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emperorofdreams
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2/1/09 8:15 am Right To Assembly Not much later we pass a group of about 100 people. Their angry, raucous shouts can be heard even through the noise of traffic and conversation in the car. Some hold up cardboard signs, while other hold up makeshift wooden shields painted and shaped in the traditional style. The shields are primarily black with white lettering. The design work is colored red, gold and blue. The mobs clothes are well worn, garments for working people – poor people. Opposite them in clean pristine white uniforms armed with small arms, sub-machine guns, assault rifles, shotguns, bullet proof shields and helmets, are the Makati police in riot formation. The two side push and jostle against each other like the ocean on the shore ebbing back and forth. The tension in the police is palatable and the anger in the people is going from a low simmer to an inevitable boil. The protestors signs (translated) read “No construction without relocation.” The government plants to kick out the squatters and demolish their homes. This is happening all over the Philippines, in some of the more developed areas the dislocated my get up to 10,000 piso (about $200), which is a lot of money but nowhere near enough to relocate. In most cases that “reimbursement” is a lot less or nothing at all. The protestors don’t want money I’m told, they just want somewhere else to live. The corrupt government just wants to develop the area so that they can cater to foreign investors and line their pockets even more – once again this is what I am told. As we drive by I’m sure that by nightfall that dried field will taste blood. Though the next day I would not realize just how thirsty it was. 13 dead, 27 injured and nothing gained. [Later] The plural nature of this nation continues. On one side of the road will be industrial areas broken by stretches of squatter communities which in turn are broken by a cluster of three or four houses securely behind a barricade, completed by an armed policeman or two. On the other side will be long, unbroken stretches of farmland. Rice field followed by vegetable followed by unplanted ones choked with a native weed that looks like papyrus. Each field, even the wild ones, has one small squatter house standing vigil over their claim. Every so often though there will be one mansion, grand and gluttonous, painted in the same bright pastel color similar to what you would see in Mexico or the Mediterranean. Hidden off to the side, sulking will be a squatter home. Forlornly looking out over the field they once toiled so hard on to make a living – generation after generation. Only to be told by the government that the land was not theirs – was never theirs and soon they would have to move because it spoiled the view of the mansion. [cont.] 2-4-09 7:30 am [PT] [Continued from above] It still boggles the mind that peasant can be sold a piece of land to work on, build up a house on and earn a living from. They can be on that land for several generations, working, living and dying – toiling under the pacific sun, thinking that it will go on forever. Except unknown to them, they never actually owned the land or the house or anything they may have made for themselves there. For no one told them that they must pay the government, even though as recently as 30 years ago (maybe less) there were no laws that claimed the land and all thereon as the governments. So in actuality that was how ownership came about, claiming a piece of land as your own. If you and yours could defend it then no one could take it. If you build on it, then who could say it was not yours. It reminds me of Manifest Destiny, it’s how we stole and settled everything west of the 13 states. It’s how our entire country came about one small piece at a time, a family would lay down their claim and defend it and no one could dispute that. Is it any wonder that these “squatters” who are viewed as a drain on the country demand that they have a somewhere to be relocated to. I find myself in the tenuous position of being an outsider for one and having my information come to me through translation, but even I can see that the majority of these people are hard working. Given such hurtles as extreme poverty, ageism and the plethora of other roadblocks; the very least of things that their government can consider for them is a place to live.  |
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An Image Of Sorrow
6:30 pm [PT]
The day after we traveled to the province of Cavite which is a two hour drive from where we have been staying in Makati. The drive itself first took us to a part of Makati that I had not seen. Near an elevated train track, surrounded by the exhaust filled main arteries in and out of the city, were the homeless. Unlike the homeless that I have been used to seeing in the States, these were not individuals. I’ll never forget when I looked to the left and saw a woman, maybe in her thirties or maybe even younger but aged by a hard life.
She was sitting on an asphalt island as the pseudo psychotic traffic slugged by her, pumping out exhaust and the air being filled by the sounds of their engines and horns. She had a cap on with the soiled colors of red, blue, yellow and white. Under this she had a white shirt on her head, though anything white on her was almost transmuted to a dried earth brown. The sun beat down on her with full force as she stared out forward through ruddy, glazed over blank eyes. One arm was held out, from her elbow to her knuckles it was resting on one of her crossed legs. The palm of her hand was upward and its slack fingers made a rudimentary cup. She seemed so tired and hot and beaten that even the effort of begging for cents was too much and in her heart she knew that it was a lost cause. Or maybe she held her hand like that in supplication to the same sun that was beating down on her and compounding her misery. It could be just as easily said that she was sitting there, offering up her life to Sol, hoping that her raindrop shaped soul would be evaporated for the gamble of a better life next time. But all such thoughts fled my mind like shadowy cockroaches’ fleeing from a bright gaze when my mind allowed me to understand what I was seeing next. My mind stopped, my heart stopped, traffic stopped and to me, even time. I sat alone for a brief moment just trying to understand the meaning of it. For next to her, lying asleep or dead – for I could not tell – not more than five months old, was her son. The only thing between him and the asphalt that was cooking under him was a thin piece of cardboard, torn from a bigger piece and only about twice as large as his little body. The only thing between him and the fiery sun beating down on him was a white piece of cloth, that same dried earth color that was his diaper. Nothing more or nothing less – not there could have been much less for them.
