Definitions

How difficult it is to keep caring about life.  Is that ennui or apathy?  Whatever.

Learning the Limits

As a child I learned the limits of my personality.  The limits I had for expression.  The limits I had for patience.  The limits others had for me.  I learned quickly that I should be quiet and think before I spoke.  It took me much longer to actually be quiet, but at least I knew I should.  I expressed instantly and passionately and had my foot in my mouth more often than not.  I learned socializing meant agonizing about it later, so I began to avoid socializing.  I thought I had enormous patience, except with myself, but it turned out I have zero patience with people who are false or who try for attention or who aren't living to the tops of their intelligence.  Others couldn't seem to tolerate me very well.  I learned my personality was too big, too loose, too unpredictable, too weird.

Highlight reels of my social transgressions play at night.  No matter how distant the experience becomes, it replays to torture me.  I try not to add to the reels, but, even as an adult interacting with other adults, it still happens.  Only now, I know instantly when a moment will become A Moment.  Shame, guilt, embarrassment, regret, self-loathing churn in the gyre of my mind.

1985

She time traveled every evening, looking back along the years, decades, to a past where he was young.  She could see his face as it is in what it was.  When she came back, she could see his face as it was in what it is.  His neck, shoulders, arms.  She heard his young voice from the past and simultaneously recognized it and heard it in a way she never had before she traveled.  He was slimmer and smoother.  Fresher and less formed.  In the present, he was more solid.  In the past he vibrated.

The Extinction of Man

To Seth, it was an inexplicable feeling.  So alien that he couldn't even express that it was a feeling.  He thought perhaps it was his dinner, unsettled.  Seth's mind only brushed across the idea that the feeling had been there for much longer than this particular evening.  Perhaps it had burned since he was in his early twenties, when he peaked, but didn't know it.  He bought antacids and ate them.  He drank antacid liquid.  He swallowed antacid pills.  The feeling not only lingered, but grew stronger.  No general physician could have helped Seth.  While a psychologist may have been able, they, too, would not have been able to help in this case because Seth would and, indeed, never could articulate the source of this feeling.

If Seth had the emotional intelligence, the desire for inward analysis, or even the language, he might have said this: I am afraid of becoming extinct.

Lost: Telling vs. Showing

He was lost in the music.

Head bowed and swinging side to side, the drumsticks were extensions of his arms, beating out a rhythm that drove the undulations of the crowd.

She felt lost.

Even though she sat still past the point of being uncomfortable, her mind ran into wall after wall, thoughts bouncing off and stumbling into the next barrier until, in a blind panic, they screamed inside her head.

All seemed lost.

Huddled as they were in the building's basement storage, the sounds from the streets was finally too distant to hear.  One of the women, the only one still clutching a child who seemed to be younger than ten, started to cry.  Nobody hushed her.

Heart-Shaped Locket

When the patient in room 225 died, Hera was the one who found her.  As a nurse's aide, she knew the head nurse would page for "Dr. Blue", who wasn't a doctor at all, but rather code for death.  Hera had seen death before, of course.  She didn't think anyone in the world hadn't seen death by now.  But this one stopped her.

The woman looked peaceful.  Her face was smoother than it had been and she seemed to finally sleep.  It was probably because the pain was gone.  No more furrowed brow or pinched lips.  No more tensed muscles or fretful movements, trying desperately to find a position that was comfortable.  The sheets were draped and smooth, as if the woman knew she was about to die and straightened them herself.

Hera stepped closer.  The woman's hair had been brushed--how had that happened?  Did she brush her own hair, too?  The hospital gown was clean.  Perhaps the night shift had changed and cleaned her.  The woman's hands were folded, one atop the other, calmly, neatly.  Hera couldn't stop staring.  Most in the hospital died in agony.  Most were covered in the filth of the end, their hands clawing at their own faces, at the air, at the inevitable.

She never touched the dead, but Hera found herself reaching.  She lay her hand atop the woman's.  They were cool and smooth.  Hera held the woman's hand.  As she finally pulled her hand away, she felt the necklace chain.  How could she forget?  The woman always wore a heart-shaped locket.  She had screamed herself raw when a nurse tried to remove it.  Since the woman was at the stage where she could no longer speak, they could only speculate.  Children?  Parents?  Spouse?

The locket slid easily from the woman's hands.  Hera opened it.

Inner Thoughts

Time was running out and Clara was panicking.  Her blood was pounding a tick-tock in her ears, counting off the seconds.  The more she heard, the faster they came, building until her hands shook and she had tunnel vision.

Clara could hear her own inner voice floating outside the panic, looking on and commenting on her sad state.  "Maybe sit down and relax for a minute?  Why do you do this to yourself?  Look at yourself.  This certainly isn't helping."

