The Breakdown of the Breakup

The reasons were numerous and ludicrous. They tried to talk it out calmly, but logic was not welcome here. There- an argument that made no sense. There- a request too disgusting to dignify with a response. On the one hand everything fit. They looked right. They fit just right. They were already traveling side by side. Why not join in other elemental ways? On the other hand, she was strung way too tightly, he was a pig. She was looking to slip into sophistication. He was looking to live out a real life porno.

Sometimes there is no middle ground when what you’re looking for isn’t even on the same plane. How they didn’t see this coming, nobody knew. Their volatility was obvious to even a casual bystander. Every day at lunch, they bantered at the pizza place on the square, scorching wit paired with playing footsie under the table. Sparks flew. Curses abounded. It was all very entertaining. But there was a brittle edge that belied the ease of the relationship.

She was a rookie in the corporate world, taking in her surroundings. He was a shark, swimming and feeding and fucking with no conscience. Their appeal originally had to be proximity. Too many hours in the office. You pass a decorated cake often enough, you’ll want a piece even if you’re more the pie type. They would soon find they weren’t even made of the same stuff; she was a German Chocolate cake, with several ingredients and complicated timing. He was a bear claw- a fried piece of dough with sweet icing and fierce appearance. OK. Enough with the bakery analogies.

Somehow, their wildly different backgrounds and cultures had been overlooked at the outset. They were dazzled by the sleek, new models they found in each other. The new car smell was intoxicating, so to speak. Before getting into vehicular metaphors, we can just come to an understanding that all was new and glorious and exciting, as it always is in the beginning. What was surprising in this case was the speed at which their “love” imploded. There is an acceptable trajectory and this was like a fast-moving comet.

Can too many metaphors spoil a saucy tale?

So back to the breakup. She wanted to see this through, give it a shot, at least have a last hurrah. He wanted to do things to her that made her gag. Someday maybe she’d have regrets, but she was still young enough to be shocked. Someday he’s find someone he wouldn’t want to use as a foul toy, but he was too jaded at that point in time to have any focus.

So there was yelling. Pushing. Nudity. Shock. Sleep. Accusations. Jokes. Incredulity. Leering. Magnetism. Ten states of matter that mixed and proved combustible to this couple. They would later only have flashes of memory of their time together. How they walked through the city, quickly and in step with each other. How they shared a few quiet moments in the elevator. How they ate in companionable silence and danced in a darkened club. How they moved together. Looked to each other. Like shards stuck in amber, those few moments will last longer than either of them would admit.

July 22, 2013 0

Midway Through

Just a little longer, he thought. I can wait. I can sit on this bench and watch the people walk by. He sat just left of center, not inviting company. The people moving through the midway looked like they were being herded and led to slaughter. Very few smiled. Most didn’t look at anyone, just blankly stared ahead. Not one of the cattle noticed him on the bench. How could they not see?

He was slowly losing all sense of time and feeling in his extremities; soon he’d possibly melt right on the ground. Were there no warning signs or were people just showing selective sight?

In a few hours, it would be done. The freak show would pack up and move on. The herds of patrons would look for something else to whet appetites of destruction. He would not be on that bench. He was going to go out with a bang. A whirl. At least he’d make them pause in their tracks.

He got up and walked the midway. Carnies cajoling kids to throw darts and rings. Food vendors flipping treats to quick eaters. Loud music. Bright lights. Smell of grease, smoke, sugar, and leather as he neared the tent with belts and wallets. Purchasing a belt, he walked with purpose toward the Ferris wheel.

He stood and watched cycle after cycle until the sky was dusky enough, all the lights were on. This was it. The time for his glorious end. To tumble from the top of a lit Ferris Wheel was his ideal end. He went to the ticket booth, noticed they had raised their prices for the weekend. He pulled his remaining money from his pocket. Not enough. He had spent too much on what he thought was his last meal of pizza, taffy, and a root beer.

Almost numb but with some disbelief, he turned away and headed home.

July 4, 2013 0

Slow Fade

The sparkling magic faded to a dull sheen in the daylight. The light didn’t shine as bright in company of the sun. Some people thought the dark was a place to hide, but for her, all was clearer and truer at night. Her senses came alive when slightly deprived. In the full glare of day, her vision and hearing seemed to grow fuzzy. She couldn’t seem to grasp ideas as readily. But the night was hers.