I struggled and continue to struggle to imagine such an existence. Later I was told that most, if not all the beggars, were under the control of local gangs. Not out of some deeper conspiracy to flees the pockets of those who can give out more piso (form of money, about a 45th of a dollar). But because they will be beat or murdered if they don’t work for the gangs. After begging all day they have to turn in their earnings and depending on how much they have gathered or the mood of the gangster that day, they will get some food. The gangsters then in turn use the money to make a supply a cheap drug called rugby. It is some sort of inhalant (the kind huffers use) - which the desperate use to very temporarily alleviate their suffering, but soon they find themselves in the position of the beggars when they no long can afford it – thus deepening the cycle. Most people won’t give money to beggars because it fuels the gangs, the level of poverty and addiction. On the other side is the gangs enforcing on the beggars that they don’t accept food. Which leaves us back at the mother sitting in the hot sun with her infant child sleeping on a piece of cardboard besides her. It is no wonder that she looks so hopeless in her task at feeding herself and her child. For a nation that is primarily focused on an all loving god with infinite blessings for those who are pious and true – he certainly has abandoned the desperate here. Or maybe I have it all wrong, may if you are a sinner there is a hell after all. Only that hell is to be a beggar in the streets of Makati with an infant child to feed. |
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Second Day – A Graveyard We travel together, packed side by side with every feasible seat taken. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on all it surveys. Soon after we reach the graveyard. Stone sarcophagi pack every inch. Here the dead are restless, they are entombed in stone never to return to the earth from which the predominant religion here tells them that they came from. The same rain that blesses this land into a verdant Eden is the same force that will rob the dead of any eternal sleep under the dark soil. Though this far from the only reason that these honored ancestors keep a wary eye open. The broken shards of lapida (name plate) with one or two letters still showing litter the ground. A constant reminder that any licho (stone grave) in the cementario (cemetery) is subject to the one driving force of the living – money. For here the resting place of those you may have lost are paid for on a yearly basis. If you don’t pay your tithe they crack open the licho and take the person out – or sometimes simply place the new body on top of yours. Then they strike of the lapida, shattering it to be lost forever – the only memory left are the broken shards. My lola’s grave is a dark, blackish grey marble, unpolished, rough and beautiful – just like her. Splashes of white wax dot its base from candelias (candles) long ago burnt to honor her memory and to say prayers on her behalf. Along the side cracks ten centimeters wide spider their way down almost from top to bottom. At the back corner there is a split in the marble. At its widest it is a little over two inches. Just another reason why the dead shift and turn. For even you pay for the lot, if you don’t pay for repairs they will let the licho disintegrate into rubble. Because it is the land that the licho is on top of that is rented, not what they are entombed in. My grandmother’s lapida is painted black and the inscribed letters are a gold that glitters a little period. There is a small fingerprint smudge that is a small artifact to show how recent it was painted. [Continued] 12-31-09 9:18 am, Sunday [PT] (Continued from above) So I’m way behind in my journal, so I’m lapsing back into this style. It was a little strange to me the day we went to Lola’s grave, the way the rest of the family was. When mom first arrived she broke down crying, a hard cry that made her bones shudder. She wept her tears and after some time recovered. The siblings remained quiet and seemed to me almost inwardly turned off. While most of the other relatives hung back several graves back talking and sometimes laughing as they shared some memory or joke. After a short while they lit candles, making wax pools so they would stand upright at the base of the grave. Through all of this various easy conversations and some laughter was shared. They adorned her grave with white flowers whose bright green stems made them even more vivid. Also near her lapida they put a small bundle of the national flower, also green stemmed with small white flowers most of which were closed buds in the shape of tears. What struck me as strange was the mood and the way most of my other relatives were acting. Two of my cousins went as far as to stand on top of other people’s graves just to get a better vantage point for a picture. I thought that maybe it was just a case of cultural differences that I just didn’t understand. Several days later I found out that there was a possible other reason. I was told that even though the grave is here, none of the other relatives – with the possible exception of Tia Tessie – have ever visited the grave since she was first buried there. I wonder at the significance of that and if there is another whole part of my family’s history that I’m just not aware of. For if one thing is certain it is that when it comes to family secrets – especially with the older generation – they are kept close and kept well.  |
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26th of January 3:26 pm [PT]
The morning sun rises lazily up and washes against the city revealing a haze thick and caramel. The Nightquil I took put me to sleep though now my mind is still wrapped in its heavy cloak of dullness. I will try to write on, weaving together these mismatched treads of thoughts together.
