“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” - Albert Einstein.
All I could hear was the ocean. It took me a couple of seconds and senses later to realize that I was actually sitting on the beach. It was hot and bright. I got to my feet and heard a voice coming from behind me.
“Friend, friend, get off of the beach. Get off of the beach!”
I was drowsy. I turned around and saw an oLd man standing on a concrete path about 25 yards away from where I was standing. The urgency in his voice caused me to run towards him.
“Are you okay?” He asked me his question before I could ask my question.
“Yea, yea I’m fine…”
“You know you’re lucky, right? It’s dangerous on the beach.”
I was extremely confused by his latest statement, but I was just regaining my bearings and I wanted to know where I was.
“How did I get hEre?”
The old man started laughing and his body language showed signs of relief. “Friend, you’re asking the wrong question. Come inside, friend.”
I couldn’t understand why this old man kept calling me “friend.” We weren’t friends. I’d never met this man before in my life.
Everything was so blue. The sky and the ocean. The man took me in his house and it was blue. It was soothing. My previous environment was nothing like this. It was all gray. It was bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they were all gray. I was very grateful that the man invited me into his home. The old man and I had a long coNversation about how I wound up in his house. He had a very intriguing ability of avoiding questions. No new information was presented to me. He only told me to stay off of the beach. I obliged.
The old mAn lived with his old wife. They had never had kids. I couldn’t believe how happy they were together. They offered me a place to stay and although I was reluctant at first, I obliged. I suppressed any feelings or thoughts of a former life. I let my past go. I hope no one misses me, and if they do, I hope I said goodbye before I left.
Fast forward. Say it.
After a few weeks of getting accustomed to this house and this family, I began to venture out into the town they lived in. It was a quaint little town. There were antique stores, sea-side restaurants, and white picket fences. It was the sort of town where Veterans took care of their families, the boys went off to war, and the girls waited patiently by the window. It took me awhile to get used to this. I was from a place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daugHters got high and fucked in their parents beds. I know I wasn’t normal before this, but I certainly wasn’t normal now.
It’s always easier to stop at the beginning. Do you believe that she missed…
Have you ever seen a baseball get hit so hard that the seams literally come unraveled? That is exactly how I felt. Whichever seamstress stitched me up didn’t do a very good job to begin with, but I knew that with one swift blow I would fall to pieces. I had dreams of my skin falling off of my body and standing in a dark room exposed. Only bones, muscle, and fatty tissue would be visible. I felt alone and vulnerable.
Needless to say, I had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t the bed or the room. Both were quite Comfortable. Let me describe the room. It was about the size of a bedroom you would find in any hotel or motel. The walls were painted blue and there were portraits of ships and sailors everywhere. The old man told me once about the time he served in World War 2. He is probably the most interesting man I’ve ever met. The bed I typically tossed and turned in was a twin size bed with white sheets and a comforter that had a floral pattern on it. Sometimes I laid on the carpeted floor instead. It was also blue, but a darker shade than the wall. I had a window and a lamp that sat on an end table. I had my own bathroom that was already furnished with shampoo, soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and deodorant. There was no toilet paper, though. It was as if the old man and his wife had been waiting to find some stranded young man for years. A stranded young man that didn’t need toilet paper. I bought some of my own.
The sheriff shot the deputy. Who is the sheriff?
The view out of my window was of the beach. I loved it. I needed the serenity. The old man’s wife told me that reading helped her sleep, so I went to the local library to check out some books. I had never read much before this, so I though I’d give it a try. I walked to the library and was looking through some mystery novels when I noticed that the young girl working behind the counter was the most beautiful girl I had seen in my entire life. My face got red just from looking at her. I never get nervous. What was this feeling? In a state of confusion, I rushed out of the library.
It took me a few nights without sleep to really gather my thoughts. I went back to the library and faked an interest in literature to spark a conversation with the girl. Her name was Renee with three “E’s.” She made it a point to tell me that. We were the same age. We wound up talking for a half an hour when she abruptly ended the conversation. She had to get back to work, but she said I was a good listener so we made plans to talk further the next day. I didn’t sleep that night for several reasons.
