Dot Matrix with Stereo Sound

The Useless Ruminations, Vol. I

So often I judge my days as a lump sum, a forgotten jumble of moments muddled together on the mixing board. Finding the resulting color unsatisfactory, I kept my moods separate. Here is a picture I painted with the fresh pigments.

The city is too lonely and too crowded. Stepping out of a theater, patrons freeze, empty-minded, filling holes in a growing crowd as dirt slipping into a grave. Sitting in a room lit by a blue clock, however, I long to be smothered by the hats, coats, coughs. I open the closet, hoping for monsters, but my new suit, sterile and cheap, folds one arm up to greet me as it slides to the floor.

“I just wore you earlier. Fancy dinner, not my scene but I looked alright. That bread was fucking amazing, at least.”

I say this neither in my head nor out loud but I am reminded of bread all the same. Today, chewing the kneaded grain, I felt a sudden struggle to place its flavor as it brushed against my tongue. Not for lack of bread eaten in the past, but lack of attention paid to taste. How much money have I wasted on that most fleeting of senses over the years? I was not left to ponder long; the thought was taken with the bread plates, and the next course was exquisite.

“Just go to sleep when you get sad. Do not write. Do not listen to those sad, beautiful songs.” This I have thought frequently. Night takes away the sun: a basic, universal law which so profoundly governs my life. I know tomorrow I will wake up and curse myself for creating. I will rub my eyes and apologize to myself, out loud, for listening to Bon Iver so late. So I am left squeezing out memories like whiteheads and examining them in the dim, laptop light. I cannot leave them to burrow and fester in my pores, blackening at the surface; I must get them out while I can.

I felt pride when I made a foot-long jump over slush-mud next to the sidewalk. I looked in the mirror, the rush of wine reaching my brain as I flicked the bathroom light on, and caught a glimpse of my face in thirty years. I deconstructed my newest nervous tic: slide phone out of pocket, check for blinking light, press side button with thumb, quickly press again, push back into pocket with palm. I experienced empathy for an animated character. Praises were sung after the play’s performance but I could not forget knocking my heels together, glancing at the crowd, a thousand eyes unblinking forward, and thinking, “I’m bored.”

Oy, all of the dirt fell in at once. That’s how it always happens; the neat pile of dirt I’ve dug up all slides in, no rhyme or reason. Guess I’ll need to scrape my way out of this in the morning.

Lion’s Den

Air makes blue red, lion beats gazelle, butter-knives split yellow cream. A slick substance spreads on toast, spreads for him and him alone, baby, I promise.

How could it have been raining that day, I was at the beach, you saw the fucking burns I got. I guess I drove three blocks and suddenly a bunch of angry black clouds collected over our house, OUR house, huh? Do you see where I could find fault in your shithead story? Do you see?

Lion approaches the watering hole, alpha male with awesome mane fluffy tail, press a button to skip to the mating ritual. Thumb the button slow, push with your index, pull it through with your other hand. Smell the butter, salty and thick, dripping off burnt bread, delicious.

Getting married in the rain was supposed to be good luck, but really it was just wet. Baring teeth, white as her train, with lips raw red after The Kiss. Euphoric and nervous, you tried to cut the cake with a butter knife, its dull circular head failing to pierce the white flesh. Stone lions watched the festivities, protecting your holy vows.

Do you remember this knife, darling? Sweetheart? BITCH?

 Alpha male approaches the watering hole, baring his mane, his hairy chest. Brushing sand off his knees, taking the hand of his chosen female, the sky darkens. Rain clouds?

An English accent explains over mating footage that the alpha male gets away with whatever he wants. He just has to bare his teeth, white knives in a grand visage, and he’s set.

Butter knife slides over the toast effortlessly, slippery butter coating each grain, each bump. Remnants of red jam speck the toast, mixing with butter, all flowing together across the blade.

The veil is on the floor now, the sheets bloodied red, the lion seeks a bathroom to preen in after his conquest, and the female butters her toast while watching the Discovery channel.

I Remember

inspired by a piece of the same name by Joe Brainard

I remember pulling plastic pads over my knees the first time I went rollerblading.

I remember icing my wrist after toppling onto grey gravel with my bike. I thought I was finally ready to ride with no hands.

I remember the icy feeling rushing through my veins seconds before I went under to have my wisdom teeth removed.

I remember sliding on sleds down the little hill next to my house, snow filling up my waterproof gloves.

I remember hiding under a wooden ramp with my first crush. The other sixth graders were squeezed into a tent playing truth or dare, and us two prudes were hiding from the inevitable jeers and unwanted kisses.

I remember wanting nothing more in that moment than to kiss her. Seven inches of snow outside, a roaring gas fireplace, and my arm around her shoulder ignited the passion of my inner romantic. She stood up to fix her hair and the moment was over.

I remember my first kiss. It was sloppy and unpleasant.

I remember the hours I spent kneeling in front of a toilet, the results of a nasty stomach bug returning after every flush.

I remember staying home from school when my mom thought she had kidney stones and nobody else was around to help her.

I remember my first rock concert. I cannot remember why I enjoyed Avril Lavigne so much at the time.

I remember falling in love with Radiohead, at the Nissan Pavilion, in the pouring rain, on Mother’s Day.

I remember her finally saying “yes” when she came back to school without her crutches. I led her into the rain, we kissed, and she smiled. It was not the first time I told myself I was in love.

I remember the nine months of eighth grade I spent brooding over my first “lost love”.

I remember suggesting the name “Black Magic” for the house basketball team I was on. Neither I nor my teammates understood the unfortunate connotation behind this.

