Keep on Working

 

Every September for the past several years, I have posted hyper-enthusiastic posts regarding my annual vacation time spent attending the annual visit to Portland by the LPGA (Ladies Professional Golf Association).  Except for last year.  Last year, I was hobbled too much by my medical condition, the tournament was moved to a terrible location and it was mostly rained out.  I did try to attend one day, but the course was simply too hilly.  It was upsetting, but I kept telling myself: next year.

Everything started falling in to place.  The tournament is set to return to its usual location at Columbia Edgewater CC and return period.  A new sponsor has signed on (AmazingCre – whatever that is), and the field looks to be loaded with stars.  However, I am not ready.  Generally, I get involved for the entire week.  I have volunteered to caddie for the two Pro-Ams and attend from dawn until near dusk all four rounds of the tournament.  I genuinely love it.  Perhaps too much!  Every year, I realize that I feel truly at home out there and feel great!  It makes me giddy!  I have always been able to overcome my physical limitations and push through and walk those hills repeatedly in the sunshine.  I had considered buying what they call Champion’s Club tickets (which are like luxury box seats in an arena (food and beverages are provided), but these seats overlooking the final hole are now too expensive for me to consider, even though I have bought them in the past.  I most enjoy following and rooting on my favorite players as they make their way around the course, but had considered the Champion’s Club seats as an alternative due to my current disabled state.  Unfortunately, they priced this particular riff raff out of the market, and the realization that the walk from the adjacent field parking lot to the golf course would likely be too difficult.

Now, on the eve of the tournament, I find myself truly lost.  I don’t carry cable TV anymore, so I will miss the TV coverage and I won’t get to see the golf and the trials and triumphs that take place everywhere on the course.  It is depressing.  To most, it likely sounds silly.  Yet to me, it’s emblematic of where I am now.  So much of who I am and what I do, or have always done, is gone.  Live music?  Gone.  I know there are ways to make some of these things happen, but it is all just too much for me to handle at this point.  I’m in mourning for what I used to be able to do and have not yet figured out what’s next.  I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression and this event that I always find so important and so rejuvenating has slipped through my hands for a second year in a row.

Next Year.  There’s always next year.  Gotta keep on working.

Apathy and Exhaustion

I’d like to think that it all went wrong on one dramatic day late last summer.  It would be nice to blame all of my troubles on that dreaded day, but the reality is that things began to slip long before that and it’s become a free-fall ever since.  What happened last summer?  Nothing special really.  I spent a nice morning with a woman who I had grown very fond of over a couple of months and after taking her to lunch as a thank you for helping me with some work; I made my big move and asked her out on a date.  The general response to the few times I have built up the nerve to ask such an outward and potentially life changing question of someone has always been some kind of awkward silence followed by a polite dismissal.  I am used to this and pretty much expect it.  This day was no different, and even though I should be used to being turned down, it is still disappointing and discouraging.  So, I found myself back in my office at work a few minutes later trying to figure out what I did wrong, when I received a phone call from my doctor.  She was contacting me to inform that my latest labs (blood tests) showed that my transplanted kidney was being rejected.  It was a ten minute stretch that I didn’t need.  It’s strange to think that day had held such promise.

The funny thing is that those two rejections no longer particularly bother me.  The kidney issue was resolved through a few changes in medication and a lot of labs and expense.  This process wasn’t easy, but things are back in control and have been for some time.  The other rejection?  Well, that one stings, as most of them do, but that pain mostly fades with time, despite the acute loneliness that such rejection leads to.

So I keep asking myself why I still feel so damn terrible all of the time.  I didn’t realize it then, but I think something turned inside of me a few months before the double rejection day.  The hope of winning the heart of a lovely, intelligent and driven woman was only a distraction that gave me temporary motivation.  Maybe it started when I decided I wanted to move from my apartment in the ‘burbs back into the city where I feel I belong - nearer my dwindling social life.  So, as my lease drew closer to expiring, I started to shop around.  In the meantime, I began the process of getting rid of things.  I discarded, recycled, or donated boxes and boxes worth of stuff that I had unwittingly collected over the years.  I made those tough decisions about several items that I’ve generally held onto over the years for sentimental reasons.  This time, most of those things were discarded.  It was time to change and simplify my life – to move forward.  This felt positive.  Along the way though, I seemed to have discarded many of my things and a big part of myself.  Many of my interests and hobbies – the things that have kept me distracted, entertained and inspired all of these years seem to have gone missing.  It’s like I’ve lost interest with everything I’ve always enjoyed.  Some of my extended family and co-workers call me “the golf guy,” yet I have only played one work-related round of golf in nearly two years, and I do not have any inclination or desire to play anytime in the future.  At the end of the 2013 season, I gave up my Portland Timbers tickets after 12 years of rabid fandom and have barely paid any attention to the team since.  I use to mainly write short stories and fiction when the urge struck, and enjoyed the feeling of creating and always felt a sense of accomplishment upon completion – well done or not.  Nowadays, my writing has been almost solely focused on promoting the music I love, which feels increasingly hollow and pointless (it’s not as though I command any kind of audience to spread the word anyhow).  This process lacks the creative spirit of the artists that I admire and that I so used to crave to emulate.  I’ve even found my lifelong passion for music on the wane.  It’s as though I’ve heard too much.  I’ve begun to question whether or not I am stuck in a rut as I listen to long-time favorites, or newer bands who remind me of music of days past, but very little seems truly new anymore.  Am I really seeking out new directions and branching out, or am I rehashing my teens and twenties over and over again?  Am I simply stuck on repeat?

