doesn't seem to understand, but I buy it anyway.

I picture the mother worrying when the clock breaks, worrying that giving it to the thrift store isn't the right thing to do, worrying that the kids will be upset--the kids don't talk to them anymore, it seems, and she doesn't notice that it's been since the clock died. She's always worrying. I picture her worrying that the shopkeeper will just discard it, that they could have done something else, that they should make sure he at least sells it.

Now it's on my shelf and I'm picturing the kids talking in the room where the clock used to be. Their mood is somber but they aren't sure why. I install the new part without a problem and hear it tick. Whatever their stories are, the clock keeps going.

true stories

I can't help it. I'm drawn by this feverish and dream-like passion, like every simile which has ever mentioned moths and flames in close proximity together, like every conceit that compares a person to an addiction. It doesn't even feel real--and maybe it isn't. Everything you'd expect from a nightmare is there: dread, compulsion, a sense of the surreal. I should walk away, but I am filled with this sense that if I do, I'll miss something important. I can't explain what I think that could be, other than more lies.

what's in a name?

I never spoke her name for weeks when we first met. It was such a beautiful name and to speak it aloud before I really knew her--it seemed like it would be to invoke it in vain. So I didn't speak it. Not until I was sure it would mean something. I gave her nicknames, so I wouldn't have to defile that beautiful name with my voice. Her name was important.

After weeks, I spoke her name for the first time when pleading with her, hoping to underscore my desperation with that word, that beautiful word. She shook her head and apologized and left, leaving me alone, leaving my invocation useless. I don't think she understood.

a confrontation of fates, shocking conclusion

Dramatis Personae:
Combatant #3.
Shallow Romantic Interest.

Act I, Scene III. A courtyard.
[Enter COMBATANT #3, with SHALLOW ROMANTIC INTEREST.]
SHALLOW ROMANTIC INTEREST: Combatant #3, I am very sad to hear that your good friend and my poorly developed romantic interest, Combatant #1, has perished.
COMBATANT #3: He has perished to the blade of Combatant #2, but I avenged his death.
SHALLOW ROMANTIC INTEREST: Revenge is so cruel! Surely you have heard the adage: "If you seek revenge, first dig two graves?"
COMBATANT #3: I have but I had forgotten it until this very instant. My life of bloodshed and revenge is over. Come, let us have a poorly developed romantic relationship together, for we are brought close by the bond of mourning we have for our dear friend and only occasionally mentioned romantic interest, respectively.
SHALLOW ROMANTIC INTEREST: Yes, let us have a poorly developed romantic relationship together due to this sacred bond of mourning we have for your dear friend and my plot-significant-but-otherwise-ignored romantic interest, Combatant #1. I shall honor his memory by pretending I was never interested in him in the first place.
COMBATANT #3: Yes, and I shall honor his memory by skipping the stages of mourning and immediately initiating a relationship with his poorly developed romantic interest, claiming to grow close to her due to my sorrow at his death.
SHALLOW ROMANTIC INTEREST: You have a depth of emotion that is truly remarkable.
[Exeunt.]

a confrontation of fates, reprise

Dedication:
This play is dedicated to the person who found this page by googling "curvy dreamers."


Dramatis Personae:
Combatant #2.
Combatant #3.

Act I, Scene II. A road outside of town.
[Enter COMBATANT #3.]
COMBATANT #3: I hope that my dear friend, Combatant #1, returns home from his perilous journey, and that he has not been slain by his sworn nemesis, Combatant #2.
[Enter COMBATANT #2.]
COMBATANT #3: You have the blood of Combatant #1 on your sword! I will avenge my dear friend!
COMBATANT #2: You will die just as easily as he!
[They fight.]
COMBATANT #2: Alas, I am slain! I pray that my soul finds forgiveness for my crimes.
COMBATANT #3: You will not find it from me.
[COMBATANT #2 dies. Exit COMBATANT #3.]

forget about your house of cards

I don't know how long I was been building it. Several decks of cards, hours worth of careful placement, and I had something truly colossal and impressive. So fragile, too--if the floor shook or my hand brushed it wrong the whole thing could collapse. It happened a few times, early on. I had to be careful.

I took a break for a little bit and glanced out the window. Someone was sitting on the park bench across the street, just sitting. She didn't look impatient or anything. It wasn't a particularly nice day, but it wasn't rainy, either--and she was just sitting there. I looked at my cards. If I went out the door would probably knock them over. All my work, gone. Just for an impulse.

