The shadows have found us, but we can enjoy the shade a bit. Once thought impenetrable, the castle has fallen and all of them scatter to the winds. Each person is a silo of themselves. Especially now. It is all an illusion. We will wake from this.
Lizards, limes and dollar coins with Sacagawea each point towards evidence that predicted this. But where did you go? I see you in the corner chatting with those poor people, trying to avert the eyes from the center of the room. Gandhi walks in like a breeze, pulls up his robes and sits cross-legged and bare-assed on the black marble floor, him smiling with the little shock of the cool floor against his junk.
One steadfast person with an unwavering ability to spin opinion confessed anxiety to me. Sure, I watch horror and like some creepy things. But, that loss of faith from a place that is not expected knocked me to the floor, blindsided.
So, there we were–my face and Gandhi’s balls–atop that cold black marble, considering our predicament. Realizing that he is anxious gave me the chills. If this strong man can be affected with the mind fuck that is going on these days, then there are trillions of other less fortunate ones that must have busted seams with their floof poking out. We are all dried and used, waiting for the next step. Low energy mode is what I call this.
“Can you get the door?”
I sit.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
I wait.
Footsteps are heading this way now.
His face peeps around the corner.
“Hey!” He waves his hands sideways at me. “I am talking to you!”
“I know.”
“Well, why aren’t you answering me? Can you go get the door?”
I am lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. He is in the bedroom putting clothes away and tinkering with things all around me, full of energy.
“You are already up.”
He stares at me.
I stare back.
He walks 20 more feet and gets the door.
See? Low power state. Low energy mode. No need to expend anything extra. Whatever will get me through the night without the night terrors wrapping me in sweat. There must be some incantation to whisk these memories away. But, for now, there is again a mantra: Don’t freak out ‘til you know what’s up. I can’t control the past or the future so I need to focus on this moment and just hang on for the ride. We should dive deeply into whatever is the next task, solving problems bit by bit until one day we look up and realize we finally made it through.
Perhaps a COVID-19 flower will make you stay indoors.
I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.
That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me.
Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all.
Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass.
Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.
The last I saw of her was a glance back as I was leaving. Her sad and knowing round face looked drawn between the web of fingers that curled around the chain-link fence separating us. I know she was trying not to cry. It must be like tearing off the bandage every time I come to see her. But, I also want to make sure she knows that I am here for her. Twenty more years. Do any of us know how long we have in this life? Should we be allowed to know the desolate future of being stuck in a routine for that long? Just kill me, I think. But, then, I realize the pretext and what that would mean for her and I change my mind just as quickly as the thought had come.
She took the fall for something that represents only a shard of the truth. The players are so ingrained that the only way would be calculated infiltration and a very long-game plan that relies on people playing roles for nearly all of their lives. Can that be done? On a sunny day, I would say, “You do you.” But, in these cases, there must be the birds eye view: the Camera in the Sky, the Satellite. Those that can program and navigate the worst of the worst situations as the rest get eaten up in the churn. And the Masses sleep, unaware of danger. But, a necessary evil, you say. At what cost and on which authority?
When people cry for change, they don’t think down to that level. It is not as simple as writing a sign, standing in the cold for nine hours and screaming until you are hoarse, then meeting at Starbucks for the debrief. What a mess a life can make.
It is an inevitable part of healthcare that one will hear very sad or terrible stories. Human life is both a wonder and a blunder of creation. Moments that make you cry with hope or shake with anger are sometimes walking with their arms linked. Thank the Powers That Be that I am not in charge of any of it.
Today, a man came in with a supposed change in mental status. The neighbors had not seen this man or his wife for some time when they noted a foul smell emanating from their apartment. The police were called, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were met with the man snuggled with his decomposing wife on the floor. The man was covered in sweat, excrement and had pressure sores on his body at each point that met the hardwoods. The medics were called and pried the two apart, bringing the man–delirious and screaming–to the hospital.
I realize that we are all met with ethical dilemmas. Most people need to choose between whether it is ok to butt in line, or whether or not you tell your spouse that you switched buying the brand name for something cheaper, or such trivial things. When you have no family–and I use that word loosely–and have clearly no will to live on after everything you have lived for is gone, what is our responsibility to another human? In lieu of sounding Kevorkian, I would hope that, when an age is reached that I am ready to give in and let go, that those fuckers would just let me be. Contemplating things like these could definitely take you far down into the wormholes of thought.
So, it was that I thought of the actual horrors of this grisly picture that the medics must have come upon while I walk back home to my New York apartment in the middle of the night after my shift. That, and thinking about American Horror Story: Cult, which I am watching. Clowns and needless terrorisms abound. I am amused that I allow myself to be slightly freaked out with the small shifts in the shadows all around me on this Fall day. Nevermind that kid on the bike zooming by who is rapping about murder at the top of his lungs. I step into the streetlights of a small thoroughfare that is on my way home, settling into my pace as the lights wax and wane in their line of linked illumination above me. There is rarely a person on the streets anywhere near this abandoned store where I tread.
A random pile of trash is piled under one of the lights. It is as if someone gutted a large trash bag and left the varied innards in a thick-lined pile at the base of the light. As I approach, I note that the pile of spilled trash resembles the length and width of a shallow grave and takes the shape as if someone is lying there. But, they would be totally covered in trash. What person would do that–especially at this time of night? Not even a bum or weirdos with their pop-up art projects. No way. Not in this neighborhood. I keep my eyes steady on the pile as I try to keep my pace and pretend that I am not seeing that shape. It is just a trick of my eyes and I am just stressed after work. Nonetheless, I think about–if something moves–what can I use to smash it in the head that is near me? Maybe I can be quick and choke them with the straps of my work backpack if someone comes at me? Who am I kidding? James Bond, I am not. The wind picks up and shifts the lighter junk on top of the trash pile just as the train goes above me in a clatter. It blows the horn with a resonant MEEEEEP! that seems to go right through me. My focus snaps up to the train when the noise makes me jump. Apparently, I am expecting the train to attack me from above. Thank you, PTSD.
Then, I remember the humanoid trash pile coming up in front of me and jolt my vision back down with a slamming heartbeat. The pile is now standing upright, and is, indeed, in the shape of a large man. It is slightly hunched with both arms held a bit away from it’s body at its sides, and I see what appears to be the rise and fall of shoulders with each breath like when you leave a video game character standing still. I blink at it as a brick of fear hits my stomach, but I am still walking towards it. My eyes widen to see if this is real, still unbelieving of what is in front of me. I now cannot deny that it is moving toward me. Clumsy from fear, my stride is shortened and confused.
I turn to start running the other way, but am met with another trash monster with a Chinese food box as a mouth, which opens in a fold-back manner as it sucks in air, then roars in my face with the flaps of the box narrowing their aperture to direct its path toward my mouth, which was agape with horror. Flecks of leftover noodles project into my hair as my face is covered in cold droplets of brown sauce with the immense force of its breath. After it seems to exhaust itself with the roaring, the monster stands still except for its respirations, drooling rotted brown sauce down to the ground with each exhalation, slightly hunched in a defensive bracing position. Its shoulders are rising and falling from its heavy respirations like the other one was. The noise is like a plastic bag caught on the front of a car. The savory-sweet, mossy smell of old food covers me in its musk. I stand perfectly still with splatters of rotten-brown-sauce monster drool on my face just gawking at the thing, waiting for its next move, locked in the weirdest standoff of my life. I recall thinking that this smell will take awhile to leave after I wash this shit off my face. I just want to get home because I have to work again tomorrow. Let’s get this over with, Trash Monster.
World According to K.J. 