Mar
31st
Tue
31st
untitled
in your absence
the stars—in agony—combine,
taking hostage the night.
in everlasting day
life dissolves without sleep.
To Be Defeated
there is a wind that blows
from the depths of existence
and swiftly, surely, it conquers the heart.
enduring time and consequence
it rises from eternity,
and with the brightest light of joy,
with all-consuming might,
it blinds the fragile soul.
the lighthouse of life’s worn shores,
it steers the ship that’s lost, to goodness.
it fills the heart so wholly that,
with its weightlessness,
it defeats both air and gravity
and lifts the life it touches
beyond all that is known.
older than memory, it is born among the stars,
who shed, and pour their awesome brilliance
into the powerful essence
that is an extract of life.
in boldness, the self is lost to its unsayable spirit
and joyful sound rings forth
from time and space unknown to us;
the resolute exploits of an entity –
the juice of happiness,
the ultimate truth,
that, without which, all is irrelevant.
Leaving King (from The Coins of Happiness)
Graham King suddenly finds himself alone. He went down to the station, thinking he could catch her with her suitcase on the ground, knowing he was right behind her. As the train doors close he sees her in the window, she watches as he waves, then the train takes her away. He stands in sadness for a minute or two, hoping, against all knowledge and logic, that the train might slow to a stop, reverse… that she would jump to the platform and run to him, and they would exist together always…
The first few minutes are perhaps the most difficult. He sort of loses himself in her departure, standing there for several long moments, not completely aware of his thoughts or surroundings. A train has arrived and travelers are rushing past him, tired and eager to reach their destinations. One impatient, highly-strung woman is annoyed at the apparent complete lack of consideration of the boy who stands at ease, blocking the way. Accidentally-on-purpose she drags the wheels of her enormous suitcase across his foot. This wakes him from his conscious slumber and, remembering where he is, he turns and moves sleepily forward with the flowing crowd. In his mind he repeats her name to himself as he walks, kneading each syllable until they melt together, forming a single sound; a perfect harmony.
He is on the street now, without any real idea of where he is going. It is late summer, an uncomfortably hot day. Though it is still morning he can feel the sun beating down upon the back of his neck. He had dressed in haste yet with thought; her favorite shoes of his land rhythmically upon the pavement. He wears a becoming white t-shirt, well-fitted jeans, and carries a light jacket in hand (he thought it might perhaps be cool today). His free hand is raised without direct intention, lands at his hairline, and travels the length of his head once or twice. He likes the feeling of his short hair against his palm, and the memories the movement conjures – memories of resting with his head on her stomach, of her rubbing his hair as he does now – are comforting.
The blistering sun creates mirages of puddles on the pavement. The humidity has made the air thick – Graham can imagine suffocating in the heat. The leaves find themselves without dance partners in the absence of a breeze. He is some distance from the station, now – the sidewalks have narrowed and are less busy. He watches his feet as they carry him, and he thinks of her. He thinks of all he shared with her. Remembering something that once made him tear with laughter, he giggles to himself then looks around nervously, afraid that he may appear to be mildly insane. He watches a car as it approaches him. The driver is a woman, clown-like (he briefly wonders how much her face cost), talking animatedly on a cell phone. As the vehicle passes, Graham is flipped off by who he assumes must be this woman’s son. Perhaps around eight, the boy gleefully bites his tongue and waves both middle fingers at the innocent stranger on the street. Graham is taken aback; he sort of scoffs, unsure whether or not he wants to laugh. In the moment of minor shock and confusion, he has lost sight of his happy memories. He thinks instead of their goodbye.
The previous night she had sat on the side of her bed and watched him as he claimed his jacket from its spot on her bedpost and put it on. He then presented himself before her and they briefly touched hands before he bent slightly and she raised her head to be kissed by him. They were different kisses, different than before – slow and soft. They made him feel sad and it suddenly dawned on him that she was leaving. He took a seat next to her and she stood in front of him. “It’s late,” she said. He looked up at her and then he wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his head against her stomach. She stood there, being hugged by him, looking down at him, loving him.
They kissed again. Graham smiled, “You smell like sunscreen – ” she half-giggled and shot him a quizzical glance, “I really like it!” Then, holding his hand, she walked him to the door. She watched him slip into his shoes, “I’ll miss you.” He stood, he pulled her into him and held her there for several moments, kissed her one last time, and then he was gone. As she stood in the open doorway, leaning dazedly against the frame, she came to know every piece of the universe.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Evey LaForte suddenly finds herself in adulthood. She sits with legs crossed and good posture, hands folded on her lap, feeling very self-important. She is dressed like an adult, like how she thinks adults dress. She watches passengers walk the platform and smiles pleasantly at passers-by. She can feel it; she is a woman now! She feels others know it too, and this knowledge somehow changes her, changes her behavior. She is like the little girl who dresses in her mother’s heels, pearls, and lipstick, role-playing adult.