I'll clean the cards up later.

meditations on a used book

I bought a used book the other day at a bookstore in Ballard. It was an impulse purchase, mostly. As I read it I noticed it was highlighted in a few places. Not many, not often, not enough to be distracting, but it was there: a blue highlighter on a few of the lines. At first it was solid and smooth, but as the book progressed it became haphazard, as if the reader before me had only cared that there was some marking on each of the lines rather than that the whole line be highlighted.

I wonder why. I wonder what she found so interesting about those lines that she highlighted them, and not the ones that stood out to me.

the bee

I was at a dive on Aurora earlier today, ordered a patty melt. It was kind of mediocre but I wasn't really there because the food's great. The waitress was real skinny, with long, wavy black hair, and a name so pretty the Greeks named a nymph after her. And all day I'd had this song stuck in my head, playing on repeat in my brain. I might have been humming it to myself but I tried not to. I tried to distract myself and focus on something else, anything else.

At first I thought she was coming to refill my water or something but she didn't stop, turned towards the jukebox instead. She put a few coins in, walked away, and a few seconds later the song came on. Then she brought by the water and I smiled at her and she smiled back. And what a smile. What a song. I'll never get sick of it.

gum

Something like two a.m. and I'm standing in the grocery store talking to this girl. I don't know her name but the line is really long and it's the only register open. She just started talking to me, like I might care what she has to say. Turns out she just had a nasty break with her boyfriend (and I assume she's saying this because she's hoping for a one night stand with yours truly, though she's buying a lot of stuff and I'm just getting a bottle of Coke and I don't want to stick around) so she's single now. She's not sad, she's pissed. Talking about destroying his life, burning it down, telling him just what she thinks of him, and I'm thinking yeah, sure, lady.

"What about you? You have a lady friend?" she says when she notices I'm checking out the selection of sugar-free mint gums with taglines like "The Freshmaker" and not paying attention to her anymore. I shrug and say "Not really" because nobody wants to hear "It's complicated" because they think that means you want to explain and I don't really. "Oh," she says, and grabs a pack of gum. "I like this kind."

I'm thinking good for you, lady. I don't get a pack. When I check out I say "See you" even though I know I won't.

cigarettes and cough suppressants

I've been smoking a lot lately. My health has been in steady decline and I'm losing even more weight but I don't really want to stop--I probably could if I wanted to but I don't want to. I don't care. As my immune system is in its steady decline I've contracted a cough--it's been pretty nasty and I think the smoking makes it worse, but it's nothing that a good cough suppressant won't fix.

As I stand in line at the grocery store with a bottle of Nyquil in one hand and a pack of Camels in the other, I think the attendant thinks I'm a bit off.

take the elevator down

I met her on the second floor, going up. She was the only other person on the elevator. It was late and I was really tired. We didn't say much at first. I was barely staying awake or even standing up and she just stood there and looked so damn perfect. I nodded when she got on and she smiled at me and hit the button and we went up.

I thought about what would happen if the elevator broke and we fell and died. She was standing in the other corner, smiling to herself, and without even saying anything I knew I didn't want her to die. I didn't even know her name and I'd probably never see her again. My morbid thoughts drew me to her. The elevator stopped and the doors opened and she smiled at me again and walked out.

"Wait," I said. "I don't even know your name." She told me. And I never saw her again.

pearl

I found a pearl the other day, in the river. If I were less prone to introspection I might have merely taken it home, or even left it there. As it was I lay on the bank and admired it and its erratic beauty--it's nothing like the pearls you buy at stores. It looks sharper, more organic, more unique.

It's formed through pain. Through discomfort, through misfortune, a pearl is born. It is layer upon layer of material secreted because of pain--not necessarily to hide it, or to pretend it isn't there. It's a reaction. It's how the oyster deals with pain.

Yes, the result is beautiful--and maybe that's the point. But that's not why it was made. The oyster cares nothing for beauty, but manages it in the end.

existential angst at a fancy dinner

I don't want anyone to mistake me: the food is excellent. I've never tasted a finer wine and the chef is truly a master of his craft. The company is exquisite: I am seated next to an older gentleman who has earned a fortune in real estate, and the beautiful girl who is his daughter. I have never seen a more beautiful dress. Opposite me is a young man (moving on middle-aged) who is living very comfortably on an income generated in the information technology industry. By all rights I ought to be enjoying myself and celebrating that life is good.