She walked along a sidewalk lit by lanterns, as the town was celebrating its heritage and there were signs and ephemera from different centuries displayed. Music blared from shop speakers and from musicians in darkened clubs. Flashes from cameras flickered alongside flashes from fireworks from the square a few blocks away. The air was heavy, humid. The quarter moon had a sweaty haze circling it. She didn’t want to stop walking, not noticing her face growing slick with perspiration. She had met her responsibilities with hesitation but finished quickly to arrive at her real destination.

She drew close to an edge of town not as well-kept as the touristy section. Overgrown flora abounded as she remembered the pond was on the other side of the tree line. Making her way, carefully picking amongst weeds and shrubs and flowers at rest, she finally came to the pond’s edge. She found a spot of moss near a tree and sat and waited.

She wondered how people could be afraid of the dark. Sometimes what you could see was far less scary than what festered in the imagination. She sat and watched dark ripples on the pond. She heard frogs, crickets. Then a rustling. A light shuffling from beyond the reeds and emerged a few yards away, a vision in white. The swan reached its neck toward the stars, stretched out its wings. As she watched, she thought the bird would span the whole pond with its wings, but its reach was not quite so wide. But it did touch her somewhere deep inside as it had every time she had spent time in the presence of this bird.

When the bird folded and opened its wings again, she felt the wind brush off the wings and caress her, embrace her. The dark eyes seemed to look at the stars and she wondered not for the first time at the intelligence of this animal. A few months ago she would have thought anthropomorphism was silly. Now it seemed a surreal possibility. She just couldn’t explain the appearance of this swan in her thoughts when she had her accident, how it haunted her dreams at the hospital, and then how she felt led to this pond that seemed hidden away and neglected. She had questioned everything in her life after the accident, wondering at things that used to be so important and how they all fell away when it really counted. What was left was memories of dreams. She did not want to fondly think of her dreams if she made it to her dotage; she wanted to remember reaching and touching the stars. But she hadn’t known where to start.

Until that night she walked interminably and found this pond. And saw the swan.

She had sat with her toes in the water, singing a song from childhood when she had the idea for a painting. She could see the piece in its entirety. She hadn’t even drawn since her life had gotten busy. Why think of a silly hobby now? She was comfortable, ducks in a row and all. Though she did dream of rich colors and soulful songs. But they had no place in her life. Did they?

She had started taking a different way home, stopping to hear music at the bar, especially Thursday nights, when the horn player echoed the song from her dreams. She bought some oils and some canvas, started puttering in the mornings… and then after work… and then in the evenings… she felt restless and ended up at the pond frequently hoping for another glimpse of white. A few weeks after first spying the bird, she was sitting staring into the inky depths of the pond when a quick flash frightened her. As she looked up, the swan circled her and flew around the trees and seemed to be on its way to the heavens when it plummeted and headed straight for her. She stood, bracing for impact and not believing it when it came.

Shooting stars, meteor showers, fireworks. They all seemed to surround her. Her head throbbed. Her heart beat a quick staccato. She blinked and the swan was gone but for a rustle of leaves and a white feather floating to the ground. All was quiet, clear. She felt like she had put on glasses and could see everything better. She not only heard the crickets, but seemed to understand their language. She couldn’t be sure how long she stayed at the pond, but she saw the early colors of dawn streaking across the sky.

She often returned to the pond, hoping to see the swan, but to no avail. She was prolific with her paintings and felt a bottomless supply of inspiration had been awakened within her. Her days were short and her nights were long, just as she liked.

One night, when she was about to leave the pond, she stood still at the sound of a familiar rustling. She slowly sat at the edge and dipped her toes in the water. Before her, the swan emerged from the reeds, its wings opening. She reached her arms wide and they both stopped and looked at one another. Wings and arms folding back down, she and the majestic bird gazed at each other, neither blinking. It swam towards her, gliding so beautifully on the water, tears came to her eyes. She had represented graceful lines in her paintings, but nothing came close to the real thing. The swan came to rest at the edge of the pond, right in front of her. It reached its long neck forward and brushed the side of her face. Then it looked at her. She reached and touched its wings. There were no sparks or speech. But there was something ephemeral.

And she would take it with her and spend the rest of her days trying to paint it.

June 24, 2013 0

Exit Stage Right

She sat on the hard chair on the stage squinting to see beyond the stage lights. There was a man speaking to the assemblage. Was it an audience? A tribunal? She knew it would be her turn to speak soon, but as she had just arrived in this body, she had no idea what she would say. The girl who used to live here felt like an imposter, now Janet WAS an imposter.