The sight of Graham lamely waving at her from outside, and the simultaneous lurch of the train as it leaves the station, knock her back to reality. She can do nothing but stare at him, and it takes her a moment even to find a smile to offer. It is unsettling to be confronted by him; she made her decision months ago, and she is sure of it, yet as her thoughts drift back to him she smiles sincerely and feels like she’s falling. A part of her – perhaps the wisest part – knows that she should stay with him, but she stifles the voice of it.
It takes her until he is out of sight to disregard his ambush. She forces the thought of him from her mind.
With bold confidence she marches strongly into her future. She’s known it would come to this for some time – she never really saw it any other way; the life she envisioned for herself lies elsewhere, beyond Graham.
Landscapes flutter past and as she watches them she looks not fondly back upon the year she spent with Graham but instead, ahead to the future. With harsh, rather forced indifference, she separates herself from her past. She severs all ties to Graham and races surely forward.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He is at home, wishing she would call. He has no way of reaching her, and all confidence he ever had in her affection for him has now disintegrated, weakened by doubt with each day that passed without a word from her.
He feels vulnerable. He knows… in his heart he knows it – he has lost her. She will never call. He knows that the last image he will ever have of her is the sight of her in the window.
She is gone; she has left him.
Valedictorian Speech (excerpt)
This is it: the end. The final breath before the plunge. And as we rest unsteadily at the edge of the quivering board, we must understand what it is we will cherish. We must understand what it is we will take with us into the deep waters that await us below; what it is we will take with us into the future.
We entered Traf five years ago, unsure of ourselves and full of self-doubt. The journey has been long and trying, and this moment, right here, right now, is where it has all brought us. Aristotle once said, “the roots of education are bitter, but the fruit sweet”. Five years later and here we are, enjoying the sweet fruit of our labour.
[…]
E. E. Cummings once said, “it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are”. This is what we have done, and while we might not remember how to map the Trig Circle, we will always know who it is we are, and how we were transformed by the journey each and every one of us has taken at Traf. This has been the year of laugh fests. Of yearbook editors!, of mildly tormenting the sec one through threes, of “x days ‘till grad!”, of breakdowns, of sleepless nights, of “When It’s Best”, of Math 526, of Common Knowledge Class, of comrades, of Bringing Greatness Back, of o. o. hello!s, of minor insanity.
Our minds are now adorned with memories of good and bad, of our own absurdity and silliness which made Traf so glorious. I can’t remember it all, I can’t remember the details; there is a general feeling, though, which I will always cherish, and as I stand here before you now, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. I am proud of you, of us, and I am honored to be graduating alongside all of you.
It is time, though, to look towards the future. To open a new book, inhale the scent of its fresh, untouched pages, and begin a new chapter of our lives. My words of wisdom? To quote Robert Byrne, “the purpose of life is a life of purpose”. Love what you do, do what you love, and don’t get caught up in the madness.
What saddens me most is the knowledge that bonds may be severed, that we may slip into our futures, forgetting that which we cherish today.
And so I plead with you, remember. Remember your teachers, for they had a far larger role to play in your coming of age than you may realize.
And remember your classmates, for you are a reflection of them.
Go, now. Go, pursue your dreams, laugh, love, cry, win, lose, live.
This is it: the beginning.
Dissolving
The end is coming. He is coming, I know it. I can feel Him. He is in the crippling cold, the gnawing, constant pain. I am so worn out. I am so tired, I’m tired of doing this – of seeing this, every day. The blank walls scream at me in colourless agony. The food – the jiggling Jello – mocks me; I have been reduced to a state of infancy. The scent is one of sterilization, of illness, of old age, of stale bodies.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes again, resting, listening. The nurses beyond my door exchange tales of flirtation and indulgence. It is strange to think that Life will carry on without me – and what has been my part in it?
Suzie’s in the corner, her face pulled awkwardly against the hand that supports it. She is sleeping, her hair falls across her youthful face. I rub the side of my own and try to relive the memory of youth. This body is foreign to me. It is frail and breaking. I want to sleep. I want to sleep again, to feel that blissful calm take over… I close my eyes.