[Continued from previous entry]
It is by far the largest house in that cramped street. The street itself is no wider than some of our narrower alleyways. Fighting cocks stand proud, chests out, black and orange feathers shining like regalia. They steak them to the ground, tied and tethered to postpone the inevitable mortal combat that they were bred and raised for. Stray dogs (askal) and cats (pusakal: which has the double meaning of murderer) wander from person to person hoping that someone will drop some food intentionally or not. These ones are shy of direct human contact and have a hungry look. After eating my aunt (tia or tita) Tessie finally lets me see where she lives and this is when my heart breaks. It’s just thirty plus steps away and the yin yang paradox takes effect. First we walk through a narrow alleyway whose grimy walls are at least 1 story tall. Water flows out of it, collecting in a murky puddle right outside. It’s hard to explain but even though the alley itself has areas that are open to the sky, the passage itself is dark – as if the sun cannot shine for the poor. Ten feet in and if you look left there is a makeshift stove. [Cont}
Weds 28th 6:21 pm [P.T.]
[Continued from above]
There my uncle 9 (tio or tito) Boyet is cooking a dish whose flavors are subtle and delicious. Garlic and hot peppers are infused and make up the savory undertones. It is called papa-etan, comprised of beef heart; liver; small intestines; tripe and pancreas. Then for the undertones garlic; red small peppers (sili); onions and sometimes tomato. They rub the intestines with ginger then add bile from the gall bladder to the individual person’s preference of bitterness.
From here is an even smaller passageway that are stars on at least a 50 degree to 70 degree angle. Once up these is where her and her husband live and depending on who may not have somewhere to sleep at that time, it can be up to six other people. The house itself is made out of a makeshift patchwork of thin, pressed plywood nailed to studs, its roof is what I think is corrugated tin. The way of life here is something straight out of Darkhail, but without the rampant murder and chaos. I don’t know if it is because of some childhood memory or not but the way it looks, smells and everything in the dark alley is just how I pictured it for the poor in Darkhail. Which is why it hits me so hard. Darkhail is a place that I had imagined into existence. A place that I tried to make as utterly desperate as I could. Where the poor scrape by and fashion some sort of exsistence out of sheer necessity. And here they live it and that seems impossible. But unlike Darkhail, they LIVE here, they smile – if infrequently when you are a stranger – they share and sing and come together. It’s not that I’m trying to say they live together: family, neighbor and stranger, hand in hand. There is still cautions wariness in their eyes, a readiness to protect what is there, but they come together and share what they have and unlike in the States, neighbors do at least talk to each other. |
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PI 2
Sunday Jan 25 2009 2:45 a.m. [S.T.D.]
We’re close now only an hour or so more and we will have landed. We made one stop over at Guam, the same island where we lived for less than a handful of years. Where my second earliest memory and my longest lasting injury stems from. It is a brief memory and unlike the poignant gold ones – this one is as thin and grey as fog.
I’m helping my mom, or I want to, she’s not looking and the floor is dry. I reach up as high as I can and grab the legs of the wooden chair on top of the table. It’s too heavy and comes crashing down smashing my big toe on my left foot.
The memory it too old to send the ghost of pain but I still bear its mark. And for the first sixteen years of my life the toenail would blacken, slough off, only to become whole again just to start the process all over.
I could not see much of Guam, night is not very conducive to descriptive detail. What I did see were serpentine streets winding in and out thick with lusty curves. There were what I thought were short squat houses, lit with single lights, these were spattered across the land as if flicked by an artist’s brush. I couldn’t see much of them, but for some reason I cannot pin, they reminded me of the houses in City Heights back when Mr. Smith was just Chris. Guam I’m told runs on “Island Time”. Which is to say slow and easy. The idea that if something needs to get done, not to worry about it too much cuz' it will get done eventually. All I can say is that the people who work at the airport in Guam do not subscribe to “Island Time.” From what I understand the Philippines do not have that concept either. Too busy being poor or too busy staying rich. I would have liked to have seen “Island Time” in action. The world we live in is so frenetic – and deep within me is a person who would thrive on the concept of “eventually.”
Monday, January 26th. 3:04 p.m. [Philippine Time]
Very tired now and my attempts at sleep have been fickle and fleeting. I’m considering taking a Nightquil at around 9:00 so that I’ll be awake enough to go to church with my mom tomorrow. So much has happened since arriving and I have very little faculties to remember, let alone express them all. So I’m going to just “journal” this as best as I can instead of my meager attempts to “flourish” them as I have earlier.