The old man, thankfully, droned on and on, reveling in the sound of his own monotone basso voice. He was quoting poets and entrepreneurs as if joining the two in a sentence wasn’t supposed to be jarring. She tried listening but after he butchered a quote from Keats, she tuned him right the hell out. Hearing a muffled chuckle, she realized she wasn’t alone waiting on stage. A young man sat next to her, head down, hand up to his chin, partially covering his mouth. Yes. He was laughing. She looked at him with eyebrows up. He looked back and whispered to her, “If you can keep your wits about you while all others are losing theirs, the world will be yours.” She looked at him questioningly. “That’s what he was trying to say. He said ‘friends.’ Maybe he hasn’t any.” She barely knew what he was saying, but she liked the twinkle in his eye and smiled anyway.

She wondered how much longer before she had to take center stage. The floodlights shined like interrogation lamps back at her. As if reading her thoughts, the man next to her leaned a little and said softly, “I think we’re gonna be here a long while.” While he smiled, she felt herself relax just a fraction. She looked around, hoping for a clue or a sign as to where she was. There were a lot of young faces in the crowd. A school perhaps? The room was not shaped like a typical auditorium. Maybe a theater. There were thick red curtains. If only she could run behind them and have some time to figure out She looked at her clothes and then at the man next to her. They both wore some sort of black corsets with fishnet stockings. Wait. That’s what she wore. He wore a dark suit with a red plaid bow tie. What the hell was this?

“Janet? Are you OK?” the man next to her asked.
“I don’t know,” she honestly said. “I… I’m not feeling like myself.”
“You look pale. Let’s get you some fresh air.”
“But we can’t just leave, can we?”

He took her hand and led her behind the curtain stage right. Somewhere in her cluttered memory she knew of an adage about bad luck and exiting stage right and saying something Scottish, but it was all a jumble. She tried to just focus on breathing normally when she realized he was still holding her hand. She struggled with what to say.

“Thank you. I think I’m all right now. I just need…”
What did she need? Someone to tell her who she was? Where she was? Why she was wearing a corset and was about to speak to a theater full of young people?

“It’s OK,” he said very softly. He led her to a dressing room nearby and they sat on soft chairs somewhat covered by discarded clothing and fabric. It was quieter and darker and she could breathe. Especially with him still holding her hand. She wasn’t sure what would happen if he let go.

“You’re a Warper right?”
“What?”
He smiled. “You have a small red tattoo behind your right ear that looks like lips. I can tell you’ve done the Time Warp. I have too. I’m Brad.”
Flickering images suddenly behind her eyelids. Fishnets, lipstick, stars, music. She HAD done the Time Warp. And she wanted to do it again. But not alone. Not anymore.
“Can we Warp together” she asked.
“Oh, my yes,” he said pulling her into a warm embrace. “I’ve waited a long time for you and I’m not letting you go. Let’s dance.”
And they went back out on stage, hopping and grinning.

June 8, 2013 0

Kierkegaard and the Contortionist

He liked walking the crooked streets. He grew up with a steady diet of theology. His spare time was spent studying his own discord. Kierkegaard often dreamt, both when awake and asleep, of leaving behind his gloom. He wanted to wash away the melancholy like so much dust from the streets, but it was so palpable and comfortable, he viewed it as his true mistress. He would not leave her as she would not leave him.

“I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations- one can either do this or that. My opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it – you will regret both.”

Amidst the patched canvas tents, each wagon was a world unto itself, of scents and colors and textures, indicative of those who dwelled within. In one such wooden world, the contortionist stretched out on the old rug on the floor. He in turn lifted each leg and twisted his body from the middle, swiveling side to side, and then straightening out again. He liked being twisted up best, feeling something, anything, pulling him in another direction.

“Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.”

Kierkegaard turned the corner to the park. He approached the arch but before he could walk underneath, he was distracted by a bird flying to a nearby tree. He must have been stood there in place longer than he imagined, daydreaming about the vagaries of avian flight and instinct, when he heard a sweet sound: his name being called. He looked and saw her standing near the bird’s tree. He walked to her, taking her hand and kissing her fingers softly through her glove. Would she ever know the depth of his feelings for her? How could he explain how much importance he placed in finishing the thought of the bird’s instinct of flight? Would she understand that love was not enough in terms of happiness and that she must move on if she had any such hopes for herself?

