Death and Politics at the end of the world

(This is the next section of my WIP 'Death and Politics at the End of the World'. The first chapter can now be found at the top of the page under it's own page it you want to catch up. It might be helpful to know that you are entering an otherworldly realm as you journey with my character. In my last post, I was asked what genre I was writing in. My response wound up being "Genre... think magical realism meets surrealism meets Quantum Physics meets my imagination and the authors who have influenced me (including Jeanette Winterson!") things happen that are out of the extraordinary at times so be prepared!! If you need to catch up, the first part is in the tabs at the top. In order to preserve some of the fonts I have saved them as png or jpeg files so they may be a little disconcerting... I apologize for that but there was no other way!)

II. Relative State
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Voices ping pong,“Crazy”… “Like who?...” “sad, but seems pretty clear…” “got to be nuts…””                                                            

frustrating, bi-bonk, irritating, mind numbing.

Cla-thinck.

“never had trouble…” “everybody loved her…”

                                                Think goddamn it. Does it sound like her?

                        “I just never would have thought…”           

                                                                        “just unbelievable…”

Take a few minutes… clu-chunk, out of your own stupid, pitiful lives

                                                listen to me… b-clonk…

            “And to go like that…”

Think through “answers” or lies meant to pacify and subdue. Oh my god…

if I could just…

“If we had only known…”

Damn it!…                              I should have said…

“She’s in a better place…”

what if she…                                                  too late

She’s gone.
A trapeze artist tilting…

                    swaying

I rise, shivering from arctic waters, stumbling onto fluid surface, the sharp edges of miniscule rock cutting my skin. The cusp of a stone catches my toe, causing a rush of blood that drips between my toes. I staunch the flow of blood 
and begin

to move forward.   

A force seems to 

footsteps eerily absent.

My fingertips slide along the wall

brailing—

a crevice,

up,                       

over,                            

down,                            

arm’s length wide,                                           

a finger’s niche…

a door…                                                                                                  push

A sudden electrical discharge blinds me. A way out! I brace myself, frantic to get out of the darkness. Push! An incision of light. The hinge refuses to give, entombing me in bible black. I drive forward. Another flash quickly quenched. I lean into the obstruction, desperate… PU-U-SH!!! then grip and rattle it in frustration ...

PULL!

7000 angstroms of radiance flood the room, piercing, tormenting the cornea. Unseeing, grappling forward, I timidly peer at reflected beams, walls sheathed with breastplates of drawers absurdly reflecting a distorted frame funneling to a single massive metal door.

Walls tip and sway  

The door’s protuberance anchors me. I tumble on. A forest of tubular chambers prevents reconnaissance or escape. Quiet movement draws my attention, drawing the focus further in.

Move!

A hollow hiss. Words?

Rising, an opaque pane floats overhead, framing familiar bloated water-washed features. “Alexandra.” More depth, higher timber “Alex” recalling a day on the beach, the tide rising, my tiny frame being tugged by the undertow, wanting to turn back, the surge pulling me further and further, my aunt’s frantic voice echoing my terror.

Shrieking her name, I scrape at the obscure seams that run the length of the metallic casket. Fingers throbbing futility, I crumple onto its cool surface.

A thunderous resonance fills my ears, confounding my senses. Snatches of phrases, float toward me, the strange syllables inexplicably intelligible “… kahee-nos' ktis'-is (no longer who she was) … ow-then-teh'-o (under Our authority) …hoop-om-en'-o (abide with Others)… hice al-lay'-lone mel'-os (she belongs with the Others)… “ktis'-is kahee” (she is no longer).  I seek my aunt’s familiar warmth only to face a macabre mask.

Out!

I need…

            … out.

I stumble,

then

            slip

                        and fall,

the floor dissipates

                                    beneath me.

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Also! a little political blogging on political scene in Wisconsin at Meanderings of a Wandering Mind!!! 

Coming back to life

It crept up on me like the Creeping Terror that landed in Somewhere*, USA. It had probably begun some years earlier as I reflect back on those years, possibly even in high school considering my penchant for tanning as soon as the sun was warm enough to create a rosy glow on my pasty skin, but the Winter of '94 was the one where I recall the darkness of soul finally overtaking me, dragging me down so that days were fog-filled and relentlessly wearing. The practicalities of two kids (plus homeschooling!) and home daycare (2 more, one an infant) were another detail that is impossible to describe as I really have no idea how I managed or they survived. I slept when they slept and stumbled through the waking hours of lunches and snacks, lessons and care giving for several months until it became apparent to even the most neglectful of souls that I was withering. 

But the darkness could not just be shaken off. It was a cool, wet spring and the apartment we lived in had only one or two windows that faced north (never have a house facing north in northern climates. You don't see the sun for the entire winter and your walks are always icy!). Summer had almost made it's entrance before I felt the fog finally lifting, the sun was warming the earth, and we'd just moved into a new house- a house with 21 windows and a backyard where I could sun and garden. It was over!!!

