Is a Darker Shade of Twilight: Tuesday, January 27, 1998

The Beating...

The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?

Monday, March 10, 2008

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

This is an old journal entry I found:

I saw a picture of a mission in Mexico in my Spanish class today. The frame was crooked, but the picture was straight. It reminded me of my life (or life in general); sometimes you have to move the frame to straighten out the picture, even if it means making the frame crooked.

Identity of a Man, Through a Woman

MOM
Chrysochlorous eyes, old beyond their years by several lifetimes. The rays of a warm sun after a cold winter morning were the curls around her face. When she made herself up she was the most beautiful woman on earth, to her son. A smile, always too quick to spring to her lips - always just beneath a surface. She couldn't get a good job because she dropped out. She couldn't keep any job because she silenced her doubts with crack cocaine. When she lost enough jobs and wracked up enough warrants, she'd run. She'd gotten good at it; she ran away from home at 14, she ran away from her first child - her daughter. But there must be something there, whether it's guilt or a hunger for love. Because she dragged her son through it all. She never forgot to feed him (even if it was just barely edible); never sent him off to school without adequate clothing (she'd drop him in the Salvation Army box to fish stuff out), and always provided shelter of a sort ( a literal shelter, friend's house, abandoned building, tent, car, some man's house...). Of course she couldn't find a good man, but maybe she could change a bad one, if not herself. If they changed for the worse, she'd just run.

I didn't want a man, I just wanted her. Her lived in clothes and stale tobacco hugs, her chirpy singing in the morning, her ever-ready smile, her bedtime stories, her burnt food, the sun we shared after a cold winter morning warming the car we slept in up in the mountains.

I remember her pain. The pain in her eyes as she explained that she had to take Tylenol up her nose because her throat hurt - and that I should knock. The pain in her face when I said I'd rather live with Grandma; she had never hit me, let alone beat me, before that day. She told me in earnestness that I'd grow up to be smart and strong. How could she be so sure? HER son. What did this creature know of such things? This creature that was little more than a flickering flame at the bottom of a lantern's cracked and grimy cyclone?

GRANDMA
Warm chocolate chip cookies - my favorite - and Grandpa's promise of more to come if I chose to stay. But Grandpa didn't wear the pants anymore; he made a mistake with some woman in Thailand, and Grandmother castrated him with it.

I somehow still appreciate the savory smell of grilled onions, the nauseatingly clean smell of bleach, the superstitious smell of pot roast. It wasn't just pot roast that was ominous, it was dinner in general. The salty criticisms, snide remarks, the yelling and screaming that was invariably served for dessert. There weren't too many musical tones in that place. The ones I do recall seem ironic now, if you think about it: the theme songs to "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy".

Thin celeste colored ice on a sidewalk. That was Grandma's eyes; the cold and venomous eyes of a snake.

Her fluffy hugs and monochromatic moo-moos shielded diamond-bearing fists. The sweetness of chocolate-chip cookies was overcome by the coppery taste of blood in my mouth.

Toys, that could only be played with after chores. Chores that never stopped coming, unlike the chocolate-chip cookies. Two in the morning, dragged out of the guest bed I'd been sleeping in for 5 years now and beaten bloody again. I had left my ice cream bowl in the sink. Maybe this is why Mom was so hurt when I said goodbye, why she acted so scared. Maybe this is why Aunt Mercy is so weird.

SISTER
I know why the caged bird sings: it's supposed to. My sister didn't look like a bird, but to see her move commanded your thoughts to birds in flight. Unlike me, she was dark, long, sinewy, stream-lined. Her hugs were gentle, frail, bony, fluttery - like her voice. Her voice was fluttery, like she wouldn't dare express full confidence; like a caged bird always sounds out of place, because it's not free.

It was us versus the world. Unlike most siblings, the only rivalries we participated in were who could stuff the most Atomic Fireballs in their mouth, or who could shoot the most shot-glasses of lemon juice without making a face!

I fell in love with classical music watching at her recitals. I reaffirmed my demands for freedom watching her run her marathons. She always smelled faintly of some powder. Talcum when she was in ballet. Gold-Bond when she dropped it for track & field - despite the repercussions.

When she could no longer kowtow to Grandma, like our mother she towed her children around in search of a father-figure.

Her eyes were puddles of refreshing rain-water contained in mud holes.

AUNT
Aunt Mercy had eyes the green of used, dirty money. Her hair shone like polished gold. She had a sly smile. Her size belied her movement, which flickered like the candles she burned throughout her home. When she hugged you - or made contact at all - it was always distracted. Not like it was forced, but like it was restrained.

She gave me my first Snickers bar; salty-sweet, delicious. I also tried potato-salad for the first time outside her home - gritty, awful. Her home. She'd grow frantic if you disturbed the tassels on her throw rugs. Everything smelled of incense, scented-candles, disinfectant. She smelled of beer, and of the hunt. Despite her alcohol-slurred speech she spoke in soothing tones - the better to con people with, her means of living. I don't mind potato salad these days. I don't really care for Snickers, though.

Grandpa's body finally caught up with his spirit and died. Aunt Mercy was there when it happened; she was the only one in the room. She said his suffering had finally come to an end. He had known about the cancer for three weeks. Everyone understood. She seized all the property. Grandma had a stroke and fell into Mercy's custody.

Perhaps she finally felt empowered, controlling the fate of the woman who controlled her. If not, then maybe when she took her mother's life too. I wonder sometimes, if she ever felt love, or if she ever will. I wonder, too, if she'll ever be strong enough to show love. I intend never to find out; I know enough about the darkness to identify those consumed by it.

WIFE
Another woman. A different one, not family. This one brings the essence of musicality into my life.

As my body and mind fought over which gives me more pain, I was soothed by this girl as we danced in the rain. In my storm-tossed heart is a safe, quiet place built by this girl and her warm embrace. Because of this girl who hides my tears, I've accomplished the responsibility of my years.

She chooses only the prettiest songs to sing. She holds me at night, like I hold her in the morning. Laying beside me, through her language of hums, I've learned the specialness of sun on trees - and apple blossoms.

Though I'm often distracted by her loving sighs, I can hardly get mad when met by virid entrancing eyes.

Though she's already done it, she still tries to please me. Only she knows how I like my coffee! She prepares my “gourmet” meals for the entire week. Still, she says I'm the one who's humble and meek. She's able to clean our home phenomenally quick. But she'll take the time to make me chicken-noodle-soup from scratch when I'm sick. Unmatched as a woman - especially as a cook! Yet she can recommend (to any man) a good movie or book. So, I found the courage to love again, and I love her - as much as I'll love my children. And I'll be glad to share, with them, my best friend.

They'll grow up to be smart and strong, like my wife says I am in the songs she sings. Her view of me reminds me of a flickering light once calling a boy such things.

ME
My mother is still without a home of her own, though she knows now that she has someone who loves her. All people make mistakes. All the more reason we shouldn't be so unforgiving – especially with ourselves. Anybody can change, they just need someone to turn up their wick, help them clean up and let the light shine through.
But, then again, some people don't need to change themselves; they simply need to alter course.

When I could finally meet my own eyes in the mirror, I saw chrysochlorous eyes. I saw strength, intelligence, my mom.

I am a man. I am perhaps the first person in my family to find their identity.

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