"Nothing is helping!" Clara sobbed, her whole face running.

"A tissue, Clara.  For god's sake, get yourself a tissue before your snot adds to the scene you're making."  Clara stumbled to the bathroom, hand cupped under her chin.  "Look at yourself.  Wow.  Your head is going to be stuffed all night."

"I don't care, I don't careIdon'tcareIdon'tcare..."

"Clearly."

Restless

Restless,
Wherever you are,
It's somewhere else you want to be
Nothing now is good enough
Wanting what's out of reach
Restless in your body
Restless in your mind
Restless in your soul
Flitting from one idea to the next
Never deeper than getting started
Find your place, restless body
Quiet your thoughts, restless mind
Discover your direction, restless soul

Abuse Dynamics

I swore I'd never be the kind of girl who ran behind her boyfriend, crying.  Where the boyfriend stomps on ahead, brow lowered and thrust forward, lips compressed, dropping the door on the girl as she stumbles along, begging for him to stop and just talk for a moment and she's sorry, even if she doesn't know why, and if he would only give her a chance.  The kind of girl who would sob that she wished he would stop and talk, while at the same time knowing and secretly dreading his dead-stop and one-foot pivot, rounding on her like a bear, pointing his finger or even raising his fist.

Loving Siblings

"What makes you think I don't love my brother?"

"The way you talk about him."

"And what way is that?"  She finished pouring and set the kettle back with a clunk.

"You're always telling me stories about how awful he was to you.  How awful he is to you."

"Yeah, and he's my brother, so I can say he's a jerk and still love him, can't I?"

"I wouldn't have thought so."

"Well, I do.  He is a jerk; he is my brother; I love him.  You, however, can have no opinion."

Common Ground 1

The phone ringer was on too loudly, but Claire didn't want to miss the phone call she didn't want to have.  Claire and James both startled out of their nap, but she was on her feet and answering even as James groaned and rolled over.

It wasn't the call.

Claire felt sick anyway and pushed memories and sadness and worry down deep again as she hung up on a telemarketing robocall, cursing them for scaring her.  Irrationally, she wanted to write to whatever company it was to tell them it was cruel to call her uselessly and make her think her father may be dead.  She pushed the thoughts away again and concentrated on blissful ignorance.

Inspiration #12

One of the most heart-wrenching situations is to be a person with a dream and the drive to be a clown, with absolutely no talent.  Not even the talent to be a talentless clown, who can elicit laughter through bumbling.  Only the kind of clown who is confused for a homeless person, who elicits only pity, and who frightens the very young.


First line inspiration from "The God of Dark Laughter" by Michael Chabon: "Thirteen days after the Entwhistle-Ealing Bros. circus left Ashtown, beating a long retreat toward its winter headquarters in Peru, Indiana, two boys out hunting squirrels in the woods along Portwine Road stumbled on a body that was dressed in a mad suit of purple and orange velour."

Assuming that you one day become a parent, what one thing do you hope to teach your children?

I am shadowed by the ghost of my unconceived daughter.  She was never born, nor even a glimmering.  There was no opportunity, nor time enough, nor even retrospect opportunity.  She wasn't, except in my wishes for myself and for her.  Her name is Alaura.  She is my daughter who never was.  She missed all that I would teach her, and I missed all that she would give me.  My body is unchanged, except by time.  My legacy is mine and mine alone.  I will not create life to remember me.  I am only here to remember.  And I remember my daughter who never was.

Pageant Question: Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten years?

Even all the way out by the maple tree, Cara could hear her things being broken inside the house.  She used to be extremely attached to her belongings.  Even when she was little, she took good care of her toys.  Not one of her Barbie dolls suffered a horrible haircut.  No Memory game card was drawn upon.  She dusted her knickknacks and even kept her clothes in good condition, not wanting to give them up even if they no longer fit.  Her mother knew better than to try to clear out Cara's room after the crying that ensued after the last purge.  Instead, Cara's mother gave her storage boxes and little-used items were carefully labeled and put into the attic.  But now...

As she had become forcefully detached from her belongings, Cara realized she could live without them.  First, her new husband had demanded she not have so much "crap".  She purged like she never had before, wishing to please him and keep a neat house.  Cara had built up quite a lot of money by selling her childhood online.  Clothes, now called "vintage" were snapped up.  Teen magazines had bidders fighting till the end.  Her toys and trinkets and memorabilia sold, one after the other.  At first, it really hurt and she cried as she listed them, she cried as she packed them up, but eventually, she started to feel better.  Lighter.  Her new husband demanded more.  Cara held on to less and less.  And now...