A stabbing in my chest brings me back. I am scared, I cannot breathe – I can not. I try, I gasp and gulp at nothingness. I am suffocating. Suzie is at the bed, she yells to the hallway. I can’t make out her call. I stare with wide eyes, yet see only darkness. I am lost, pulled deeper. He has me. I thrash and pull and reach for the surface, but it is distant, it is nowhere – gone. Panic takes over – but then, an iridescent peace…
Through the darkness, she appears, bright, and young, and beautiful. I feel a sort of helplessness as I approach her, overwhelmed by her, weak with joy and disbelief. She is here! She is back!
I can feel life as I know it end the moment I reach her, and take her in my hands. She folds into me, becoming a part of me again. I embrace her wholly as I inhale the scent of her perfume.
I pull back from her. We are young again, young and whole, lively and joyful. She smiles at me – the very kindest smile. She’s so beautiful it hurts, and she glistens now, and glows, and sparkles, as never before. She smiles at me, and holds my neck, lightly tracing my hairline with her delicate fingertips.
I can feel it all. I can feel our shared life – every moment of it, every breath. Things I had forgotten long ago now come rushing back to me. I had forgotten the beauty of her eyelashes, the softness of her touch, the smoothness and warmth of her skin. She is breathtaking – I can see Time in her eyes. She intertwines her fingers in mine, kisses me, and, as though slipping into a lovely dream, I feel us dissolve into eternity.
Reincarnation
He is the chipping paint.
The over-turned chairs;
abandoned possessions.
I can feel him; he is a part of it all.
I can feel him in the air.
In the walls.
In the windows’ missing panes,
the uprooted carpet - the bare floor boards, exposed.
He is the ageing wood.
The territory, over-run by nature.
The fixtures, reduced to their elements
- returned to nature.
Momentary Eternity
Time doesn’t exist.
For a split-second, an eternity, we are here. And I know that somehow, oddly, we have always been here, really, and we always will be.
But then life is racing again, and I don’t know how, or why, or when we were ever there. I’m caught up in the madness. The world is ever lasting, and it is finite. And I’ve lost touch of you, and I’ve lost touch of earth, of memory.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Why am I?
Then you’re back and I’m beside you again. Life is momentarily suspended. I am in Limbo, meaninglessly living with all the import of the world. I don’t know how long we’ve been here, nor for how long we will be. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m with you. None of it matters.
Then you are gone again and I don’t remember you leaving. I search all existence for the memory. I need to know why you’ve left, where you are. I discover nothing. Life is empty. Life is vast, it stretches out in front of me, it engulfs me. It is suffocating. I am lost. I am lost, trapped in a momentary eternity.
All That He Knows
They are separated only by feet. His eyes are on her, absorbing her, taking in every detail with bitter-sweet sadness. She is oblivious to him. He enjoys these moments, as he watches her. He suddenly feels as if he is home again, the way he felt when they were together. It was momentary but splendid, like a sudden bolt of lightening, briefly illuminating his surroundings. Now all that remains of that moment of illumination is a shattering sonic sound which rumbles and shakes all as its waves swim by, leaving only disruption and loss in its wake.
She is alerted to his presence by a friend, she cautiously turns her head and for a split second their eyes meet before she sharply darts her head forwards and towards the ground. Grasping her companions’ arms, she ushers them hurriedly away. His eyes do not falter. They are glued to her. On his face is an expression of utter longing. He loves every piece of her, every eyelash, every pore. He loves her hair – each strand of it, and the way it dances across her flawless breasts. He adores her hands. They appear to him as beautiful creatures. He can lose himself in her cuticles, in her perfect fingertips.
He longs for her now as he always has. Even when she was in his arms, when her body was pressed against his, he needed to be closer to her. He would show up at her door in the middle of the night, desperate for her, and he was glad to watch her sleeping beside him as he traced his fingertips lightly across her back. He was always in contact with her. He always had her touch to comfort him, and now he grasps for her wildly with his eyes. It had ended so unexpectedly, so uncontrollably, and a fire still burns within him. He wants her, he needs her, he depends upon her, and she won’t look at him.
He has given up all hope, and his heart lies deflated and defeated in his hollow chest. He feels a gentle hand take his shoulder. It’s her, standing beside him, smiling up at him in a friendly manner. She is touching him, she is looking at him! In that instant, they understand, and they forgive. By her side, he looks like an entirely different person. His eyes embrace the light and reflect it as it bounces off various surfaces. They talk, and it is as if nothing ever went wrong between them. He is filled with elation and hope again and he believes, as never before, that his life is brilliant. He is captivated by her. Every so often, someone will take him by the arm and lead him away from her, loudly reciting excited salutations. He is deaf to all of them and quickly shakes them off and returns to her side diligently. One pestering girl pulls him eagerly into a dense crowd, where she takes him by the waist and moves her hips back and forth, grinding into him. Not wanting to be rude, he goes along with her, sort of bouncing around reluctantly, upper body turned towards his past lover. He casts a rather helpless, pleading look towards her and sees on her face an expression of confused hurt.