When we landed there was a mix up and we didn’t see the family right away. They were supposed to be holding a sign for us but I guess they forgot. In the end we found them and my mother was full of tears and joy. Of all the people there were various aunts, uncles, cousins and in-laws. I’m bad a rememberering names in general but here it goes. Eldest aunt Leticia (a.k.a. Venny); aunt Teresita (a.k.a. Tessie); uncle Ignacio Jr. (a.k.a. Boyet) and many, many others. The hardest part for me is not only remembering the names plus who is related to whom, but what nicknames to call them by. So far from what I have seen of Manila is that it is a living dichotomy. On the same streets you can see one building that wouldn’t be out of place against the downtown San Diego skyline, and right next to it will be two or three home that they call “squatters.” I’ll describe these later. Its mind boggling the way the dark and the light live side by side literally. As you drive down the road you can see fairly modern car/SUVs. And sharing that road with you are jeepnees and trikes. Or between a modern multistory buildings you see the burnt timbers and rubble of a squatter and right next to that you see a family washing clothes in the gutter as they try to sell goods from the entrance of their houses. Like yin and yang but without the assumed trait of harmonious balance that it should bring – the yin yang paradox. The flow of traffic and rules of the road are reminiscent of Tijuana, but in my opinion T.J. is the laid back Sunday driver in comparison. From the airport we went to a house belonged to the parents of the wife of one of my cousins… I think. Bigger that the townhome we rent but without a lot of the amenities we westerners are used to. The man who owned the place had a nice TV. and some kind of karaoke machine, cable and it also had small spaces upstairs. (To be continued.) |
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A warning dear readers, I decided to simply copy what I hand wrote in my "travel journal", bad grammar and fragmented sentences and all. To me it seemed a little more authentic, though I do have to admit I fixed spelling errors, since it is embarrassing to me to admit how horrible of a speller I am. I hope you can enjoy these entries in all their glorious, error filled, goodness.
[San Diego Time] Saturday January 24th 2009
6:08 p.m.
So today is the day I embarked upon my journey back to the group of volcanic islands that are the place of my birth. This journey actually started an hour shy of the sun reaching its zenith, hidden behind clouds so full with the promise of rain. Now I sit in the waiting area of an airport in the “city of angels”. And like those clouds the reflective and eloquent thoughts that I wanted to fall drop by drop on this page are too shy to begin their precipitation. Many things cross my mind; I wonder if this long lost blood that I will be meeting for the first time since infant memories – will still call to each other. I wonder if that steel bird that will carry me on jet fueled wings will tire on its long westward migration. I wonder what thoughts are going through a russet haired girl as each hour goes by. I wonder if two brothers will come to my call to arms – I have no doubts about the third for I know the wolf with his hazel eyes will watch over my pack. Though right now what spins in my thoughts is my son. My son, whose namesake calls upon wisdom and understanding. My son, with his mercurial eyes that shift from blue sky to steel grey. My son, to who words are as sparse and precious as rain in the desert. My son, whose very existence is on eternal, momentous effort to shape sight from distraction; sound from interference and sensation from preoccupation. My son, with his shy smile and his laugh that travel not from his belly to his throat, but from his heart to his lips. I wonder if he will look for me and not have the words to ask where I am. I wonder if he will be scared and not know what to do. Will he ask, “I want daddy,” or “I want help with daddy?” And when I don’t come, when I don’t coalesce like the dew on this cabin window – will he hurt?
[S.D.T.]
10:55 p.m.
Cruising now, somewhere between 36,000 and 40,000 feet. Somewhere beneath me is the deep blue pacific, black now and still unknowing to me. Somewhere above me are stars, shining from their infinite seats in the firmament – also black now and equally unknowing. I’m in between, between the key and the ocean, between imagination and darkness – suspended in time with pen and paper. DeLint says that this is where magic exists, in all the spaces in between. The first step and the end of the journey are only points of reference, it’s what happens in between that shines like gossamer threads caught in the wind. I wish I felt that magic coursing into me, making this realist into a wisher again. Sadly it has been years since I’ve heard my “Green”. So long that I’ve forgotten the memory of its whisper. All I feel right now, in this moment is the cold air seeing slowly into my toes and feet. Pressure and time are all it takes, pressure and time. Though it wasn’t so long ago that I stood on a mountain, under a night sky that was seared by fire clad stargirls – that I made my stand. With a staff in hand I was tuned with that long lost whisper, as I declared before gods and doubters the sanctity of my brothers. It was not so long ago that oak and acorns, brittle under my feet, led me to quartz and sap. It was not so long ago that the King of Crows sat by my side and watched demons dance by a fat and silver moon. I hope I can find a small piece of that again and for me to hope again is that first step toward the end of the journey. And maybe, just maybe I’ll find a little piece of magic in between.