Our first real conversation went great. I didn’t talk too much about myself, but I found out a lot about her. She was attending the local university as a creative writing major. She said she loved to read and write. I asked to see some of her writing, but she refused. She was not originally from this town but had lived here for the past 3 years. She said she loved guys that were well-read and had an interest in writing. She loved men that could sing. She loved men that had seen the world. She loved men that were always there for her. She loved men that she could leave.
Stop that.
She worked in the library because she obviously loved everything about literature. I wanted her to like me, so I started reading. I wanted to become so familiar with Hemingway, and Dickinson, and Austen, and Dickens, and Twain, and Stevenson, and Wollenstonecraft, and Shelley that I could quote them on command. My life became completely consumed by books and Renee. I visited the library to see her regularly and we began seeing each other. I still couldn’t sleep.
This would turn into that swift blow that would make me unravel. .
Why is it that loyalty…? God, I hate this question. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by?
sesir nus eht erehw, tsae eht ni uoy ees ll’I
I decided that the only way I could truly impress her was to write her a story. I wanted her to be so enamored by my words that she would fall in love with me, just like the stories in some of the books that I’d read. My obsession went from reading to writing. I started to expand my vocabulary and worked on my prose and syntax. I developed my own style but I had a problem. Nothing I could think of satisfied myself, so why would it satisfy her? The dark blue carpet of my room changed to a fast food playpen full of crumpled up pieces of paper lined with scratch marks and fuck ups. The lighter shades of blue that had once decorated my walls had given way to the assorted colors of Post-It notes littered with streams of unconsciousness. My room had become a mess of random words and phrases. I was throwing different colored paint at the wall and praying that one would stick.
In my head I secretly referred to Renee as “Ms. Steak.” Mis-stake. Get it?
All I did all day was write. My public behavior was still serene, which was a stark contrast to my erratic behavior behind my closed door. The old couple became somewhat concerned, but since I still appeared to have my hygiene and bearings intact, they let me do as I pleased. I still did not sleep. Most nights I stood in the center of my room in the darkness racking my brain for an idea. Luckily for me, I had no friends to lose, but I can imagine that if I did have friends they would have left me stranded in that room.
In the same sense that every child wants to grow up to be a hero, every grown up wants to die with someone. The failure rate is astounding. We are not heroic and we all die alone.
“Play the one in Drop D.” Children were laughing June. “I tied my heart to your words, double knotted and a noose.” I don’t want them to sing sad songs anymore. But they just get sadder.
For weeks I struggled. Occasionally Renee would take the train back to her home. During these periods I rarely left my room or put down my pen. In case you were wondering, I write with a very expensive pen. Sometimes I would unscrew the tops and take out the ink stick and let it bleed all over my papers. I would get it in on my hands and my face and some of my clothes, but it would wash off. Sort of how I would later have to wash other things out of my life. Or sort of how I washed up on that beach. Or sort of how I’ll probably wash away with the tide.
Renee came back to the town one weekend with a dramatic change of heart. She no longer thought we should see each other.
Pitch. Swing. Contact. My seams fell out. One by one by one by one by one by one by one until there was nothing left. Batter up.
Where did we go wrong? Was there ink on my hands? What were we talking about? I’m still not sure what happened. I felt like I was choking. I was alone in my room gasping for breath. There were so many questions like: Why is it that loyalty…? You know I hate this one. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by? This is wrong. I am wrong and you were right and I’m sorry for it.
A moment of clarity. Epiphany. I sat on the beach Indian style searching for seashells. The grass was too high. I think. When was the moment of clarity? I think when the tide rushed in. Or was it out? I don’t think it was anywhere near here. The old man just wanted me off of that beach. So many questions like: How calm could I pretend to be?
Everything was frenetic at once! Do you believe that she missed… believe that she missed anything? Do you?
A week or two later I felt fine. My room was still a mess, but I didn’t want to sweat the small stuff. I even went back to the library to check out some books. Checking out books! I was cordial with Renee, but I wasn’t going to the library to read. No fucking chance. When did I ever read at the library? Never. I finally found words for her. I finally wrote her my masterpiece and I was going to mail it to the library. Post-script and put out against the elements. I actually didn’t write a post-script but I meant to. I just forget a lot of things. (I hope my hair looked okay.)