I feel silly providing these examples of my current listlessness.  They are all unimportant, mundane and simple individually.  However, I’ve begun to notice that they are emblematic of a problem that I do not fully understand.  None of these things have progressed consciously.  It’s as if a trap door has opened beneath me.  It’s as though during my effort to simplify and improve my life by tossing away extraneous bits and pieces, I’ve thrown myself away.  I’ve blown out my pilot light.  I’ve lost my fire.  I’ve lost my ability to live.  I’ve become what I’ve always fought against.  I’ve become an automaton.  For example, I’m allowing my job – something I’ve always tried to keep from defining my person – to frustrate and confound me.  Every day feels like an impossible, frustrating and endlessly stressful trudge uphill with no hope of ever accomplishing anything.  It’s become a trap - a steeper hill to climb each day.  I’m stuck in a perpetual cycle of living paycheck to paycheck with a carrot dangling in my face promising something better on the horizon.  Only that something never materializes, no matter how hard I try to reach it.  Yet, I keep trying until my batteries run out.

I’ve been through a lot of difficult times in my life.  Everyone has, and as with anyone, I’ve faced life’s challenges and muddled my way through one way or another, but for some reason, this time, I do not know what to do.  I am at a loss.  Maybe, I’m simply exhausted.  For much of my life I’ve focused my energy to do battle against an ugly genetic disorder (VHL) and the multiple surgeries that I’ve endured.  Now that I’ve been fairly stable for the better part of ten years, the tiniest little thing these days can come along and knock me out – blown over like a feather.  The lingering effects of those battle scars have taken their toll.  I struggle with the concept that I’ll never feel truly physically well again.  And I don’t mean in the ‘I’m getting older’ kind of way, though that is very real.  I am in real physical pain all of the time, which leads to sleepless nights and way too much time to dwell on my shortcomings and the people that I miss and who I’ve lost.  I don’t want to lose anyone anymore.  I don’t know if I can deal with it again.

It’s time to find a direction to re-ignite that pilot light, but I do not have a clue what it would be, or what it could entail.  I’m not struggling to decide which fork in the road to take, because I’m no longer on a road of any kind.  This must be my so-called mid-life crisis.  I don’t really know what that means.  Maybe it’s the side effect of spending years and a lot of effort trying to achieve those dreams of youth and never quite doing so.  Maybe it’s the realization that those dreams were doomed to fail from the get go and there is no plan B lying in wait.  I’m tired of facing these challenges on my own.

As of now, I am trying to schedule small short-term activities each week that I can look forward to.  These are proverbial baby steps.  The hope is that one day I will once again find my stride and start moving towards positive goals that fuel and instill me with a reason to live and breathe and to feel like I’m worth something.  This feels an insurmountable task.

Letter to Hope

I have referenced it several times over these many posts over the years, either via journal style entries or through short stories, but the early 90s was a terrible time for me. Besides dealing with my own fairly serious health crises, I lost my mom to cancer, lost two friends to suicide, and frittered away what may have been my best shot at love. It didn’t help that this all went down during the emotionally charged age of the early twenties, when pretty much everything that happens in life seems way more epic and significant than it really is due to a lack of experience crossed with heavy doses of uncertainty while trying to find a direction with life. These are things that we all experience.