-Time unknown-
Writing in the dark now, the sounds of fitful sleep can be barely heard over the low and pervasive sound of the engines. Churning and churning, revolution after revolution, just like me and my thoughts. I’m tired but I can’t sleep. I’m a Runaway Train and they are serving me Blind Melons for a snack. It’s hard to write when you can’t see the words your making. I wonder if that is how it’s like for Ashton in his head as his words come out halted and seeking lines to simply rest on. It’s hard to write like this when you’re tired. Though the words are not stuttered, the process is more slow and careless. |
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 I woke up the other day and I thought to myself that I have unused bits and I wondered just exactly what happens to those little parts of me that are left orphaned to the institution of life. It is not much, these little parts, lost and wandering. A teaspoon here, a milligram there and in the end it’s the volume that does not amount to much. But they are unused bits of me; things that at one time were so important or brought me balance and very rarely insight or happiness. And now I begin to think that as the years tick by these small portions of life and vigor that I have cast aside due to necessity or laziness – they will all congeal to form an entity of guilt and regret pointing a crooked finger at me. Dripping with lost potential and a shadow of forgotten dreams pooling around its feet it would ask me questions like, “Why?” and “How could you?” And all I could do would be to gape at it open mouthed, wishing it would go away. If it stared at it too long I would see reflections in its gooey eyes. A flash of me writing poetry, an image of me running track or a picture of me talking to a friend to bring a little light into the darkest night of her life. On and on they would go, brief, blinding bursts of potential and lost potential. And I would be brought to my knees because sacrifice only can not atone for all these little bits wanting a reason why they were disregarded. Only just recently I got an email from a friend wondering how I was doing and that they missed me. And it hit just how close I had been to being something else. Something that I still feel that I should be, something that I want to be and something that I could never be. I thought to myself, here is an unused bit of me, that I just cast aside for responsibility and the prize of a life that is unhappily comfortable. It was this one email that got me thinking about all my other unused parts of me that are just wandering alone, blind in dark halls. Do I regret my life and where it is, the answer is simple and that answer is no. Do I wonder if I am not a whole person without all of these little bits and parts of me – yes. When was the last time you took stock of all the little bits that make up who you are? I will bet that you missing something that you thought was there, and if so, where do they go? What do they do alone, waiting to be called upon again, waiting to be part of the something bigger that was and is this human life? |
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There is desperation this time, one that I have seen before, one that has only been shown to me by him in small slivers and smaller fragments. He looks at me with empty, glassy eyes and all the hard years that he has forced upon his unwilling body come to settle sharply just around the corner of his dark brown eyes. “I’m tired Eddie.” I look at him and I could feel what he was saying even before he the words came out of his mouth. I’ve seen this look before, in a cold and scratched mirror that hung on the wall of some public bathroom of some place I can’t remember. I’ve seen this look on my mothers face, as her yellowed bloodshot eyes looked to me for the answers I couldn’t give her. I’ve seen this look on the woman’s face that I once was going to marry as the thirty pills of Lithium that she took in the attempt to end her life doubled her over in nausea and pain. I’ve seen this look just yesterday on a Fox stepped out of the dusty cobwebs of my imagination and laid down his battered body and curled up in the corner of my living room. My head nodded as I tried my best to let my own words ring true to him. “I know.” He looked away and I knew that both my intent and my words fell short of reaching through all the years and experiences both shared and unseen. I knew that nothing I said today would have any impact, the strong smell of chemical laden sweat that poured off of him told me that his high was still fresh and coursing through his veins. I had come today to finish a check list I had made for myself a long time ago; otherwise I would not have been here at all. A checklist that consisted of the things I thought one brother owed to another, an unsaid list of familial duty and boon owed to him. 1. If he ever got in a fight, stand by him, win or lose at least once. CHECK. 2. If he ever needed a place to stay, let him crash with me at least for a week. CHECK. 3. Defend his side in a family dispute at least once, no matter what the facts are. CHECK. 4. If he needs a ride to somewhere, no matter what time, reason or how far, take him at least three times. CHECK 5. Take him to CMH or a rehab or a detox if he wants to go at least once. CHECK. 6. Visit him and support his recovery in any hospital, no matter what the reasons were that took him there at least five times. CHECK. 7. Visit him at jail no matter what the reasons were that took him there at least once. CHECK. 