Thursday, August 14, 2003
i can't find any good disks to put these on, and my CD burner is fucked. it's just dumb shit i've written for a few minutes at a time this summer, and i don't want to lose it because my computer catches more viruses than a whore on payday.
anyways, here you go, blogger.
Talking with him was like having a subconscious conversation about every mistake you’d ever made in your life.
His face was deceptively ordinary, his gaze disaffected but not overly bored. Neither did his eyes betray any hint of interest or whimsy - both rusty blue and glassy, each unremarkable and always fixated on something slightly behind and to the left of whomever he spoke to.
Her nervous energy flickered and flushed in ruddy streaks beneath the coats of makeup delicately braised across her sharp features. Without a wrinkle or laugh-line, she smiled and dazzled her audiences with practiced grace and slightly over-postured humility. Her words were tempered with deep breaths and intentional pauses, long studied efforts to disguise the effervescence and urgency of her unusually high voice. Unlike those of her companion, her eyes sparkled and stabbed, clawed, kicked and screamed to be noticed – to be heard above the quiet precision of her speech.
As the couple passed, the guy turned his head slightly and sent me the “I caught you watching her” look, which was funny because until that precise moment I’d been intentionally trying to avoid staring at them. I’d seen their approach from the other side of the crosswalk, pretending to be engrossed in reading the label of the soda in my hand as they drew near. Seconds later, both the guy and I had seized upon the same “is it safe?” instant to look up – he to see whether I was watching his girl, and I to see whether he thought I was watching her. We met glances and both looked away, but I was clearly the loser of the contest. As they disappeared into the crowd, I glowered the nutrition facts on my soda can, sure that he was sure that I’d been leering at her. I imagine that when I’m in the company of my girlfriend I give that look to people all the time, but in my narcissism I’m fairly confident that I’m not mistaken in assuming they’re staring at her. Who knows what they’re staring at. You only know what you know.
The air has the balsamic stink of lawn pesticide. Open garages leak the greasy smells of motor oil and wood chips; screen doors leak the tangy hues of mothballs and carpet-cleaner.
I assume that my father’s character weaknesses are discovered through exploring my own. I hear him talk about “the anglos” in reference to Americans and our foreign policy relationship with Cuba, and I imagine the self-satisfaction he must feel by empathizing with Cuban culture’s sentiment towards Americans, and the excitement he must feel by sharing it with an audience that he assumes, while of the same race and nationality as he, cannot relate to this point of view.
I assume these things about him because I can easily recall arguing with friends with the condescending zeal of taking positions they would not expect me to take or to be able to defend. And almost always, my points were made only in part because I believed them to be true – they were unfortunately equally exciting to me because I wanted to be seen making them.
Dying with dignity is a TV concept. Not all in our beds with the family doctor and concerned family waiting in nostalgic, courageous sorrow. Not looking out of our second story window at the oak trees in the yard, nestled beneath clean sheets and happy memories.
Her O.R. room was the size of a large bathroom, tiled with linoleum that curled slightly at the beige and baby-blue walls. Beyond a plaid curtain hanging from sliding rack along the ceiling, her bed sat somehow removed from the tepid glow of daylight filtering through tinted, closed windows. Charts and dry-erase boards cluttered the walls, some obscured by her I.V. stand and heart monitor. A scattering of personal effects were placed ceremonially on the hard plastic bed-table a few feet out of reach – a photo I didn’t recognize of two kids in winter boots, a wedding ring, a unopened book and a pair of thick brown-rimmed reading glasses. Shaded from the overhead iridescent glare by the thin cloth curtain, tucked away from the window and out of the light so that her sagging skin and deep-purple liver spots weren’t so noticeable at first glance, she lay partially propped against a bank of pillows, her eyes almost lost beneath the darkened creases and folds of her face. In the light, she is pale like skinny legs standing too long in cold water. She is spotted, pocked, falling off of herself somehow into the bed.
After a few minutes a nurse walks in and pulls the curtain to the end of its tether, and suddenly the room is smaller and darker and I am sitting on the windowsill looking at anything but the shape in the bed. A second family has entered the room, and an elderly woman is placed in the other bed, followed by eight or nine men, women, and children. They are in good spirits, and our quiet, staccato conversations cease with the onset of their clamor. One of the group - a skinny girl perhaps ten years old, dressed in a jean skirt, shiny tap shoes, and a white blouse - opens a backpack and pulls out a box of chicken and french fries. Her feet click on the linoleum as they all chatter and go about their business. As we are leaving, two of the children are standing with their backs to us, wiping their hands on our curtain because with all of their company and provisions they had forgotten to bring napkins. When we left she was asleep; or at least resting her eyes – letting her mind wander to better places; maybe to second floor rooms with nice views and family doctors, maybe to youthful arms and loving embraces, and maybe to nowhere in particular. I became very determined not to die as the elevator doors closed behind me.
anyways, here you go, blogger.