The main way I have always chosen to deal with personal crisis is to turn to music. It has always been my sanctuary. I rise with it when I am on a high, maintain with it when things are running along routinely, and wallow with it when times turn rough. Writing about Jawbreaker with the previous post (Ache), a lot of those powerful and dark memories that coincided with that band’s existence have returned to the forefront of my thoughts. So too has much of the music that I discovered during my efforts to track down every single song that Jawbreaker released. Not only did that great band release four amazing albums, but they routinely put some of their best songs onto different punk compilations from around the country, so I had to track those down too. It was through these that I ran into the frighteningly prolific and always thought provoking J Church (from the legendary 17 Reasons Mission District 7” boxed set), the tumultuous buzz saw shred of Radon, the politically fueled Strawman, among many others. However, it was hearing the early Husker Du - like magic of Spoke’s “Descant,” (from the 1993 Allied Records’ amazing compilation: Music for the Proletariat) that inspired me to check out more from them and would lead me to find great solace, comfort, and joy in their words and sounds (little did I know then, that I already had this song on a spilt 7” that came sleeved in a comic book from a year or so prior).

It’s always a little discouraging when you get all excited to listen to a new CD from a newly discovered band and the credits in the little booklet state this about the band: “Spoke was Chuck Horne, Scot Hagel, and Jonathan Resh.” Sadly, by the time Spoke’s first CD Done, a 1994 collection of their three 7” singles and a couple of compilation offerings, the band had split. This is a massive shame, because these early recordings from this Florida trio show a huge amount of promise. All three members sing and write songs and this versatility is what seems to drive my love of punk rock trios (which would be a list way too long to bother to provide). Done, as a whole is, not surprisingly, a little scattershot, considering that it’s a compilation of their earliest songs. The metal tinged opener “Anithistamine,” which makes using an inhaler for an asthma attack sound like breathing in napalm on a battlefield (“clenched fists grind down abraded eyes”) before relief finally comes (“I cannot prove how my misery’s removed”). Similarly, “Harsher Winds Fall” and “Crushed” come along later in the proceedings with a striking metallic influence, which isn’t really my thing, but they are decent songs. “Harsher Winds Fall” addresses the sad fact that racism continues to be an issue in these times over some tight riffage, while “Crushed” is a short burner with abstract words that effectively convey the feeling of being trampled by someone you hold dear. Other than these small examples of a metal side, Spoke seem to have brought to the table more of a punk rock aesthetic. Their heartfelt and sometimes roughly played songs remind me of the early Lemonheads as fronted by Ben Deily (Spoke was also recorded by Tom Hamilton, who recorded those first three Lemonheads releases) and when Jonathan Resh takes over the lead, he has a gruff, yet spot on vocal style that reminds of Bob Mould during his Husker Du years (check out the chorus of “Prey” or the aforementioned “Descant”). What really made these guys always stand out for me amongst the rolling drums fills, buzzing guitars and mid range exploratory bass lines they provide are their powerful lyrics. Having said that, there are two instrumentals, “Mareado” and “You & Joy” that are downright harrowing and exhilarating. They tackle politics (“Descant”), racism (“Harsher Winds Fall”), religion (“Prey”), prostitution (“Dark City Sister”), and of course many matters of the heart. Just try to get the repeated refrain from the wistful love song “Just a Thought” out of your head (“she’s a rose in a pond of water”).