I thought I'd escaped the prison of my apartmental-driven darkness... Until the next winter, when the days shortened and the days grew cold and once again the lethargy and pensive mood swept in. Not as severe, most assuredly, thanks to the southern facing windows where I laid down in the afternoons, but there nonetheless. It wasn't until some time later, through conversation and reading, that I realized that I suffered from Seasonal Depression or SAD as it's occasionally called. Fortunately, the treatment is fairly simple, cheap, and for me, pleasant enough-- Sunshine! (which fortunately Denver has plenty of!) In winters, I learned to use the sunny side of the house and to throw open the blinds as far as possible so that sun shone on the spot where I read or studied. And once spring came, I was sunning myself outside as soon as it was warm enough to have my skin exposed to the sun without a chill. 

But winter is still not an easy time for me. The cold and shortened days drag at me, whispering to me of the days that I couldn't get out of bed without tremendous effort and then would lie back down as soon as I could. Some days, the chill is as real in the throes of my mind as it is my toes. I slog through winters with visions of warmer climates, a space heater close at hand, a blanket that goes where the space heater cannot, and plenty of bitching.

So perhaps you can imagine just how fun it was for me, to get out of bed on a day when it was 8 degrees below zero and face this... 

I'd driven my son to school and had the 16 mile drive to work. Traffic had come to a complete stand still and I sat in this spot long enough to become bored and start taking pictures. 

Aha! The hood of my new red car!!! 

 (I should have done some interior shots)

It took me twice my normal drive time (1 and 1/2 hours) to get to work that day... sigh

(I think I'm going to call the new car Flashheart... but I'm still debating)

Fortunately, February is as changeable as the wind... a few days later, we were back in the upper sixties and out on a walk. The day required little more than a jacket (if that) and this is the view over the pond as we walked on our path...  

I breathe a bit easier on sun drenched days like this, but I cannot relax. February sings to me of frigid temperatures and pending snow. Winter's refrain continues on, with only the briefest of choruses of warmth to tease me, before picking back up the bitter harmony of cold and shortened days.  

But with each step on this path we are trooping closer to March. Each day is a bit longer and the sun sits higher in the sky. The oxygen indeed does begin to loosen in the lowest parts of my lungs when I walk outside at 6 p.m. and realize there is  the faintest remnant of the sunset in the western sky! 

Then to see (oh glorious sight!) the first buds on the trees, lightly beating the cadence to a new song.  

And to look down at my feet as the Ides of March skips ever closer, the first signs of new life that have been lying dormant for low these many months...

Crocuses! 

The first flower of the season, pushing their way past the winter-dead grasses and weeds toward the sunlight. As anxious as I to feel the life giving warmth of spring, these small flowers will not survive through Easter (the species here mostly fade back into the ground as new growth takes their place). They will survive spring blizzards and introduce the melody of warm earth with bold coloratura.

The first signs of new life. The first sign of having made it past the darkness that is winter...

 

*I don't actually know the name so Somewhere is as good as any, right?

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Hilarious video with a little social commentary (or a lot, depending on how you look at it) at Meanderings of a Wandering Mind

Moments beyond words

There are moments when words fail, when anything you try to say or express will only marginalize the feelings that you have. Or you are simply unable to express any kind of feeling because the feelings are too strong. It may be a glorious sunset which chokes the emotion and stifles your voice. Sorrow too can bury words so deeply that they are unable to find their way to the surface.

It is one such moment that we witness in this week's episode of Key West. In 'The Greening', three separate story lines tell of the character's moments of reckoning. Though it is not the show's most sterling of quarter hours it still manages to show an intention for maturity that surpasses the average "this-is-how-we-have-a-perfect-life-in-forty-five-minutes" television formula. For Seamus, his high school buddies come to town and attempt to lure him back to the life of "streaking and mooning... passing out together" and as the Sheriff wisely points out, for your friends "much sowing is left to be done". For Savannah... (the moon goddess I introduced in a prior post) she meets her knight in shining armor only to recall that the life he offers is not synchronous with the life she lives. For both, there is a moment where who they are stands out in stark contract against what is being offered. And in spite of the seduction of this other life, they have to be true to themselves and honest with the people they love (or are falling in love with, in Savannah's case) and say farewell.

But in a third narrative, the city's mayor is having a reckoning of her own. As an audience in the know, we learned in first episode of the season that the soon-to-be Mayor Chaucy Caldwell is an alcoholic. Although her opponent's homosexuality is used as fodder for political gain, her secret is kept safe from public scrutiny. And for this once television reflects real life, the mayor's alcoholism doesn't disappear (hear that Charlie Sheen???) from view. She wants so badly to just live life- have a beer while watching  a football game or celebrate with a glass of champagne on New Year's Eve- that she has a drink. Not a big deal right? Unfortunately a drink is not a drink for an alcoholic and Chaucy is headed for a crisis. After her Aid confronts her and she leaps into denial (not the river!), she finds herself alone with a bottle of Cromart whiskey and a glass. She knows who she is and what alcohol can do to her life but she also knows how badly she wants a drink. So here is her moment...