Later, they bid farewell and arrange to see each other soon, and for an instant, before she says goodbye, he feels as though he loves her more than life itself.
Days pass before they see each other again, and when they do, her arrival is unexpected. He finds her in the crowd and makes his way over to her, puts his hand in its place in the small of her back. He laughs with genuine appreciation now that he finds himself with her again. She is the center of his attention. His body is turned towards hers, his arm rests, slightly outstretched, subconsciously reaching for her. She invades his senses; her scent is a distracting undercurrent.
They are upstairs, alone, reminded of the nearby crowd only by the constant thudding, semi-distant sound made by the bass. He embraces her tightly and he tries to put his heart into hers for safe keeping, in case he loses it again. She wears sparkles on her face, and they are transferred to his as he holds her in his arms, and he sees only her, and he hears only her, and he feels only her, and he knows only her.
Son
I am content. The feeling of elation remains in the aftermath of the previous evening’s events. I slept in this morning; it is mid-day, and I get on the bus. I take my seat in a vacant four-seater; a prime location. I make myself comfortable. It isn’t hard in the pleasantly cool weather and mid-day lazy atmosphere.
A man steps onto the bus. He is tall, handsome. He looks gentle. He pays his due, turns around, and takes hold of a stroller, pulls it aboard. He continues down the aisle with it. The mother is next, followed by a teenager, her daughter. They take their seats. The child is gorgeous; a tiny boy. He is happy, always smiling. The father, he is entirely involved with his son. He places his hand on his son’s head, and it remains there, until the mother reveals a camera. He reaches over and takes it from her, turns it on, and hands it back to her. Dad is talking to the baby. Mom snaps a shot. She laughs. The camera travels to her husband. He enjoys the moment with genuine appreciation. The boy is laughing as well. He didn’t see the picture, but he recognizes the shared joy. Mom continues to capture the splendor of her family. She doesn’t over do it; a few more shots is all it takes. Once she’s finished, she retires to a women’s magazine, but continues to watch her family over the top of its pages. Dad is playing with his boy. Remaining hidden, he grabs his son’s hand and briefly pulls, before releasing it. The baby thrusts his tiny arm towards the monster again and again. The monster strikes! A brief moment of panic, before laughter erupts. His laugh is brilliant! It is spontaneous and mighty. I can feel it. I can feel it inside of me. It is a warm feeling, like the sensation of sun on bare skin on a clear summer afternoon. It is everywhere. Soon, it reaches the surface, and I begin to laugh. The game continues. The boy laughs on. He is small, he is simple. He is unaware of me. He knows only his family. He knows only happiness. And in this moment, so do I.
On My Own Two Feet
I would clamber onto him and cling to a woolly sweater, my arms grasping my father’s over-sized belly as I balanced precariously, my feet resting on top of his own.
Sometimes he would take me reluctantly, but I would plead with him and he would always surrender eventually. He would walk through the halls, seemingly unaware of his newly-formed extension. He felt sturdy and wholly solid between my arms. He felt undefeatable.
On occasion, he would belt out a verse of a preferred opera. Long, somber, off-tone notes would emerge from him, and I felt the sound evolve within him as I pressed my ear against his stomach. He would pat my back gently but firmly to the beat of his tune.
In those moments I felt entirely like his daughter. I loved him. Now, we have both grown up. I have changed, and my father has also. He has lost his epic grandeur that once seemed so singular. He doesn’t sing any longer, he hasn’t for years.
I don’t grasp him now. I don’t hold him silently, I don’t focus my attention on him, I don’t try to imitate him, like I used to. And he doesn’t give me rides on his feet. I am too big for him, or perhaps he has gotten smaller. I must make it on my own.
When It’s Best
When she’s not there, that’s when it’s best. When she’s not there, and we’re alone and it’s me he looks at.