It read something like this:
“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”
No. No. No. That’s not right. Excuse me.
[This is usually when the page breaks. Or when the film runs out. I said it was easier to stop at the beginning.]
Page break.
It read something like this:
“I am well read, but I don’t read. I am well versed, but I don’t sing. I am well traveled, but I rarely leave. I am always here, but I’m never home. I am heartbroken, but I’ve never been in love. I am tired, but I’m barely awake. I am never home, but I am always here. I am alive…”
I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy. I think that was how it went. It might have been different. It should have been different. Maybe I left something out. Do you believe that she missed anything? I hope nothing was left out. I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy.
I mailed the letter to the library. I don’t know if she ever received it because I left that town the same day. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even the old man and his old wife. I greatly appreciated what they did for me, and I regret that I didn’t thank them in person. I left with just the clothes I had on and my money. If there is one thing I want her to know is that the next time she got on that train, I’ll be in a plane. She did not do the leaving. I did. I left. All for the librarian. If I had time I would explain myself. Are you listening? I am out of fucking time. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I hope didn’t leave anything. I hope I didn’t leave. I’m already gone.
Everything was calm at once.
I’ll never be an accomplished writer because the sad truth is that if you’ve read one love story you’ve read them all. Don’t they always turn out the same? Every time. Don’t you always want more? That’s the key. You have to leave something to be desired. So I will end this the same way I’ve always ended everything. I come in like a lion and go out a like a lamb.
I still don’t know why the old man was so worried about the beach.
Sitting at the bottom of the deep blue sea,
Catching fishes, for my tea!
We all jump up,
With a one, two, three!
William Wallace
Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Nickles And Dimes
Setting: Mid 1920’s
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense
“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”
“What?”
“I said keep it fucking moving.”
This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.
Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.
It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.
For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.
These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.
Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.
Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.
[Break]
Resume.
I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.
If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.
The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.
We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.
Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”
“What?”
“I said keep it fucking moving.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”
The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.
Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.
A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.
WW
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense
“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”
“What?”
“I said keep it fucking moving.”
This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.
Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.
It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.
For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.
These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.
Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.
Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.
[Break]
Resume.
I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.
If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.
The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.
We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.
Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”
“What?”
“I said keep it fucking moving.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”
The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.
Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.
A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.
WW
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Pot and The Kettle
The city was large and hungry. And poor and homeless. “Will work for food. Or money, or shelter.”
It was a statement. “Post no bills.” With three words the walls stayed empty. Naked.
There were tall buildings and long buildings; small buildings and wrong buildings. There were bridges and trees; syringes and disease. There were tourists and residents; florists and presidents. It was beautiful and I never gave a shit about it until now.
Believe it or not, the city was not always this large and I was not always in it. It is so easy to get lost there. Not me. It is impossible to get lost when you don’t want to be found. I just walked through the walls with the other ghosts. If only these walls could speak.
Inside the walls are the stories and the memories. They harbor the actions and I am just the conduit. They are screaming and we are all silent. We are able and unwilling. It is such a shame how little we use our bodies. We are only animals. We are born, we fuck, we reproduce, we foster our children, and then we die. It is an instinct birthed into every single one of us. But we are not only animals. We have evolved and now we have an inherent need for emotional contact. The walls are still walls that see everything. We are still just agents of procreation. I don’t consider myself a sucker for believing that there is more than that. We are just the conduits. The silent majority. Glorified apes. Universal Product Code.
Remember: for every rhyme there is a reason.
Rhyme:
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark.
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with no pet and no friend and no toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Not one of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy became sad that no one seemed to care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He never grew to know his father or mother
And was certain he had no sister or brother.
No hot dinners to share with a caring family
No presents on Christmas, no decorated tree.
No comfort of home where everything is pretty
The boy felt abandoned, just like the city.
[Pause]
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark,
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with his pet and his friend and his toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Most of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy was so happy to see people care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He grew up with a loving father and mother
And always made time for his sister and brother.
Hot dinners he shared with his gorgeous family
Great presents on Christmas underneath the tree.