Luckily, Spoke left us with an actual debut album All We Need of Hell (the title fittingly taken from the Emily Dickinson poem “Parting”) that was also released posthumously in 1994. The liner notes provide that two of the songs included were written in memory of two different people lost and that loss is reflected all over this massive 19 song album. It is those two heart wrenching songs that provided the understanding comfort I needed to help with my losses. “Letter to Hope” instantly became one of the most powerful songs in my collection with its poetic imagery, swiftly shuffling music, and Resh’s mournful, angry and lost vocals. Just hearing the song now makes tears well up in my eyes (“and though I still stand unresolved / and though her world came to an end / and though she can’t be seen again / the ink bleeds forth from the pen of what once was / I’ll soon send my letter to hope”). Likewise, “Lil,” the other tribute, uses sparse lyrics to create a powerful scene of uncomfortable uncertainty (“close the light / but I don’t want to go to sleep / pace in circles / talk to myself”) over nervous and naked guitars before exploding in a cascade of frustrated noise after the narrator decides to self medicate to ease the pain (“behold the scythe / it tears a patched quilt of life / let’s spill the medicine and drink down good night”). The musically similar “80 Percent” (a song that provides an imaginary soundtrack opening for a short story I wrote: Kim the Waitress) powerfully addresses regret over a failed relationship with some serious self realization (“but I know an assurance of perpetual love was quite impossible / when only 80 percent of what she wants can I fulfill”). I’m not sure what it is, but I seem to be drawn to emotionally devastating songs, but their impact on me often is increased in a punk rock framework. Maybe it helps to swallow the rough message when it’s combined with some sense of release. The busy “My Eyes” arches and races through it’s tempo, but still smacks you across the face with a scene of inner turmoil for the narrator as he encounters someone who has used him, but he still yearns for their love (“my soul’s been yours to lose / my feelings fall to you / so what will you do? / I want to see you all the time”), while the wistful and dreamy “Crazy” finds joy with the early stages of a relationship (“I have lost all control of my heart of which you stole”). The powerful short story inside of the “Celebrated Summer”-like “Porch” seems to introduce us to some lifelong friends who are ready to embark on their life’s travels (“and the world spins on axis with little assurance for us all / but the steps between our home and the cold world bridge each day in time”), while the hard charging “Ruptured Seam” allows some real catharsis within its ranting toward breakdown in two minutes. This album is not all deadly serious. The opening instrumental “Sculpture” eases us into the odd “Gordon Johnson.” I’m not sure who he is, but according to the song “he blows.” Also, “Inga” opens with hysterical psychotic sounding laughter before merging into an atmospheric instrumental roll with haunting vocals expressing a longing for an inflatable doll. There are also two fine covers of two influential bands: Wire’s comeback song “Ahead” (1987) and a drastic reworking of Minor Threat’s “Salad Days” (1985). I could go on and on, but I will take a breath and relent. This is an amazing album that has been virtually unnoticed from its time of release and especially since, which is a tragedy. I am not doing it much justice here, but I urge you to give this short-lived band a try via their one time label No Idea Records. You can track down Done here and All We Need of Hell here.

Spoke "Letter to Hope"

Only in Dreams

Recently, I was lucky enough to see my first Dum Dum Girls show.  It turns out it was the finale of their big tour for their spectacular second LP Only in Dreams released early last fall.  It was a huge album for me and I wound up ranking it in my Top 5 for all of 2011 (#4 to be exact – see brief overview here).  I absolutely love their sound.  I have always had a soft spot for the 60s girl groups (I loved the Shangri La’s as a little kid!) and over the last few years a lot of great new music has been heavily influenced by these classic sounding pop groups.  I think it was the fun-loving Pipettes who first suckered me back into this exciting sound, but now we’ve got Best Coast, Vivian Girls, and The Ravonettes, among many others.  And the Dum Dum’s manage to capture that fun vibe and overhaul it with some updated punk energy and a huge amount of heart.  It’s a mix that makes me dizzy with delight. 

Normally, I do not spend a lot of time writing about all the shows I’ve seen over the (gulp!) last 27 years. I have seen hundreds upon hundreds of bands live and have cherished most of the memories along the way. The problem with writing about live music is that it’s fleeting. It’s a ‘had to be there’ sort of thing. Sure, it’s nice to get a feel of how a band might be perceived in a live setting according to a trusted music writer beforehand (maybe I could’ve avoided a few of the disasters I’ve encountered), but circumstances change from night to night – one never knows, unless they go check them out for themselves. I can be heard chattering on and on endlessly about the shows I see to my friends who choose to miss out – in order to remind them that they indeed MISSED OUT. This was definitely the case earlier this year when the occasionally reunited early 90s band Swervedriver rolled through town and blew the doors off the venue and exceeded my already high expectations from four previous experiences dating back over 20 years, or the angry Bob Mould show supporting Black Sheets of Rain in 1990, or that Echo and the Bunnymen show in ’88 after they’d had a spat with the club owner and proceeded to shred through a fiery set at the Starry Night, or that time that Jeff and I went ‘against the grain’ down in front at La Luna for Bad Religion in 1994, or that weird show at the Madrona Hill Winery that featured a bunch of Slumberland Records bands where I was smitten with the aggressive drumming of Amy Linton (who would later become a favorite with her mostly solo act: The Aislers Set) of the schizophrenic Henry’s Dress (also in ’94), or, or….

So, why am I writing about the Dum Dum Girls show? Maybe it’s because of all the shows I’ve attended over the years; this one has left me lost in a daze of a lingering sadness. I’ve experienced emotional moments before while seeing/hearing a gut wrenching song performed, but I left this show amongst a group of people giddy and energetic and satisfied with the elevating renditions of much of their catalogue, while I slowly strolled out melancholic and stunned. After parting ways with my accompanying friends and hearing the Only in Dreams CD continue its repeated rotation quietly in the background of the road noise during my drive home, I was on the verge of tears - fighting back an overwhelming urge to bawl my head off. What has made this especially powerful for me is that this feeling has not really dulled since the show nearly two weeks ago.