8. Give the money he asked for, up to $200.00, and not ask or even question what he was going to use it for at least one. It was number eight that stripped me out of my hermit shell I call my house today to drive across town to him. I had one hundred dollars that I had to borrow and I was going to give it to him and finish my checklist. In my mind after this, I would be done with my list and my duty that I believed I owed him. But now, as he sits across from me in the car, with his almost elemental smell wafting off of him and desperation so big I can see the shadows of mountains in it – blood calls to blood. I can’t help but want to reach out again, knowing that just like all the other times; somehow I’m being used and manipulated. We talk some more, the time ticks by and he picks at the skin of his already raw and mutilated fingertips. I lose myself to the listening of his voice and try to follow the rabbit trail of his wandering thoughts. “I’m scared. I’m scared to see her.” “You should be.” “I’ve been missing her for twelve years and now I’m scared to see her.” The tears well up in his eyes, this proud Filipino man stuck in his cycle of drugs and a gangsters life, homeless and almost helpless looking now. I try to circle around a truth that might stick; maybe if he doesn’t realize I’m coming at it sideways like a desert snake, he just might listen. “You’ve been saying you want a second chance. Well here it is bro’.” “Look at me.” Much like all hard conversations that I have I tend to focus on a spot other than the person unless I’m trying to make a point of substance. I turn my attention to him. “How can I see her like this? I mean, be honest.” I know he is asking me to tell him what I thought of his appearance. Across from me no longer sits the young man, filled with youth, strength and an almost inflated and false courage. His long, black hair is braided and to me it looks brittle and dry. The years of living on a sidewalk with nothing but the comfort of drugs have stripped away the weight and muscle he used to have, and replaced it with dark brown skin that looks like parchment. And even though he is only in his mid thirties, he has that used look that makes it hard to place his exact age if you didn’t know it. In my mind I weigh the hard truth with the easy one; something inside of me tosses away the easy one. I can’t pin down the why of it, all my life I treated his ego like a carton of already half cracked eggs. “The years have been hard on you bro’.” I’m not sure if I see shock or surprise or anger flicker for a second, but then he just nods as if accepting a truth he had long since known. Then I tell him a second hard truth, one that he wants to avoid because he doesn’t want to get better. “But she’s not gonna care what you look like. She is just gonna want to be with her father that she hasn’t seen in all these years. All you have to do is be there for her.” I try to emphasis the last words out of my mouth; I try to make him understand the unsaid meaning of it. That he needs to be clean. The sweat beads on his forehead as he goes on to other thoughts, other planes of understanding and sanity. He fidgets and picks at his fingers and clothes, uncomfortable in his own skin. He talks about how sometimes the newscasters talk to him through the T.V. He talks about how his “friends” will tell him to go beat down some guy who isn’t supposed to be sleeping on “their” corner. He talks about how sometimes the drugs he does help more than the drugs that he is meant to do. I listen like the brother he needs me to be, not because of pity or sympathy or even the novelty of this bearing of his soul. Because listening is something I’m good at and it’s not much too ask. He stops to take a breath. “I dunno, I guess I just need somebody to talk to, you know family. I mean we never talk like this.” “That’s because we have never been close.” “Yeah you and “big-sis” have always been closer.” Something shuts off inside of me, the caregiver part. “I don’t know where you got that idea from, me and “big-sis” aren’t close. The only one I’m close to is mom. I’ve always been on the outside of the rest of the family.” The silence grows cold in the car and even the drug furnace in his chest can’t warm it back up again. He looks out the front windshield, the faint scars around his eye socket - where someone hit him with a crowbar and left tiny bits of his brain stuck in the carpet - can be seen. “I don’t know if you remember this or if I just made this up, but you remember the house right?” I nod. “So there is the living room, then the hall, then the washer and dryer and then our room.” His hands move, laying out the pieces of an invisible blueprint. My heart now starts to race, dark memories come creeping into my mind, demons I’ve thought I’ve cowed or slain. “Your bed by the wall, my bed facing out the window to the neighbors playing at their dirty Jacuzzi games.” Something scratches at the back of my eyes and I can almost feel my five foot ten inch frame shrink as my body conforms to the childhood memories. “I was rolling joints, getting faded, I kept asking “Can you smell it? Can you smell it?” That thing that is scratching at the back of my eyes now feels like it getting ready to crawl out. There is something I’m not remembering, another dark thing crawling around that now sees a crack of light and wants to be seen. “You said to me, “Bro’, when I grow up I want to be just like you.” And I grabbed your throat and slammed you against the wall. I shook you and shook you till your head make a hole in the wall. And I yelled at you never to say that.” The scratching, crawling thing puffed outs it’s chest in triumph. The memory returned and made a permanent home in that corner of my mind that I store all the ugly little truths of my childhood. I realized that he was waiting for me to tell him whether or not it was true or if he had just invented the memory. “Yeah, I remember.” My voice was so soft and quiet it could almost be confused for reverent. “Well I did because I didn’t want you to be like me. All those time mom told me to take you with my friends and I would ditch you, it’s because I didn’t want you to get caught up in what I was doing. I wanted to make sure that you didn’t turn out like me. And look at you now, you got you shit together.” I know what he is trying to say, I know that in his mind he is speaking of his perceived nobility of sheltering me from his lifestyle and friends. I grow a little colder on the inside. I don’t want to say anything and take away the one thing that he feels like he has done right in his life. But inside my head I’m yelling at him that nothing he did ever protected me, it only made me want to emulate him more as a child. That by taking credit for how my life turned out only takes away the credit from me. That I was the one who made the choices, made the sacrifices, fought the demons inside me and that is why what little “shit” I have together is mine. I bite my tongue and I can almost taste the blood, I suppose he takes my silence as affirmation that all that what he has said is true and goes on. “It’s not that I wanted pity, but sometimes I wish that the family could see me when I’m sleeping on the streets. Just so that they would know how hard I have it. Even you, you have had it easy all of your life compared to me.” My teeth let go of my tongue and I