I just can't. I keep thinking about "those less fortunate" and remembering the man I once knew who was barely keeping alive on his income. He was truly excited to be living. At this table there is an air of easy confidence, but also of boredom, of complacency. The girl at my left has never known adversity; the older gentleman seems disparaging of those with less money, as though they have somehow failed. The IT professional seems almost not sure what to do with his wealth. He throws it at charity. I think he feels guilty about it.

I know I do.

existential angst after shots

The room's spinning again.

I've had too many shots now and I'm barely even keeping them down. Have to touch something just to stand up and even then it's a near miss. Everything's out of focus and I feel sick. That's a lie. Not everything. I can see my date still if I shut one eye and try real hard. She's laughing. Laughing at me, laughing at herself, laughing at everything. Probably worse off than I am. No, I know she is. Fallen over twice now, keeps saying the same thing over and over, and doesn't she know how drunk she is? The room's spinning and everything's spinning and out of focus.

I just want something solid.

who i'm kidding

I don't remember the situation exactly, but the other day I found myself saying 'ah, who am I kidding?' in the tone of voice we're all familiar with: the 'I'm not putting on a show for anyone, this is me, this is who I am. Everyone would see through the facade if I pretended so I guess I'm just not pretending any more.'

Then I realized, later in the evening, that 'who am I kidding?' has an answer. Not myself, obviously, but nearly everyone else I interact with is deceived by the act. I put on a front and I do it well. I even manage to eventually convince myself that, while I'm not acting the way I would were I alone, this is normal and honest and above all acceptable.

I'm still not so convinced I'm wrong.

we need to get ice cream

There was some local singer playing guitar when we got there. Nobody was paying much attention; he was playing at the wrong bar if he wanted attention. My date excused herself to go to the bathroom, but I know she was probably just doing another line of coke, or something like that. She had that nervous, jittery, emaciated look about her. I ordered us drinks and and sat back and listened. The singer was starting to talk.

He said, "I know you're probably not paying attention. I'm not very good. I don't think I'd be paying attention either--hell, I'm not. These songs aren't real. Sometimes I feel like they make me come up here at gunpoint, you know? 'Entertain us or die.' Or just starve, I guess."

I smiled. Nobody seemed to notice he wasn't singing.

"Sometimes I wish I was at gunpoint. Maybe I'd care then. You know? Maybe we'd all care if we knew we might die." He took a drink of water. "I was driving with a friend of mine the other day, and she looked at me and she said, 'You know what we need? We need to get some ice cream.' I said, 'You're damn right we need to get ice cream.' So we pulled into the nearest Dairy Queen and ordered blizzards. Big ones. I wish--I wish more people got convicted and just bought ice cream or something, you know? I know I never do. That's why I want to be doing this at gunpoint. So maybe I'd do it right."

My date came back and told me she wanted to go do something impulsive. I smiled and told her that was the best idea I'd heard all day.

what are we here for?

Some guests came to my house this morning. I didn't know them, but they seemed certain this was the right house and I always try to be a good host. I let them in, offered drinks, and we chatted for a while.

They seemed like interesting enough people. They were students, all of them intelligent, devoted to their studies and eloquent enough to actually have something interesting to say about them. There were students of philosophy, the arts, language, psychology, and science--and all of them managed to contribute their disparate knowledge seamlessly into our conversation.

Eventually one of them asked the question, "What are we here for?" I felt the question was banal, but these were my guests. I began to answer the question, and noticed that a silence fell over the group. There were a few snickers.

"No, I mean, what are we here for? I don't remember why we're at your house."

the wizard's tower

I've studied psychology for years. I've earned my master's in the field, and am pursuing a doctorate--I know what I'm doing. I've learned how people tick. I've learned how to make them do this, that, or the other.

Lately I've noticed that I'm using my knowledge. Not just in a professional setting, seeing patients, researching, where it's expected and done voluntarily. In my friends, relationships, I've found that I use what I know to manipulate people. I capitalize on guilt, exploit psychological weaknesses--and I try not to do this for myself, mind you. Often it's for their own good, or someone else's. I'm trying to facilitate relationships here. I'm trying to do something good with what I know.

Still, sitting here in my tenth floor apartment, I can't help but feel like a wizard in his tower, and feel the resonance of that archetype. I'm using my powers for evil. It might be good in the end, but I'm using my powers for evil.