I take the empty seat beside him. He pats my leg in a friendly way, saying, “Hey, good lookin’.” When we’re alone, I can forget she’s ever there. I can forget the phone calls, he never dials her anyways. When she’s not there, he talks to me, and when I’m not there? He’s kissing her, he’s fucking sleeping with her. He looks at me, he jokes with me. “We’ll go to a concert together soon, ok?!” She won’t be there. He tugs on my belt loop to get my attention. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles. He’s beautiful. The unconventional kind. He’s rather ugly actually, when you look at him in pieces. His crooked teeth, his big nose. He’s beautiful as a whole. He watches me. I know he does, because I watch him. He looks at me when I laugh and as I kiss my friend goodnight. He asks me things. He asks me about who I’m with. Who I’m with, when I’m not with him, and I don’t know why he’s asking, or why he’s watching me. Because he’s with her. And when she’s there, he’s with her. I look at him, and he looks at her. He looks at her as she dances to inaudible music, laughing. I don’t know why he’s with her, really. She’s nice, I guess, just not very interesting. You can’t really have a meaningful conversation with her.
One time, when she was there, it was bad. I was sick, lying down, and she came to check on me. I hated her right then. He came, he held her waist, and he took her away. I was left alone, lying on the couch, and I could hear them. I could hear them… being together. She went home early, that night. He walked her to the bus. When he got back, he checked on me. He talked to me. I slept at his apartment that night. We ordered pizza at three in the morning. He stripped before bed, undressed in front of us until he stood in his boxers, his rejected clothes scattered on the floor beneath him. We went to bed, I in his sister’s room. He was right beside me, through a wall, so close. She wasn’t there, but there was a spot for her, beside him.
I ran into him once in the subway. Early morning; he was on his way home from her place. He changed his direction, he came with me. We went out for coffee that morning. I was late for school, but I didn’t care; I was with him.
I sit with him now, and she’s not here. His arm’s around my waist, my head is on his shoulder. It’s moments like these that I will cherish. They are precious and brief. His phone rings; an awful, shrill sound which shatters the calm brilliance of the moment. I lift my head, he removes his arm and reaches for his phone; it’s her. He winks at me, pats my leg as he stands up, and leaves the room. I’m alone again, and he’s with her.
X
He places his palm on her leg, casually, hoping she’ll ignore it, let it rest there. She remains silent, tolerant, passive, though she’s acknowledged it, and he knows she has.
Why does she allow it? They were together, once. Not so long ago, they were together, and happy. At least they pretended they were, and maybe he truly was, although she was not. Now she must see him, she must put up with him. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t like to, she doesn’t like him, but she must. So she is tolerant, passive, mute. Sometimes she is screaming, she is yelling, she is hurting him, but only in her head. Her objection gets lost in translation, lost somewhere in her body, and never makes it to her mouth.
Perhaps he can, perhaps he is allowed to, perhaps it is his right, since he once touched her this way. Yet they’re not together anymore, and he’s on his way to see the other girl, the new one.
It’s only when they’re alone. With friends, with witnesses, he stays away from her. It happens when they’re alone, that’s when he takes hold of her. Does he own her? It feels as though he may, and so she feels she mustn’t protest; this is his right, she’s in the wrong. He stumbles over, lunges towards her, takes her by the waist; she is held to him now, and there is no escaping it. He presses his head against hers, and pushes further into her back with his fingertips. He whispers to her. Hot air escapes his parted lips and invades her. She cannot speak; she must not. She wishes for him to leave. After some time, he does. He leaves her in solitude and returns to the crowd.
Once there, he doesn’t look at her, except perhaps by accident, or when she says a certain something, or does a certain something. Then, he stares. When he doesn’t have hold of her, she finds her voice, she finds herself again. She talks to someone, a stranger, she laughs. She turns her head, and there he is, across the room, his eyes fixed on her. They pierce her, they take hold. They are oddly cold. She can feel him inside of her, and she loses herself. She looks away, but he is still inside.
His hands are on her, taking over. One lies on her breast, the other on her neck, in her hair, on her face. He kisses her head; an unwanted token. She is pulled into him, but what is she to do?! She cannot think, she cannot stop it. Perhaps it is all a joke. He often jokes, but he is serious now. She can feel it in his breath against her neck, in his body pressed against hers.
He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Or perhaps he does. She doesn’t know, as she does not look at him. She doesn’t want to, for then it would be real, it would be him doing this to her. The person would have a face, and it would be his. She doesn’t want that.
She takes sanctuary on a spare bed one night. In silence, he enters the bedroom. Without a word, he lies down beside her, facing her back. She does not look at her visitor; she knows it’s him. They lie parallel to each other for a few long moments, the sole audible sound that of their un-synchronized breathing. She feels his hand land on her body. It slides under her arm and down her chest until it comes to rest under her breasts. There it stays for a while, before it continues on to where it lies tucked under her body, against the mattress. It pulls. It pulls her into him. She feels in that moment a sort of sadness from him which she can’t quite figure out. She speaks his name in the darkness. He doesn’t respond, save with a kiss. She pulls his arm off her and walks away, leaving him in solitude.