Not a word is spoken as she curls up on the couch, bottle snuggled closely to her chest, tears and the inner conflict between what lies behind and what is ahead...

Death and Politics at the end of the world

(This is the next section of my WIP 'Death and Politics at the End of the World'. The first chapter can now be found at the top of the page under it's own page it you want to catch up. It might be helpful to know that you are entering an otherworldly realm as you journey with my character. In my last post, I was asked what genre I was writing in. My response wound up being "Genre... think magical realism meets surrealism meets Quantum Physics meets my imagination and the authors who have influenced me (including Jeanette Winterson!" things happen that are out of the extraordinary at times as a sort if so be prepared!! If you need to catch up, the first part is in the tabs at the top!)

Relative State

            If life were fair, the missing person would not be the genteel, affable woman who nourished the population of Key West. The MIA would be the detective in charge of the investigation. Alas…

His bearing is an uncomfortable parfait of govinator and Looney Toon stutterer as he ambles up to the veranda where we foxhole against the sun’s intense onslaught, the jaunty entrance invading our grief, faux royalty denying bona fide poverty. Hand outstretches, I reach out only to have his cool, dry foreignness enfold mine, a too-familiar caress pumps gently up and down, all the while eyes train on Dave, as the two exchange perfunctory greetings and my uncle asks for an update for my benefit as he slips to unawareness, clearly word weary.

“It does seem strange…” Nothing but the facts ma’am nothing but the facts … words hum, a noxious plethora of nothingness. “…but it appears she jumped over the bridge around twelve-thirteen Sunday night.” He completes the briefing, an anthropomorphic auto-attendant.

            “Did you fi--- where was she?”

            “The body?” He glances at the air over my head, then back at my uncle.

            “Body? My aunt.” I bite off the words, chafed at the reduction.

            “We haven’t found the body… yet,” His voice begins again, regurgitating evidence, snatches getting past the inner protests raging in my ear. “witnesses…”

            You don’t know crap! Idiot!

            “Left a note…”

A God-damned catechism

 “searched the perimeter…”

            We believe in

            “no trace”

            God the Father

            “no reason not to believe”

            The son and the…

            “it was suicide”

            “Holy shit!” A detonation of silence stiffens the room, then yields a mushroom cloud of resentment. “You cannot possibly believe that my aunt- Louisa Jean Cook- could possibly… She’s got a great life, a husband who adores…”

            “Your uncle tells me you’re a scientist?” Infuriating speciousness.

            “What has that got to do-”

            “Then you understand the difference between inference and actual data …” Condescending, patronizing presumptive pedagogue. “blah, blah-seem one thing-blah, blah-never know blah, blah get all the testimony-blah, blah- dope points to, blah.”

His Reaganesque “facts” were irrelevant. I am not one of those shell-shocked women who scream and cry out, refusing to correlate gun with hand, only later recognizing dark moods, caliginous silences, emotional meltdowns: Precursors of destiny. My eyelids lower, slowly shuttering out the incongruent, incompatible scene.

“blah- so very sorr-blah, blah …” There might have been a condolence amidst the disembodied syllables but it was lost in his candy-coated southern drawl.  “Best be going.”

Moving toward the door, the bereaved husband’s arm valanced the lawman’s shoulder as though he were the one in need of comfort, his low voice reassuring, even apologetic as he thanked him for his visit. The two men clasp each other gingerly, then turn to face their lives, one man’s stride cocky and insolent, the other ponderous and dilatory.

Words float back as he reaches his patrol car. “I’ll put ya’ll on the prayer chain. God doesn’t give us more than we can bear, but this is difficult, I know.”

I long to race into the yard to give an impromptu seminar for the protist on protocol, human relations and… “religious sensitivity!”

“He’s only trying to be helpful, Alex.” My uncle’s eyes hold a gentle reproach, then settle back to enveloping sorrow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to… I wasn’t… He shouldn’t say that shi... To assume… helpful?! … What an ass… unprofessional. It’s wrong!”  Vocal chords compress producing a raucous graunch. “If there was a god…”

A death mask faces me and my soaring passion hits the ground, wings abruptly clipped. “People do the best they can,” He recedes into unoccupied space. “Doing the best I… we can…” He wanted consolation, consideration, rather than the breaking storm of skepticism. The endeavor of inhaling, exhaling, heart pumping, limbs moving are all he can sustain, the added weight of my turmoil too much.

“You don’t really think… it’s impossible, not her at all. You don’t believe it?”

“Yes, What choice? I don’t know. No. I never would have thought, it’s not something she’d do, never in a thousand years… But it’s there, her last words. She loves,” He disappears into the framework of their memories. “loved. She loved me…” The final words float back, nearly absorbed in the gulf’s tender breath, as he lumbers up the front steps of the small conch home the pair shared for over half their lives.

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Don't forget to check out Meanderings of a Wandering Mind! I've written a blog featuring our favorite (but missing) MSNBC political commentator, Keith Olbermann! "He's Back!"