I remember so many pairs of hands pushing me underwater, as my baseball teammates tried to drown me as a joke at a pool party.

I remember watching the gash in my foot turn from blue to red, my dash to the backyard pool interrupted by a mutant splinter.

I remember the only swim meet in which I ever competed. I came in last swimming freestyle.

I remember when my mom painted my nails with the same purple polish my sister used.

I remember feeling the floor rumble as her train pulled into the station. I was wearing the purple shirt she had bought me almost two years ago, grey shorts, tightly nestled earbuds, maroon canvas sneakers. When she came up the stairs and around the corner, her hair was maple syrup and her eyes were crinkled and her arms were around my neck and everything was perfect for just a second.

I remember when she asked me to return her scarf. The initial message had a harmless tone but the meaning was clear to both of us. I told her not to expect to see me that summer; she responded that she didn’t want to see me that summer. I was furious, but I was not surprised.

I remember learning how to play Yellow by Coldplay on the piano.

Dust to Dust

I’ll let you in on a fantastic secret: the best method for preserving a dead person is to cover the body in dust before sending it away. Yes, really. No, it can’t actually preserve the physical body anywhere near as well as modern chemicals…you’re thinking about this too much. Let me start over.

Have you ever walked into an untouched room years after you and it have fallen out of love? You push the door open, reluctantly, as if to be polite to those residing within despite your knowledge of the room’s vacancy. Stepping within, surveying the scene without really seeing the props, an unmistakable waft of acrid air will float into your nostrils as you attempt to take in oxygen. The elegant but unobtrusive light fixture will have been dead for at least 15 years, and you have no idea where the light switch is anyway. Pulling the window shade up, you can watch as the sun speeds through the glass then struggles to make its way to the floor, finding the fast route through the billions of particles of which the room’s haze is comprised.

Now that there is an almost acceptable light level, you start to mill about the room, carefully tiptoeing between scattered artifacts to reach others which have caught your eye. An unopened Lego set awaits the day it will be used, the picture on its box emphasizing your failure to build it. Stacks of stuffed folders, once vividly colored but dulled by the passage of time,  contain classwork you were either too proud or too lazy to trash. Disheveled book piles contain childhood favorites, classics you forced yourself to enjoy, wonky no-name authors you dove into on a whim, wonky no-name authors authors you received as gifts and promptly, permanently ignored, and many more types you could remember if you had the patience to continue. As you dig through your treasures, dust that you have wiped off instinctively, as less than an afterthought, has coated your palm, your fingertips, and your pants. This dust took care of your things while you were gone, piling itself on all surfaces as proof that they have not changed; this dust has preserved your room.

Memories work in the same way as that old room. When someone smiles at you with not courtesy, but love; when you hear a note so beautiful its vibrations tease water from your eyes; when a toast is raised at a dinner party by one voice and thirty voices cry out in agreement and thirty arms fly upwards and the air is shimmering gold, you promise to yourself that you will remember that moment. And you do, but not the next day, not in a week, or a month; if you try too soon, at the wrong time, you’ll find yourself just barely failing to pull it off the tip of your brain. It’s when you brush off an old album, pull out an ancient party favor, unfold a forgotten letter, that you will pick up some of the dust, and as you stare at your palms the memories will flow as quickly as your tears, the sweet release of nostalgia finally uncovered.

So next time someone near and dear to you passes away, sprinkle a pinch of dust on them. It may seem disrespectful to others, but you will know that it’s a promise, not an insult. You likely won’t think of that person every day, or every week, or every month, but the memory of their life will be preserved along with all of the other treasures in your room.

6

The same jokes day in day out. Every day the same insults, jeers, names, look at him go, look at the entitled brat, listen to him roar, not roar just screech. The weakest bully of all time, nonsense insults, excessive expletives, all bark no bite no spark all spite, sickened by himself, the bones pushing against skin, the sunken rib swollen stomach pimpled chin yellow teeth peach fuzz ugly pathetic fucker stares sadly at self in mirror. Light flows through his veins but is trapped within his heart, inhales oxygen and kindness exhales CO2 and cusses and caustic sarcasm, putting a hand on each side of the chasm and pushing, pushing out pushing away. Love spills out as an apology, as an afterthought, as an excuse, but it is not. I’m not a pessimist I’m not proud I’m not mean I’m happy I love people I love all of you I love you I want to know you I want to shut my mouth and look at you look at all of you, single file please, and know your life, know your childhood what lies beneath the hood what do you hear what do you see what do you like what do you hate and why do you and won’t you just let me try to be me by seeing you be you?

5

So
I’ve noticed that you’re
Impoverished, and demolished,
Clutching at the final few coins
That sit in that plastic coffee jug
which you scratched “happiness” onto,
Too proud, or maybe just too shattered,
to bother refilling the jar,
your heart,
with those gleaming silver stars
that bring back the lucent rays
which chase the shades away.

Being a sick, sad soul myself,
Wanting always to heal and feel
The warm, thumping life within
broken bones, broken homes,
I don’t have much left to send you.

I was saving for a long time,
Scrounging simple dimes, nickles,
morsels of joy that had dripped
from the plump lips
of those wealthier than you or I.

But when I saw you tonight,
Having fled the fight
With yourself, eyelids tight,
A soft song floating in the air,
The words hung between your lips
As you kissed someone who was not there,
I stumbled and my vase,
Filled with humble smiles and hopes
shattered, and all the hard-earned changed
Spilled out through my eyes,
My sobs carrying the stolen silver
Down my cheeks and onto the floor.

I’m sorry.