The comfort of home, where everything was pretty
The boy felt wanted, unlike the city.
Reason:
On one fateful day these two boys convened
And everything was exactly as strange as it seemed.
The two boys grew close and managed to survived
And somehow became friends for the rest of their lives.
One boy felt wanted, the other was glad
That he made such a great friend who no longer was sad.
This is worship and this is tribute. This is no pain, no feeling. This is nothing. Just swallow everything. That being said, I’m changing it up. This time the feeling will be “to be continued…” instead of “good riddance.” I’m hoping that we can just leave it at “see you soon…” We are so small.
Everybody knows, everybody believes
Everybody goes, everybody leaves.
Nobody cared, nobody cried
I am not there, I did not die.
We are just the conduits and, somehow, no one is talking and the walls are still screaming. We are the ones that should be bridging the gap but instead we are destroying everything. I get it, we’re all angry. But do you even know what you’re angry about? I’ve abandoned it just like it abandoned me. Fuck it, it’s yours now. You can have it.
I’ve already adjusted. What the fuck makes you think I want to re-adjust? And I refuse to ever re-adjust. I am not calling the kettle black. I just can’t wait to see you.
William "ButtHead" Wallace
Fuck.
It was a statement. “Post no bills.” With three words the walls stayed empty. Naked.
There were tall buildings and long buildings; small buildings and wrong buildings. There were bridges and trees; syringes and disease. There were tourists and residents; florists and presidents. It was beautiful and I never gave a shit about it until now.
Believe it or not, the city was not always this large and I was not always in it. It is so easy to get lost there. Not me. It is impossible to get lost when you don’t want to be found. I just walked through the walls with the other ghosts. If only these walls could speak.
Inside the walls are the stories and the memories. They harbor the actions and I am just the conduit. They are screaming and we are all silent. We are able and unwilling. It is such a shame how little we use our bodies. We are only animals. We are born, we fuck, we reproduce, we foster our children, and then we die. It is an instinct birthed into every single one of us. But we are not only animals. We have evolved and now we have an inherent need for emotional contact. The walls are still walls that see everything. We are still just agents of procreation. I don’t consider myself a sucker for believing that there is more than that. We are just the conduits. The silent majority. Glorified apes. Universal Product Code.
Remember: for every rhyme there is a reason.
Rhyme:
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark.
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with no pet and no friend and no toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Not one of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy became sad that no one seemed to care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He never grew to know his father or mother
And was certain he had no sister or brother.
No hot dinners to share with a caring family
No presents on Christmas, no decorated tree.
No comfort of home where everything is pretty
The boy felt abandoned, just like the city.
[Pause]
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark,
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with his pet and his friend and his toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Most of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy was so happy to see people care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He grew up with a loving father and mother
And always made time for his sister and brother.
Hot dinners he shared with his gorgeous family
Great presents on Christmas underneath the tree.
The comfort of home, where everything was pretty
The boy felt wanted, unlike the city.
Reason:
On one fateful day these two boys convened
And everything was exactly as strange as it seemed.
The two boys grew close and managed to survived
And somehow became friends for the rest of their lives.
One boy felt wanted, the other was glad
That he made such a great friend who no longer was sad.
This is worship and this is tribute. This is no pain, no feeling. This is nothing. Just swallow everything. That being said, I’m changing it up. This time the feeling will be “to be continued…” instead of “good riddance.” I’m hoping that we can just leave it at “see you soon…” We are so small.
Everybody knows, everybody believes
Everybody goes, everybody leaves.
Nobody cared, nobody cried
I am not there, I did not die.
We are just the conduits and, somehow, no one is talking and the walls are still screaming. We are the ones that should be bridging the gap but instead we are destroying everything. I get it, we’re all angry. But do you even know what you’re angry about? I’ve abandoned it just like it abandoned me. Fuck it, it’s yours now. You can have it.
I’ve already adjusted. What the fuck makes you think I want to re-adjust? And I refuse to ever re-adjust. I am not calling the kettle black. I just can’t wait to see you.
William "ButtHead" Wallace
Fuck.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Fear Of Failure Part 3
For the record: This was written in cold blood. Straight from the muscle.