The Dum Dum’s bandleader Dee Dee Penny lost her mom to a fatal illness, since writing, recording and releasing her debut album (2010’s promising reverb drenched mostly solo home recording I Will Be) a fact that I neglected, or chose not to mention in my previous write up. I do not know Dee Dee, beyond her wonderful music, but I would imagine that she and her mom were incredibly close, since a picture of her mom graced that debut album, as well as a 2009 EP. By the results of her songwriting for the follow-up album, the one that was an immediate favorite last year, Only in Dreams, she was indeed very close to her mom. At least half of the songs on the album and I would argue that seven of the ten are directly about witnessing the effects of her mom’s illness and trying to cope with her passing. It is a heavy album. It is a sad album. It is an emotional and insightful look into the mind of someone trying to come to terms with the unanswerable questions regarding the pain, suffering and death of loved ones. It is absolutely heartbreaking.

The album starts out innocently enough, as the opening song “Always Looking,” picks right up with a moment of excitement from an early spark of a love affair. It’s loaded with energy and fire and handclaps and a refreshing surf guitar fill that carries the song. The second song and first LP single “Bedroom Eyes” comes in with a timeless sound and a serious aching for a loved one during a time of separation. Interestingly enough, the third song, “Just a Creep,” turns out to be a big kiss off. The handclaps and surf guitar return, but so does some spite (“poor thing / it must be hard / to be yourself each day”) as Dee Dee smoothly tells some creep off. Then, like most albums, we get bounced back to the longing love song. Much like the sentiment of “Bedroom Eyes,” this one finds another lonely moment, where Dee Dee is in need of loving company (“I can’t live without your warmth / I just wanna be adored / oh, I’d do anything to bring you home / tonight”).

This is where the album turns and it turns ugly. Five of the final six songs are painfully forthcoming and wallow in the freshness of deep sorrow - clearly the sorrow from losing her mom. Most people would not notice the bleakness within, as the songs continue to pound away with the same classic pop and finger snapping upbeat music, other than the epic, slow burning “Coming Down.”

The first song to get to me emotionally was also the first one that made my spine shiver, when I first heard Dee Dee’s voice trill during the closing moments of “Heartbeat (Take It Away).”  Here she pleads for an end to her sorrow and to find the strength to continue living life (“how can I tell myself / if I can’t tell anyone else / I’ll stick my thoughts on a shelf until tomorrow”).  This sentiment rings strikingly true for me, since when my mom passed, I could not talk about it at all for years.  My only coping mechanism was complete avoidance.  My only survival was to pretend that nothing happened (“Take it away…Where can I go where sorrow will not find me?”).

“Caught in One” is the opening song of side two and it begins with a nice sing along vocal, until we realize what we’re singing:

“Death is on the telephone

I lie and say she isn’t home

If only he would make a move instead

He sleeps in her bed…

“I waste away my days with you

I’d rather spend them like you do

All skin and bones

But in your eyes, I say to you

You’re still alive…

“You can tell me time will heal

But you don’t know the way I feel

I never had imagined death

Beyond the vague and cold last breath

But now I see his many forms

The way he builds up like a storm

And all the pain and all the sighs

The world I’m in…

My mother’s eyes”

“Coming Down” gives a reprieve from the sadness by giving us another break up song. This time it’s more dramatic as she seems to be leaving an abusive relationship. Instead of flippantly dismissing her victim like in “Just a Creep,” she gives us redemption by beautifully holding the note, and once again melting my heart, with the triumphant line “there I go!”


At first listen, “Bedroom Eyes” felt like a ‘missing you’-style love song, but the more I listen to this album, the more it feels like a precursor to the more open and stabbing “Wasted Away.” The belting and gut wrenching line “fear I’ll never sleep again” on the bridge of “Bedroom Eyes” can take on a different urgency when interpreted through the eyes of the album as a whole. “Wasted Away” meanwhile, presents us with the frankness of Dee Dee sifting through her mom’s possessions, while struggling with the idea of losing her memories of her mother and the guilt of not being able to take her pain away while she was still alive. It’s absolutely crushing and the onslaught continues on unabated with the penultimate song “Teardrops on My Pillow”:

 

“My nightmares have a sudden tone

It’s dangerous to be left alone

I wander blindly through my fears

It’s strange and dark and you’re not there

Cause you’re gone

You’re gone…

“Heartbreak washes over me

Like moonlight soft I cannot see

I’m angry I recall your face

Now there’s nothing in its place

Cause you’re gone

You’re gone”

“Hold Your Hand,” the old fashioned sounding closing ballad, tries to wrap up the messy and irresolvable feelings that come about from such loss by proclaiming that “You’d do anything to bring her back … Oh, I wish it wasn’t true, but there’s nothing I can do / except hold your hand / ‘til the very end.” 