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

As he finished the fastenings of his costume, he glanced at the portrait atop the trunk. She had been captured by the photographer as an ethereal angel, her hair wisping about her like a halo, her eyes sparkling, laughing. He would never be able to look at her or even an image of her without feeling a pang of… well, it wasn’t anger or sadness or resignation. What was it? Hunger. And not just a physical hunger, but a longing for home and comfort and acceptance. He had felt that with her. He thought his home was with her, wherever they were. Then he cruelly was awakened from his dream and learned that it had been an illusion. Love had not been enough.

“Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.”

As Kierkegaard walked home in the gathering night, he could feel the dampness on his collar from her tears. Could still hear her heartbreak in her cries and pleas. His only lament was that the contentment offered and taken for granted by so many would never be his to enjoy. He was to carry his burdens alone. He was fit to share of himself if not physically, then with ideas. This was his connection to the living, as well as a balm to himself. He had left her with some sadness, but he knew it was not the lasting depression he would carry. He actually felt a strange lightness with each step he took. He thought of her happiness and freedom. He had felt selfish tethering her to his world of despair. Now she was free. And maybe he could be as well.

“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself.”

Her picture reminded him of when the spangles were shiny, the signs smelled of wet paint, and his own outlook was new. With time, the costumes grew tattered. The signs weathered. He saw behind the glitter to the grime of the show. He sat and watched some young trapeze artists practicing and wondered at their incessant energy. He noticed the young men strutting through their rehearsal for the benefit of some young girls who were watching and giggling nearby. He didn’t think he had ever been that young and silly. Then of course he thought of her. Of the stupid tricks he had tried to impress her. It worked awhile. Had he gotten complacent? Taken her for granted? He shook off the thoughts that would have him contorted in his own head, as he had a hard time untwisting his thoughts.

“How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have; they demand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.”

She was often in his thoughts, and as their worlds were small and their society a shared space, he saw her now and again. For him, there was no other. She was to remain his ideal. He wondered at the ease of keeping her at a distance. Was he being a coward at trying not to explore his depth of feeling for her? Was it a mistake to retreat into his quest for knowledge? Was it retreating or fulfilling a destiny to dissect his philosophy? Was that then to be his fate? To question absolutely everything from every angle and at times argue with himself? Kierkegaard wrote several pieces each with its own voice and then had the voices interact. Since it seemed a crowded space between his ears, he thought that meant there was no room to let in his heart as well.

“The Absurd is to act upon faith… I must act, but reflection has closed the road so I take one of the possibilities and say: This is what I do; I cannot do otherwise because I am brought to a standstill by my powers of reflection.”

He had only a few moves left in his routine. He could barely recall the last fifteen minutes. It was all rote. He focused on his body and the wonderful feel of muscles twisting as he curled, balancing a flag on his foot while holding himself up on one arm. He could smell sawdust, popcorn. As he bent backwards, he looked at the floor and saw patterns- matted shoe-print webs of cotton candy and soda. He was reminded of how her face looked after she cried, her makeup running, following the curve of her face. She would walk out and put down roots in a town somewhere and he would continue on the road, marking seasons by new acts and costumes. He knew he’d never make it at a job that required he wear a tie and sit still. He knew he could have talked her into staying, but she deserved the home she longed for. He spun and landed on his hands, his feet dangling over his face. Through his mask he looked to the patched tent. Was that her in the shadows? Did she come back, choose their transience over establishing roots? He fluidly maneuvered his body, his thoughts now only on her. He realized in a moment that he would take her at any cost. Ignoring his speeding heart and increasing breath, he hurried and lost his timing a fraction; no one caught the music and his movement being a hair off. He knew he would find her waiting for him outside so he skipped a few steps to reach his grand finale. His hands reached for the platform. He faltered. Slipped. The colors and faces and lights and laughter and gasps swirled together as he fell.

“What wine is so sparkling, what so fragrant, what so intoxicating, as possibility!”

Kierkegaard felt his time drawing to a close. Too soon. Was he not allowed more time to explore his ideas? He had so much to share. He saw her again. They were tender, quiet moments. She could ride into her own future and he would pass into fame with death. She had helped him grow to be a man who sought and found some answers. In return, he let her go so she could flourish. His release was lightness washing over him. No more worries. Love encircling him.

The man was wrapped in some canvas and was placed in his wagon. She walked by the acrobats and clowns and trapeze artists, not meeting any eyes, but looking ahead. She walked into the still, dark room and saw his hand atop the canvas. She did not move further. Just looked at the hand. Remembered how warm it felt, and how the callouses tickled when it held her, how it cut through the air when he talked, and how it clenched when he was worried. It was open now. He was free. Maybe she could be as well.