This is dedicated to myself for always being me.
I keep trying to convince myself that it wasn’t the oceans fault. It’s just water. It’s just nature. The water is not conscience. I’ve done a pretty horrible job.
The clouds approached quicker than usual. I was just walking on the beach right at the edge of the ocean. A gorgeous day was shaping up to be an equally gorgeous night. Happy families and beautiful girls were enjoying the picture perfect summer day at the beach. Waves were crashing left and right. You could smell the salt of the ocean. It actually felt good to just be completely alone at this moment.
I’ve always been the type of person to want everything or nothing. It’s all or nothing. When I was an infant I never crawled. One day I just stood up and started walking. I will never change that about myself.
In the distance I could see the clouds. They were very ominous. It was obvious a storm was approaching. I realized that no one was making any moves that would suggest leaving the beach. It started raining lightly and everyone stayed put and stayed happy. I kept walking south until I reached an area of the beach that was completely vacant. The rain started to pick up so I sat down on a rock and looked behind to see everyone scrambling to get into the hotel. After the rain got heavy, the thunder and lightning followed. Despite the small amount of danger, I felt no reason to leave the beach. The lightning streaked the iridescent sky.
The solitude of it all brought me back to a dinner conversation I’d had with a pretty young woman. Actually, it wasn’t the solitude that reminded me of her. It was the lightning. I remember discussing religion and a little bit of her past. My perspective on things have changed a lot since that night and I’d like to say that she had something to do with it. I’ve never really been an emotional person so I’ve kept a lot of things I’ve wanted to say to you to myself. It’s just easier that way and writing this part was hard enough. I’m not sure if you’ll understand this, but there are things I can’t explain or choose not to explain. I hope you mean what you say because I do. One day you will find the answers to your questions and that is a promise. There’s so much I don’t understand. I know this wasn’t what you expected but it’s just easier this way.
The storm got worse. I started walking into the water. As strong as the current was, it didn’t affect me. I just kept walking and walking. I reached a point in the ocean where the water got very deep. I started swimming. About 50 yards ahead of me I saw someone floating on a piece of driftwood. I remained calm. I felt completely in control of every muscle I moved. The situation was anything but calm, and I was everything but in control. I swam up to the piece of driftwood and saw an old man holding on for his life. The first words out of his mouth were, “You’re a gift from God.”
Sitting here now, I wish I could burn all the pages. I wish I could take every idea that I’ve ever had and set it on fire. I wish I could find every physical trace of this and burn it. There aren’t any papers. I never wrote any of it down. It’s better off that way.
I was just treading water in the Ocean. It was sort of a weird time to think about home, but I did. Trying to think of what to say here isn’t easy. I have one brother by blood. One of the few people that has known me for as long as I can remember and it’s going to be hard to leave that. Then there is my other brother. We ran around this place together for 17 years and I’m not willing to just let that type of friendship go. You will both always be my brothers forever.
I told the man that I wasn’t God, or Jesus, or a disciple, or a prophet, or a gift, or anything close to any of that. I was just some stupid kid swimming during a storm. He refused to believe me and I didn’t have time to argue. I told him everything was going to be okay and then asked him what happened. He told me he was on a large boat that was giving a tour of the local oceanic wildlife. He estimated that there were about 200 passengers and 25 employees floating in the Atlantic. I guess around halfway through the tour a storm capsized the boat. He described 75 foot waves pounding the starboard. The cabin collapsed, the keel snapped in half, and the hull eventually failed. He had no idea how he got to where he was or where any of the other passengers or crew were currently positioned.
It was never the events that I specifically remembered. I’ve always remembered the car rides when all of us were together. The four of us just riding around. It was always more fun when we didn’t have a destination. It was always more fun when we were jumping off of something, hoping there were no rocks. Those are things that I’m going to take with me. Even though we had no idea what was at the bottom, we all jumped. It would’ve been so much safer to let that moment pass us by, but we did that shit together. That’s all I have to say here.