I think the live show brought this emotional trauma into focus for me.  Up to that point, despite knowing all of the sadness inside these songs, I had managed to still listen to the songs and bop my head around and sing along without a care in the world.  It must have been seeing Dee Dee sing some of these horrifyingly tragic documents in person that brought everything to a head.  Seeing the pain in her eyes as she sang these hurtful words, after so many performances in so many cities around the world, led me to absorb the sheer power of her expression.  There were moments while I stood amongst the crowd and with friends – near the front – I was overcome.  I felt like I was a sponge that could only soak up sadness.  The Dum Dum Girls came and ripped my heart out, stomped on it repeatedly and shoved it back in with no expectation for recovery.  And yet, I wouldn’t trade that experience for the world.  The show wasn’t doom and gloom at all.  They played all kinds of songs from their early material, all of which sounded much improved from the recorded versions with the full band.  They played a short burst of a song that I did not recognize that I am hoping beyond all hopes is new material, because it was stunning!  Then during the encore, they pulled out an amazing cover (damn these gals have great taste!!) of the old Pale Saints tour de force “Sight of You,” which put a huge grin across my face as I felt that  irresistible bass-line vibrate through my chest.

This was a cathartic experience.  It has opened up all kinds of lingering emotional wounds from when my mom passed away so long ago now.  I miss her today as much as I did when we first lost her.  It has made me realize that I am still avoiding and not addressing my grief.  This lingering sadness from what is normally a celebratory experience has forced me to reflect and stew and to look inside my heart and to make an effort confront my sorrow.  This music has given me an understanding voice that I can relate to and that I can learn from.  This is the power of music.  Oh, and by the way, if you weren't there, you MISSED OUT.

photo by Nicki @ Doug Fir Lounge 5/27/12

Thank you Stephanie

The Book of Love

Yesterday, I made a half-hearted attempt at trying to sort through the stacks and stacks of stuff I have allowed to pile up in my place. By sorting, I really mean purging. The goal is to get rid of it all. This will not ever happen, but I like to believe that it will. After dumping a bunch of useless paperwork, I tried tackling a box of my old writing. As I’ve mentioned before, I have random notebooks and loose sheets of paper piled in drawers and boxes, crammed with handwritten writing efforts. This is when I discovered a little yellow sheet of paper crumpled up and smashed into the corner of the box I was going through. It was not titled. Since I have been unable to get myself to write at all in recent times, I thought I’d share this scattered thought from my past, which may have been a rough draft as an intro for an old issue of the “This Wreckage” ‘zine. I know I did not use it. Clearly, I came to my senses.

“I’m only pulling pieces
From the pages of my former life
Stiff and wrinkled paper
Written in a different time
Are you gonna cross the line?”
- Corin Tucker, 2010

Being careful. No, you did not want to hurt her. You left no traps. Only an open door. Biting your tongue and smiling through the pain. Everything is perfect in here. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is happy.
Being too careful. Being someone different, because what you are is not enough. Nothing will last from this. Everything built on a foundation of lies.
Nothing works. Relationships are always doomed to fail. Fear, lies, miscommunication, misunderstanding and then, finally, truth. Inevitably, truth is the end. It’s really sad too. The simple delusions we put ourselves and others through.
Nothing works. Failure can appear from nowhere. All feels fine. All feels good. All feels right. No. Let’s screw it up. Let’s walk away.
Sometimes I wish I knew someone who believes in things spiritual. I don’t believe and I can’t (this person would disregard this). I wish I could be convinced that there is a plan, because I do not like what I see. I do not like what I feel.
Sometimes I get so anxious that a big ball wells up in my throat making it difficult to breathe. My lungs quicken, my hands clench into fists and my heart pounds erratically. This feeling arises far too frequently these days and at times as disparate as being pulled over in my car by a cop to seeing what I think may be a cute girl wandering around a half mile away. But this feeling is strongest when I’m alone and wishing a girl who used to like me would pretend to again. It’s during these times when the feeling of regret becomes so overwhelming that I cannot fathom why I made such rash and harsh decisions without care for how this could affect anyone, especially me.
Last year, was easily the worst year of my life. Half of it was bad, due to my own stupidity. The other half: I had no control over. It scared the shit out of me. Three down and I was nearly the fourth. Things may have turned out better if I had. Maybe I should’ve gone. If only the nurses hadn’t acted so quickly. Maybe if a doctor had not been available. I never did like to make decisions for myself. It’s too hard.
Full circle now. I’m left feeling nothing these days. Not a damn thing. Empty. Hollow. Yes, that’s right, kind of like a relationship where one or both people has lost interest, yet they keep it going. Why keep it going? It’s going to fail anyway.
- May 7, 1992