Another crash from the house and muffled yelling let her know that her husband was not done with his anger.  He was never done.  Burning embers needed little fanning to become a flame.  Simply walking past created enough of a breeze to get them going.  Cara's husband was smashing her remaining belongings.  She pictured him emptying her closet and dresser drawers.  Running an arm across her bookshelf.  Throwing her remaining memories against the wall that would again need patching.  She knew he would tire of the exertion, grab the keys to his truck, and squeal away.  He said he went to his mother's house, but she knew he it wasn't his mother he visited.  Cara had found the emails accidentally and the text messages purposefully.  It was that day that she felt the stranger calling himself her husband had killed the man she married.

The backdoor smashed open and closed.  The truck door squeaked open and closed.  The tires spun on the gravel and squealed on the pavement, heading east.  As soon as she knew he was far enough away, Cara moved into action and, not for the last time, wondered what would happen.

Pageant Question 36: Tell me about the most important decision you have had to make.

The snick and hiss of the helmet locking into place and the rebreather kicking on always made Sam's heart quicken.  This time, however, he was alone.  More than alone.  Sam turned at the waist, the thick suit crinkling, to check the door as his shaking hands went through the motions necessary to preserve his life.  Initializing all the systems was usually done by another crew member and double checked by a third, and Sam hoped that he hadn't forgotten any of the process in his nervous rush.  The gently flowing air in the suit made him shiver.  Sam rechecked each clip and back-up clip that held the precious pack to his suit, his shaking hands made clumsier by the suit's gloves.

He was as ready as he thought he could be without assistance.  This airlock had a small window, and his heart hammered harder, causing the suit's biocheck to beep softly.  Sam took precious moments away from his schedule to breathe deeply until the beeping stopped.  His fingers danced through the procedure he had done a thousand times to open the airlock onto space.  Seal the inside door.  Depressurize the small room.  Release the outside door's quintuple locking mechanism.  Spin the wheel. Magna-lock the door to the hull.

He held his breath, and, while the alarms began ship-wide, Sam stepped into open space.

Pageant Question 35: What three qualities constitute a great leader?

The thruway rest stop loomed in the middle of the road, accessible by traffic in either direction, raised high over the fast-moving traffic.  The overpass tunnels from the parking lots glowed in the dark, a long walk for anyone hurrying from a vehicle with a full bladder.

The news and candy shop was closed, as was the souvenir stand, but the diner kept minimally staffed all night.  A janitor was winding up the long cord to the floor polisher, and the large atrium looked the cleanest it ever would.  Emily was heading west, and had left her sleeping boyfriend in the car.  She didn't want to wake him because he would be irritated that she had to stop, again.  She wanted to keep driving, though, and thought she'd pee and pick up a hot chocolate to go.  Which, of course, would make her pee, but she would deal with Rob, and her bladder, again later.

The bathrooms were enormous and automated at every turn.  There were two long rows of stainless steel-colored stalls on the outside walls; eight sinks to each side of the center, mirrored wall; and two baby changing stations.  During the day, this was a very busy place, but at two-thirty in the morning, it was dead, making it blessedly clean and quiet.

Ears still ringing from the turbo-charged automatic hand dryer, Emily took a moment to sit in the atrium and rest her eyes, breathing deeply.  This drive out west, barely begun, had already been extremely stressful, and the nagging worries she had about Rob were becoming too difficult to ignore.  She remembered thinking he was great, but no longer remembered why.  Another deep breath, and thoughts of hot chocolate made her smile.  She was about to see if the diner could make it to-go, when she heard weeping.  It was definite weeping, too, not just a few tears, and it was coming from the men's room.

Emily stood and walked a few steps closer to the passageway into the bathroom, not daring to get too close.  A female voice behind her made her jump.  "It's okay.  He's okay."

"Are you sure?  Should I..."  Emily wasn't sure what she could do, but she wanted to help.  Rob would have been irritated.

The woman was already shaking her head, "No.  Really.  He's fine.  This happens."  Despite the hour, the woman was wearing a very smart pantsuit, the kind that news reporters and politicians would wear.  Older than Emily, she was very well put-together, especially for a quarter to three in the morning, waiting outside a rest stop men's room for some guy to pull himself together.

Now it sounded like someone was retching, followed by more crying.  "Can I... get you anything?"  The man's sobs were echoing in the empty, stainless steel room.

"No."  The woman stood, fished a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, "Wait.  You can do something.  I've got to have a smoke."  She jerked her head at the bathroom, "Tell him when he gets done where I've gone."  Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she strode to the long hallway to the east-bound parking.

Pageant Question 24: Name one possession that you cannot live without and why?