As soon as I realized the severity of the situation I decided that floating on this piece of driftwood was not the best decision. I told the man to swim behind me and everything would be okay. He said he didn’t know how to swim, and I told him to trust me. Sure enough, he swam right behind me like he had been swimming his whole life. He didn’t know where the boat had capsized, but it was only common sense to follow the trail of debris. Along the way we found larger chunks of the boat floating in this storm. The closer we got, the more intense the storm became. The waves were massive and punishing. We swam harder. As we rose to the top of one of the enormous waves I could see in the distance a large mass of what used to be a boat. I stopped swimming and so did the old man. I asked him what the name of the boat was. He said, “como un león.” I didn’t know what that meant.
Fish sleep and swim at the same time. Imagine that.
We began to approach the incredible mass of wreckage. I realized that sprinkled throughout the chaos were the passengers and crew members of the ship. They were all holding on to random pieces that had once been part of a beautiful puzzle. It’s such a shame that things turned out this way. The shore was no longer in view, but for some reason I had a complete understanding of my positioning. I took no awkward steps and I did not falter in any of my movements. My thoughts were clear and far from cluttered. As the old man and I got close enough to communicate with the stranded strangers, I yelled for everyone to swim towards me. Suddenly, the water immediately surrounding the destroyed ship settled to an eerie calm. The storm raged on all around us, but we were safe.
Until you find yourself it is impossible to lose you. I’m sorry to anyone that thinks they know me, but I still don’t know myself. But there has been one thing I’ve learned. I used to stay awake at night and wonder why things turned out the way they did. I would spend hours just wondering when I was going to get what I deserve. When am I going to get what I deserve? When am I going to get what I want? I realize now how selfish those questions are. I’ve grown out of that shell. Those types of questions are for average people. The only question I have now is this: has anything I’ve done in my life made somebody else’s better? I don’t know.
Like I said, I tried to convince myself that it was just water. The moon and the tides are somehow aligned and maybe that caused it. I just want to believe that nothing spiritual happened. It was just water.
The people gathered around and started firing questions at me. I answered none of them. The old man told them that I was a gift from God. I told them that I was not. I explained to them that if they just swam with me that they would be safe. I could take them to the shore. I would not let them drown. Everything is going to be fine. Once they all agreed to follow me, we started swimming towards the shore. I knew which way to go. There were exactly 226 of us swimming together. After about 20 minutes of swimming, the shore became visible. Once we all made it onto the beach the sun came out and the storm disappeared. Everyone was safe. The grateful people started offering their appreciation for my act. Onlookers rushed over to offer their praise. Some of them were on their cell phones with emergency units, who were obviously on their way. Some people started to ask questions and others tried to take pictures. But I fielded no questions and politely declined all picture requests. I told them that I am nothing special, just some stupid kid in the right place at the right time.
I could have been a hero, but I just walked away. Just walk away. Just walk away.
Just walk away.
Hold the applause.
WW.
Goodbye.
This is dedicated to myself for always being me.
I keep trying to convince myself that it wasn’t the oceans fault. It’s just water. It’s just nature. The water is not conscience. I’ve done a pretty horrible job.
The clouds approached quicker than usual. I was just walking on the beach right at the edge of the ocean. A gorgeous day was shaping up to be an equally gorgeous night. Happy families and beautiful girls were enjoying the picture perfect summer day at the beach. Waves were crashing left and right. You could smell the salt of the ocean. It actually felt good to just be completely alone at this moment.
I’ve always been the type of person to want everything or nothing. It’s all or nothing. When I was an infant I never crawled. One day I just stood up and started walking. I will never change that about myself.
In the distance I could see the clouds. They were very ominous. It was obvious a storm was approaching. I realized that no one was making any moves that would suggest leaving the beach. It started raining lightly and everyone stayed put and stayed happy. I kept walking south until I reached an area of the beach that was completely vacant. The rain started to pick up so I sat down on a rock and looked behind to see everyone scrambling to get into the hotel. After the rain got heavy, the thunder and lightning followed. Despite the small amount of danger, I felt no reason to leave the beach. The lightning streaked the iridescent sky.