The Promise

It was a late night back in the summer of 1991. My mom had come downstairs to talk to me. At that time she was very ill. Several months earlier she had both of her kidneys removed due to cancerous tumors as the result of a genetic disorder that had been passed to her from her mom, which was then passed on to my older brother and me. The biggest problem with her surgery was not because her kidneys had been taken, but that they were taken too late. The cancer had already spread into her renal veins and then into her lungs and spine. We didn’t know the extent of the damage on that night, but she knew that her time was limited. The reason for the late night talk was that she wanted me to promise her that I would always be diligent and stay ahead of our genetic syndrome. To always monitor the potential growth of damaging tumors and cysts throughout my body in order to avoid what had happened to her. Because the disorder had been discovered in our family when I was only 13, I didn’t have a choice when it came to making appointments for CT scans and X-rays. But in 1991, I was an adult, and recovering from traumatic series of surgeries. My brother had been an adult when he was first diagnosed and avoided keeping up with the progress of the disease, because he felt that if there were no symptoms there was nothing to worry about. Having been through numerous surgeries and procedures during my young life, and having to drop out of college before nearly dying that year, he was up in Seattle living a healthy and vibrant life. In other words, I could understand the appeal of his position and I think my mom sensed that. I agreed to her request anyway - knowing that she knew best.

Since that talk, I have kept up with my promise. My mom did not take care of herself, because she was too concerned about the health of her two sons. If she had made her check-up appointments the way she had always ensured that I did, she might still be here today. If my brother had followed her advice, he might not be in a wheelchair and struggling with the minutiae of daily life that we mostly take for granted. On the other hand, I am doing better now than I have in years, because of the early detection of problems through constant check-ups.

Yet, here I am today. I went to see my nephrologist today to make sure my transplanted kidney is doing well. It has been 4 ½ years since my transplant and life has been pretty good. The strange thing is that I didn’t partake as I usually do during my appointments. I didn’t tell her about the recent pains I’ve been having in the new kidney, or the sharp pain I sometimes feel in my abdomen. These things may be nothing, but this is becoming a pattern. I told her about my brain scan in March and that I was instructed to call the office for the results a few days later and that I still haven’t. I’m not sure what is going on, but I find that I don’t care to know anymore. I already know that I have (at least) five cysts in my head and that someday I’ll most likely have to have some surgeon drill in there and try and remove them. I just don’t want to think about it now. I am used to having bad headaches every day. I can wait till they get intolerable. While I was in the waiting room this morning, trying not to stare at my favorite receptionist, I was reading about how the radiation a body can absorb from a single abdominal CT scan equals 1.5 years worth of X-rays received from the sun. This doesn’t seem good to me considering that I am nearing my 90th CT scan this fall. This info just made me laugh. I've always wondered if these damn tests are what will eventually get me. I don’t know where my head is these days. I don’t know if it’s that I don’t care anymore, or if I am simply worn out by being on a leash to a team of specialists, or if I am afraid of losing the small bit of independence and health that I have received from this new kidney. That last one may be the problem. I know that I am sick of being sick. I have had it with pills and scans and tests and the endless medical expenses. Sometimes I like to make believe that I am healthy and strong and that I don’t have a huge crush on my nephrologist’s receptionist. It all seems so wrong.