The beat officers had called in the disturbance before they arrived, so the Chief was prepared, but he was not ready.  The entire precinct could hear the officers struggling with the suspect, even through the thick, oak doors.  It sounded like they were trying to drag a mountain lion up the front steps.  The Chief motioned to the officer on desk duty with his chin.  Brody hurried to open the doors and as soon as he slipped the latch, two harassed officers burst through, dangling what looked like a churning bundle of rags between them.

"What the hell are you bringing in here, gentlemen?  Brody!  Open the door let them through.  Bring, whatever it is, into Interrogation Room One, and strap it down!"  The officers followed directions as their charge kicked and screamed.  "I thought you radioed that it wasn't drugs," he accused, watching them attempt to control the flailing limbs of their suspect.

"It's not drugs, Chief," panted Officer McIntosh.  "I swear... Now hold on, sister!  Just calm the heck down and we can help!"

"Schaffer, did McIntosh say this is a woman?"

The other officer stood from strapping padded Velcro restraints around the suspect's bare ankles, "Yes, sir."  Schaffer rubbed his shoulder as if it ached.  "The orneriest woman I've ever run across, and that's counting both my ex-wives."

Once she was fully strapped into the metal chair which was, in turn, bolted to the floor, all the officers and the Chief backed out of the room, closing the door on the woman's furious scream.  "If it's not drugs, gentlemen, then what the hell is wrong with her?"

McIntosh reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver-colored necklace with a blue stone pendant.  "It's about this."

307

It was the day after he died that I went for the first time by myself to a live concert.  I had never heard of the bands, nor had I ever gone to a club like this.  I wasn't even sure what kind of music it would be, I just went.  The only assurance I had was that it would be loud and crowded, which was perfect for forgetting.

I didn't remember dressing for it, but I still have the t-shirt, crunchy with sweat and spilled beer and a splash of blood, not mine.  I should have felt out of place, being one of the only females, and the only one not in the band who was over forty.  The guy at the door asked if I was looking for somebody.  It was nice he was willing to let me in to find my kids, but I have no kids.  "No.  Just one admission, please."  I must have had some look on my face because he didn't say any more, but his eyes lingered.  The floor was sticky and it smelled like spilled beer and piss even before people started spilling and pissing.  When the first band took the stage, I fought my way into the middle and jumped with the crowd, letting the driving bass and thumping drums and screaming vocals take me.  That first night, the day after he died, I screamed and cried in the crowd, pushing and shoving against the bodies of the young.

271

If you ask yourself what you want in life, you probably think in terms of things.  I want a house.  I want a car.  I want a good job.  I want to travel.  But what you should ask yourself are what feelings you want to cultivate.  You may have misplaced desires for certain items, when you really want a feeling you think the item will give you.  My example is that I want (in no particular order): mystery, adventure, comfort, security.  There are physical manifestations that may induce those feelings, but until I understand what feelings I want, I cannot truly direct my life.

Step 1: make a list of the feelings you want to cultivate in your life.

The next question to ask yourself is why?  The answer lies in your childhood.  Ever wonder why people cannot get out of ruts?  Why some people cannot seem to escape the lives in which they were raised?  Why some people live the same, tragic lives as their parents?  It is because they are trying to re-create their feelings from childhood.  What was your life growing up?  What memories keep coming back to you?  Think of both the good and the bad.

Step 2: brainstorm a list of ten memories from your childhood that pop into your mind (even if they seem silly, irrelevant or disturbing.)

Don't believe that you are influenced by what happened first in your life?  Consider what toys you think are awesome.  Do you still get excited when you see one in a thrift store, garage sale, online auction or when they re-release those toys today?  Heck, yeah!  What furniture do you think is awesome?  I want a sofa with low, flat arms and removable cushions because that's what we had when I was growing up.  Eventually, we got a new sofa, but the black, nubby sofa was the first, and that's what I want.  Not in black, and not necessarily nubby, but one that elicits the feelings I had when my family had that sofa.  The first thing I'll do is make a fort with the cushions.

Review your list from Step 2.  Do any of your memories elicit the feelings you listed in Step 1?  If "yes" all the way down, great!  If the feelings you get from your memory list are not on your feelings list, you will have some work to do, but you are already on your way.

182

How life goes up and down on such small events.  Not even "events"--just things.  Up, and all is great and years of happiness lie in the future of sunshine and warm breezes.  Down, and nothing is ever good and nothing every will be good in the endless, pointless, cheerless moments that make up a future unwanted.  A simple change of perspective based on a glance from a stranger.  A barrage of self-loathing after a minor failure in the kitchen.  A dropped dish.  An overcooked meal.  A heavy cloak of hopelessness when a to-do list remains undone, down to the last, easy chore.

It's a wonder life continues at all.