The solitude of it all brought me back to a dinner conversation I’d had with a pretty young woman. Actually, it wasn’t the solitude that reminded me of her. It was the lightning. I remember discussing religion and a little bit of her past. My perspective on things have changed a lot since that night and I’d like to say that she had something to do with it. I’ve never really been an emotional person so I’ve kept a lot of things I’ve wanted to say to you to myself. It’s just easier that way and writing this part was hard enough. I’m not sure if you’ll understand this, but there are things I can’t explain or choose not to explain. I hope you mean what you say because I do. One day you will find the answers to your questions and that is a promise. There’s so much I don’t understand. I know this wasn’t what you expected but it’s just easier this way.
The storm got worse. I started walking into the water. As strong as the current was, it didn’t affect me. I just kept walking and walking. I reached a point in the ocean where the water got very deep. I started swimming. About 50 yards ahead of me I saw someone floating on a piece of driftwood. I remained calm. I felt completely in control of every muscle I moved. The situation was anything but calm, and I was everything but in control. I swam up to the piece of driftwood and saw an old man holding on for his life. The first words out of his mouth were, “You’re a gift from God.”
Sitting here now, I wish I could burn all the pages. I wish I could take every idea that I’ve ever had and set it on fire. I wish I could find every physical trace of this and burn it. There aren’t any papers. I never wrote any of it down. It’s better off that way.
I was just treading water in the Ocean. It was sort of a weird time to think about home, but I did. Trying to think of what to say here isn’t easy. I have one brother by blood. One of the few people that has known me for as long as I can remember and it’s going to be hard to leave that. Then there is my other brother. We ran around this place together for 17 years and I’m not willing to just let that type of friendship go. You will both always be my brothers forever.
I told the man that I wasn’t God, or Jesus, or a disciple, or a prophet, or a gift, or anything close to any of that. I was just some stupid kid swimming during a storm. He refused to believe me and I didn’t have time to argue. I told him everything was going to be okay and then asked him what happened. He told me he was on a large boat that was giving a tour of the local oceanic wildlife. He estimated that there were about 200 passengers and 25 employees floating in the Atlantic. I guess around halfway through the tour a storm capsized the boat. He described 75 foot waves pounding the starboard. The cabin collapsed, the keel snapped in half, and the hull eventually failed. He had no idea how he got to where he was or where any of the other passengers or crew were currently positioned.
It was never the events that I specifically remembered. I’ve always remembered the car rides when all of us were together. The four of us just riding around. It was always more fun when we didn’t have a destination. It was always more fun when we were jumping off of something, hoping there were no rocks. Those are things that I’m going to take with me. Even though we had no idea what was at the bottom, we all jumped. It would’ve been so much safer to let that moment pass us by, but we did that shit together. That’s all I have to say here.
As soon as I realized the severity of the situation I decided that floating on this piece of driftwood was not the best decision. I told the man to swim behind me and everything would be okay. He said he didn’t know how to swim, and I told him to trust me. Sure enough, he swam right behind me like he had been swimming his whole life. He didn’t know where the boat had capsized, but it was only common sense to follow the trail of debris. Along the way we found larger chunks of the boat floating in this storm. The closer we got, the more intense the storm became. The waves were massive and punishing. We swam harder. As we rose to the top of one of the enormous waves I could see in the distance a large mass of what used to be a boat. I stopped swimming and so did the old man. I asked him what the name of the boat was. He said, “como un león.” I didn’t know what that meant.
Fish sleep and swim at the same time. Imagine that.
We began to approach the incredible mass of wreckage. I realized that sprinkled throughout the chaos were the passengers and crew members of the ship. They were all holding on to random pieces that had once been part of a beautiful puzzle. It’s such a shame that things turned out this way. The shore was no longer in view, but for some reason I had a complete understanding of my positioning. I took no awkward steps and I did not falter in any of my movements. My thoughts were clear and far from cluttered. As the old man and I got close enough to communicate with the stranded strangers, I yelled for everyone to swim towards me. Suddenly, the water immediately surrounding the destroyed ship settled to an eerie calm. The storm raged on all around us, but we were safe.