can feel my eyes narrow. “What do you know about my life; I mean what do you really know. You think you know what I’ve been through. Yeah, I haven’t had the hardest life, but how much do you know. You see what I want you to see, you look at what you want to look at which is about this much.” I hold up two fingers about an inch apart. “The only difference between our two lives is that I made decisions that put me on a path. And if you think for one second that trying to stay on that path is easy then you need to think again. How much easier would it be if I just walked away from everything and not deal with it? Huh?” He doesn’t say anything, in my brief anger I may have hit closer to home with him than all my years of trying to be understanding. In the time that passes, I think that what I said slips out of his head. “I’m so tired.” I nod, but this time I’m nodding because I agree with him. I’m tired too. A little of the Fox in me dies again and the Crow get a little blacker. “I know.” It’s the only thing I say. Blood calls to blood.  |
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 So despite my hesistation I'm going to go ahead and post what I have written so far. DISCLAIMER The whole point of Nanowirmo is to write, not to worry about spelling or grammer or if it even makes any sense at all... so without obvious caution I say that it's probably in the roughest state it can be excluding the obligatory spell check. Also not that anyone but the two of you read this thing but if there is anyone under the age of 18 reading this be warned of strong language. - - Symphonys Requiem - - Her name was Symphony but she couldn’t sing in key to save her life and this is her Requiem. My name, that’s not so important, you might as well call me the blank piece of paper that her artist’s pen of a soul so caringly left its mark. I was the parchment, the scroll, the leaf of paper that soaked up the ink – as a matter of fact just call me Leif. The red flashing numerals blinked angrily at him, the number 22 flickered on and off at a tremendous speed as if threatening to self-destruct if the answering machine had to receive and store even one more message. He couldn’t get himself to bother checking it though, he knew it was just another parade of voices offering him empty consolment and platitudes. He reached for the bottle and took another drink off of the nearly empty vessel, the dark amber liquid no longer burned but merely just warmed his throat and chest as it made its way down to his stomach. He wondered briefly if you drank enough alcohol if you stopped to feel anything, if your nervous system simply stopped receiving input of any sort. And if that was the case then if you went even further you stopped thinking, stopped feeling – if you could drown memory and existence in aged, fermented liquid. He hoped so and swirled the whiskey around in the bottle taking small pleasure in the fact that to attempt reaching a state of inebriated bliss took considerable effort. “You’ve reached where you have called so leave a message.” The prerecorded announcement broke him out of his fuzzy contemplation as he attempted to shield himself with the bottle just incase his instincts were right about the machines imminent doom at having to store another message. “Lee, I know you’re there...” Despite her assurance, Wendy’s voice still held the unsurity of not really knowing that was where he was. “Lee, pick up please…” Leif could tell that she had been crying, her voice was hoarse and though the wracking sobs were over she still sniffled occasionally. A faint click sounded and his answering machine beeped loudly. The number 23 now strobbed from it now, flooding the dark living room with its red light. He finished off the bottle and gestured with his hand toward it. “C’mon, I dare you!” It continued to blink irrevently at him, seemingly not impressed at all by his bolstered state. He stood up and the dingy brown carpet seemed to rock ever so gently, he reared back and threw bottle at the message collecting menace missing it wide. He lost his balance and tumbled face first toward floor landing hard enough to make a thudding sound. Somewhere above him the infernal machine continued to blink on and on, but despite his dark need for revenge against it he decided that the carpeted floor was too comfortable to get up off and he closed his eyes. ---- The last place he expected to wake up was a cemetery, the sun shone down casting blazing light and pain into his head. He propped himself up on one elbow and shut his eyes tight against the light coming off the burning ball in the sky. Vague, broken memories came back to him as he tried to cobble together some semblance of reason why he awoke on this pristinely kept lawn surrounded by stone effigies. He remember trying to kill his answering machine, then waking again to place a call to someone, he recalled fumbling in his pockets to pay a taxi driver… and then this. He dared to open his eyes just slightly and though his head throbbed in protest the light stopped feeling like hot knives piercing into the back of his skull. He sat up fully and his stomach roiled as rancid bile rose to the back of his throat, Leif decided it would be better if he just sat there and let his body acclimate to being alive again. Time passed as he sat there with one hand on his forehead trying to force his stomach in submission. It only barely registered that a shadow was being cast over him. He looked up, fully expecting rain or a solar eclipse, instead a feminine figure stood before him, her features indisinguable as the sun blazed a bright aura around her. “Welcome back.” When she spoke Leif knew that she was barely speaking above a whisper but either the wind was carrying her voice to him or in his hyper sensitive state he had acquired super human hearing. He held up one hand to shield his eyes against the bright glare that seemed to halo around her and only then did he realize the she was actually bent over slightly with both hands on her knees. “Welcome back?” The voice that came out of his throat was not one he would recognize as his own, it sounded pained and overused, it croaked and groaned its way past his lips. The shadowed figure leaned closer to put one hand on his forehead, in that moment his head swam and his whole body tingled for a moment. Then the moment was gone and as sudden as the wave hit him, Leif felt abruptly human again. “Are you okay?” Though the pain wasn’t gone