High Heels

He stood in the front yard of her Mom’s house. No one was there. He had just arrived from her empty studio apartment downtown. Birds chirped and flitted about invisible to him within the piss smelling hedges. The sky was grey, but the air was warm and stagnant. All he could think about was burning down the simple white house and its dry flat lawn. He knew about what had gone on inside over the years and he blamed the entire neighborhood for not doing anything about it. As he stood in this quiet place, his stomach turned over itself and became a boiling pot of self-pity. He sat on the top of three stairs leading to the porch, filled with frustration, but feeling too weak from exasperation. The black painted wrought iron hand railing lining the stoop felt like bars to a cell and everything about this place made him feel empty and alone. He began to realize how horrible her memories really were and that she most likely would not have come here. But, she clearly was not coming back to her apartment, so now he didn’t know where to find her. He wanted to find her more than anything. He buried his face in his hands and began to think about the way her tiny hands would primp her crooked hairstyle, while she blushed for him. He pictured her in her old fashioned clothes, her cumbersome high heels and the way she would begin smoking with a cigarette holder, when she had too much to drink. She was playing the part of a 1940s movie star for him, and he found her adorable, like she was a young girl dressing up in her Grandmother’s clothes. When he first met her, the only thing that felt out of place was the sudden reluctance of his friends to hang out with him anymore and the ease with which he was able to ease her into bed. It had been only recently that his mind was telling him that something was not quite right. She had always seemed needy to him, but he appreciated that. He wanted to take care of her. She had been erratic and inconsistent during the short time he had known her, but her open and often raw emotions made him feel like he truly knew her. Yet the last time they were together, she was dramatically begging him to leave her alone. She was lying in his bed, in the dark, when he got home from work. He thought he saw bruises on her arms when he turned on a lamp. She began to cry hysterically and acted as though he was threatening her with violence, when he asked her about the bruises. He couldn’t deal with her, so he left and wandered the streets in an attempt to sort out the confusion and anger in his mind. Finally, he began to realize that she had blinded him. She had concealed herself behind her frequent laughs, her easy tears and her willing body. She was playing a role for him the entire time. This had been his first visit backstage. He finally realized that she needed help. He ran back to his apartment, only to find her gone.

Still in the yard of the home she grew up in, he stood up and paced back and forth imagining a confrontation that he regretted never having with her. His mind seethed with fury thinking about the emptiness that being near this place bore into him. Lost in his useless monolog, he was unaware that his arms were finally open to her. He was ready to help her and protect her for the first time. She had helped him from the first moment they had met, but he had never offered her anything but his own selfish desires. After several silent minutes, he stiffly and slowly walked away from the house and down the middle of the treeless street lined with identical one level houses. The spider's webs entangled in the stiff hedges were the only signs of life.

Country Mile

My back was against the door handle of the backseat of the car. The sizzling sound of the wheels on the wet blacktop outside irritated the inside of my ears. The green dashboard lights began to illuminate the interior of the car as the dusk darkened the sky. In the fading light, I watched the scrambling beads of water on the opposite window dance across the outside of the glass. The shapes stretched and expanded trying to break free from their constraints, but were unable to do so. Behind the action, the darkening sky was briefly brightened by a sliver of blue peaking in between the menacing autumn clouds and the green horizon they were moving towards. My legs were extended across the backseat and my feet were pressed firmly against the other door. I imagined her sitting next to me, where my legs were. I could see a smile forming at the corner of her mouth the way it always used to when she didn’t want to think I had done something funny. It had taken me a long time to realize that I really loved her, so I never told her. The last time I saw her, she was standing with a group of her friends. I had considered going over to say goodbye, but instead I nodded and exited, oblivious to the sadness in her eyes. The car rocked from a hole in the narrow two lane highway, knocking me out of my reflection. My stomach burned. I was going back home to regret.

****

The first time I remember feeling something different about her was years after we met. A lifetime. So long that I don't remember ever meeting her. She had always been there. This day was different. We were playing Connect 4 on the back patio of her mom's house in the shade. Our parents were sitting on the lawn in the sun drinking lemonade and talking about whatever. Being with her must have always been an indifferent experience - until that moment. Things had never been bad nor good when I was with her. I had been conscious of what everyone else was doing and what I was not. But, now, there we were at the table competing, which seemed to be our history. We had always played games. This time, I could not win a game. We were sitting on either side of a round patio table. I kept my gaze on the blurry textures of the glass table top. I was keenly aware of the towering dark green hedges surrounding the rectangular yard and of the slowly moving shadow of the house drifting across the lawn. I could not look at her, because I was afraid of my nervous confusion. She continued to laugh at my continuous demise and I would half-heartedly quote the bitter kid from the Connect 4 70s TV ads: "Pretty sneaky sis." This was the moment I first realized that I had become lost.

****

I followed a crack in the blacktop pathway. The incline stiffened the deteriorating joints in my legs, as I strained my neck upwards to see the top of the hill. I released a long exhale at the peak and released the tension that had built into my body and up into my temples. The low sun sat behind the seemingly endless rolling hills, making me believe or wish that there was no longer a civilization. At the same time, I felt like the tiny bumps of trees and clear cuts to the south were blocking something grand. I pondered this idea, but lost the thought while examining the shadows of the scattered pine trees dotting some of the hillsides. These shadows became the only thing in my vision that offered definition, yet they were ethereal. Those shadows aren’t really there. My mourning was tempered with pride and determination. I am better having known her.