Talking with him was like having a subconscious conversation about every mistake you’d ever made in your life.
His face was deceptively ordinary, his gaze disaffected but not overly bored. Neither did his eyes betray any hint of interest or whimsy - both rusty blue and glassy, each unremarkable and always fixated on something slightly behind and to the left of whomever he spoke to.
Her nervous energy flickered and flushed in ruddy streaks beneath the coats of makeup delicately braised across her sharp features. Without a wrinkle or laugh-line, she smiled and dazzled her audiences with practiced grace and slightly over-postured humility. Her words were tempered with deep breaths and intentional pauses, long studied efforts to disguise the effervescence and urgency of her unusually high voice. Unlike those of her companion, her eyes sparkled and stabbed, clawed, kicked and screamed to be noticed – to be heard above the quiet precision of her speech.
As the couple passed, the guy turned his head slightly and sent me the “I caught you watching her” look, which was funny because until that precise moment I’d been intentionally trying to avoid staring at them. I’d seen their approach from the other side of the crosswalk, pretending to be engrossed in reading the label of the soda in my hand as they drew near. Seconds later, both the guy and I had seized upon the same “is it safe?” instant to look up – he to see whether I was watching his girl, and I to see whether he thought I was watching her. We met glances and both looked away, but I was clearly the loser of the contest. As they disappeared into the crowd, I glowered the nutrition facts on my soda can, sure that he was sure that I’d been leering at her. I imagine that when I’m in the company of my girlfriend I give that look to people all the time, but in my narcissism I’m fairly confident that I’m not mistaken in assuming they’re staring at her. Who knows what they’re staring at. You only know what you know.
The air has the balsamic stink of lawn pesticide. Open garages leak the greasy smells of motor oil and wood chips; screen doors leak the tangy hues of mothballs and carpet-cleaner.
I assume that my father’s character weaknesses are discovered through exploring my own. I hear him talk about “the anglos” in reference to Americans and our foreign policy relationship with Cuba, and I imagine the self-satisfaction he must feel by empathizing with Cuban culture’s sentiment towards Americans, and the excitement he must feel by sharing it with an audience that he assumes, while of the same race and nationality as he, cannot relate to this point of view.
I assume these things about him because I can easily recall arguing with friends with the condescending zeal of taking positions they would not expect me to take or to be able to defend. And almost always, my points were made only in part because I believed them to be true – they were unfortunately equally exciting to me because I wanted to be seen making them.
Dying with dignity is a TV concept. Not all in our beds with the family doctor and concerned family waiting in nostalgic, courageous sorrow. Not looking out of our second story window at the oak trees in the yard, nestled beneath clean sheets and happy memories.
Her O.R. room was the size of a large bathroom, tiled with linoleum that curled slightly at the beige and baby-blue walls. Beyond a plaid curtain hanging from sliding rack along the ceiling, her bed sat somehow removed from the tepid glow of daylight filtering through tinted, closed windows. Charts and dry-erase boards cluttered the walls, some obscured by her I.V. stand and heart monitor. A scattering of personal effects were placed ceremonially on the hard plastic bed-table a few feet out of reach – a photo I didn’t recognize of two kids in winter boots, a wedding ring, a unopened book and a pair of thick brown-rimmed reading glasses. Shaded from the overhead iridescent glare by the thin cloth curtain, tucked away from the window and out of the light so that her sagging skin and deep-purple liver spots weren’t so noticeable at first glance, she lay partially propped against a bank of pillows, her eyes almost lost beneath the darkened creases and folds of her face. In the light, she is pale like skinny legs standing too long in cold water. She is spotted, pocked, falling off of herself somehow into the bed.
After a few minutes a nurse walks in and pulls the curtain to the end of its tether, and suddenly the room is smaller and darker and I am sitting on the windowsill looking at anything but the shape in the bed. A second family has entered the room, and an elderly woman is placed in the other bed, followed by eight or nine men, women, and children. They are in good spirits, and our quiet, staccato conversations cease with the onset of their clamor. One of the group - a skinny girl perhaps ten years old, dressed in a jean skirt, shiny tap shoes, and a white blouse - opens a backpack and pulls out a box of chicken and french fries. Her feet click on the linoleum as they all chatter and go about their business. As we are leaving, two of the children are standing with their backs to us, wiping their hands on our curtain because with all of their company and provisions they had forgotten to bring napkins. When we left she was asleep; or at least resting her eyes – letting her mind wander to better places; maybe to second floor rooms with nice views and family doctors, maybe to youthful arms and loving embraces, and maybe to nowhere in particular. I became very determined not to die as the elevator doors closed behind me.