the pounding in his head became bearable, his body no longer seemed at war with him forcing him to pay the attrition of a whole day spent on consuming mass amounts of liquor. She had drawn her hand back and now that his eyes were not going to shrivel and dry out from any source of light he could begin to make out some of her features. Her long, straight raven hair fell forward across her shoulders hanging freely in the air. She wore a loose fitting red tee shirt and blue jeans that seemed to be faded from a thousand years of unending use. Her face was plain in such a way that it couldn’t help but be beautiful in its unassuming way. She wore no make-up that he could tell and yet still her light brown eyes seemed to glimmer and shine as if standing out against dark eyeliner. “Yeah, I think so.” She smiled and her teeth were slightly yellowed but otherwise perfect, she sat next to him pulling her knees up to her chest. Leif noticed that she was wearing no shoes and her toenails were polished purple but had not seen any retouches as bare nail could be seen peeking out every so often. He stared at the profile of her face trying to place her individual features like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, hoping that with enough pieces he would remember if he knew her at all. She had a slight thin nose and the pale skin there had sprinkles of odd shaped freckles living there. The corners of her soft eyes seemed to curve just slightly upward and at their edges the beginning of crow’s feet could be seen. Leif decided that she was far too young to have the blemish from aging skin so she either spent a lot of time outdoors or smiling. He could tell that the bone structure of her face had the barest hints of sharp edges but her round cheeks and oval face seemed to hide them. She was definitely a mix of some sort but no matter how long he looked at her face he couldn’t place it. “So…have we met, I mean you seem to know me but I have no idea who you are?” As she turned to look at him the sun reflected its light for a brief second against the surface of her eyes and had she not fully turned to look at him with those brownish-gold eyes he could have sworn that they were green for a moment. “You don’t remember last night?” His heart increased its tempo as his mind whirled trying to force the memory of her to the surface. Had he met her in some dark bar, drunk to stupidity and came here? But to do what, as drunk as he was why would he bring her to a cemetery to fulfill any lecherous intents and why would she agree to go? “Uhh, sorry I don’t remember much.” She laughed, throwing her face up to the sky, as the sun shone light up her features her skin shimmered bronze. She shook her head and her unbound hair fell to rest on her shoulders again. Her laugh was melodic and capturing, Leif stared at her in complete bewilderment trying to understand her on any level. “Don’t look so worried Lee, we didn’t do anything like that!” Leif was completly surprised to hear her call him Lee, that name was reserved for only those who were closest to him. There were only two people alive who had the right to use that moniqure and if he could help it he would estrange himself from them both. “Don’t call me Lee, my name is Leif.” His voice had gone dark and with the remnants of its earlier gravely state it came out sounding like a threat at the same time. She looked out over the graves and was still smiling. “You were the one who insisted on me calling you Lee last night.” Leif tried to let it go, tried to let it simply pass but then that unthinking part of his brain, the part that just absorbed information started to piece together where he was. He wasn’t in just some cemetery, this was the same cemetery where Steven was buried just two days ago. He stood up his grief transforming to anger and rage at the loss threatening to rob him of his sanity. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t know how the hell you convinced me to come here but lets get a couple of things straight. Number one I was drunk out of my mind last night so I’m sure it wasn’t hard to influence me to do anything last night and number two, don’t call me Lee.” She looked up at him and though Leif wasn’t sure he thought he could see sadness looking out. “Don’t be mad at me Lee, it’s not my fault that you drank enough whiskey to short out your brain making you incapable of memory or gratitude. It’s not my fault that I found you here in the middle of the night face down in your own vomit. And even though you are currently incapable of correcting me if I was wrong you asked me to keep you company last night. Lee.” Something insubstantial crept into his head, wasn’t a memory, it was more like a ghost of a memory. Whisper thin images and recalled sensations fought their way to the surface of his understanding. He remembered shivering and the smell and taste of whiskey and puke in his mouth. He remembered thin arms around his waist as someone as warm as the sun in summer held him from behind singing a song to comfort him. He remembered that the voice was so off key it made him lose all his walls. Leif looked at her, stared into her eyes, his mind desperately trying to connect it all but the longer he looked at her the more he was sure that it wasn’t sadness that she was looking at him with, it was pity. “Fuck you, you crazy bitch.” He stormed off toward the exit his anger and rage boiling to an explosive level, he had to get out of here and away from her before he did something even stupider than trying to drink himself to oblivion. “You’re welcome.” She shouted at his retreating figure.
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Well the frist day of writing is over, I barely got out just over a 1000 words and in all honesty it was harder than I thought. Somehow I had figured that since I was in such a writing slump that with a little effort and dedication, whatever it was that I had tapped into while writing TAS, would open up again to me. It was not to be so and if day one is any reflection of how the rest of this process is going to be, not only will I have not reached the 50000 mark but whatever I do have will be forced and lame. I'm still debating about wether or not to put up what I wrote here, but as it stands I don't even like it so chances are I will not. I just hope the writing gods are with me for the rest of it because my creativity surely isn't. |
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