Until you find yourself it is impossible to lose you. I’m sorry to anyone that thinks they know me, but I still don’t know myself. But there has been one thing I’ve learned. I used to stay awake at night and wonder why things turned out the way they did. I would spend hours just wondering when I was going to get what I deserve. When am I going to get what I deserve? When am I going to get what I want? I realize now how selfish those questions are. I’ve grown out of that shell. Those types of questions are for average people. The only question I have now is this: has anything I’ve done in my life made somebody else’s better? I don’t know.
Like I said, I tried to convince myself that it was just water. The moon and the tides are somehow aligned and maybe that caused it. I just want to believe that nothing spiritual happened. It was just water.
The people gathered around and started firing questions at me. I answered none of them. The old man told them that I was a gift from God. I told them that I was not. I explained to them that if they just swam with me that they would be safe. I could take them to the shore. I would not let them drown. Everything is going to be fine. Once they all agreed to follow me, we started swimming towards the shore. I knew which way to go. There were exactly 226 of us swimming together. After about 20 minutes of swimming, the shore became visible. Once we all made it onto the beach the sun came out and the storm disappeared. Everyone was safe. The grateful people started offering their appreciation for my act. Onlookers rushed over to offer their praise. Some of them were on their cell phones with emergency units, who were obviously on their way. Some people started to ask questions and others tried to take pictures. But I fielded no questions and politely declined all picture requests. I told them that I am nothing special, just some stupid kid in the right place at the right time.
I could have been a hero, but I just walked away. Just walk away. Just walk away.
Just walk away.
Hold the applause.
WW.
Goodbye.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Happy Birthdays
This is going to be late for some and early for others, but I post at my leisure so I don't really care.
First of all Happy Birthday to my Mom and my Grandmother.
Happy Birthday to Bill. Real family.
Happy Birthday to my partners in crime Adrian and Dustin. Gold Medal for life. Lets do this.
Happy Birthday to James and Soap, and even though neither of you will ever read this, you are the closest thing I've ever had to older brothers. Thank you for everything both of you have done for me.
Happy Birthday to Eli. There's a lot that I could say about you, but this is not the time and certainly not the place. One day you'll find whatever it is you are looking for. Trust me.
Aside from that, I'll have something new up soon. And no, if you feel left out I didn't forget you, you just don't have a birthday anywhere near this month.
-
William Wallace
First of all Happy Birthday to my Mom and my Grandmother.
Happy Birthday to Bill. Real family.
Happy Birthday to my partners in crime Adrian and Dustin. Gold Medal for life. Lets do this.
Happy Birthday to James and Soap, and even though neither of you will ever read this, you are the closest thing I've ever had to older brothers. Thank you for everything both of you have done for me.
Happy Birthday to Eli. There's a lot that I could say about you, but this is not the time and certainly not the place. One day you'll find whatever it is you are looking for. Trust me.
Aside from that, I'll have something new up soon. And no, if you feel left out I didn't forget you, you just don't have a birthday anywhere near this month.
-
William Wallace
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Hindsight 20/20
This is for 8 people and 8 people only. If you are wondering if you are one of those 8, then you are not one of the 8. You know who are.
I was just laying there. Completely motionless. Thinking back, I don’t remember if I felt dead. I wish I could remember what dying feels like. I only remember being numb. There was a certain strange urgency to it though. It was like my body was in a hurry to leave itself. I remember not feeling very good about that. Not good at all.
Looking down on your dead body isn’t exactly a common experience anyway. I must have took a pretty good hit to the head at some point, because I also don’t remember how long I was laying there before I was helped. Maybe “helped” isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say that when they put me on that stretcher and ripped me away from my world, that the last thing that they were doing was helping. But who am I to say who helped and who didn’t? They had the medical equipment and the ambulance. At that point I was just dead weight. A tombstone and an inconvenience.
The room was so white. It was bright. My eyes took some time to adjust to the striking whiteness of everything. There was nothing in this room except for a white rose in a white vase. The only discolorations of the room was the green stem of the flower and the dirt that it sat in. In some very foreign way, I could feel some sort of pull from the flower. Not a physical pull. It was a mental pull. I just stood there looking at it. I remember feeling really troubled about this situation. Just as I started to feel comfortable something fell from the ceiling and hit one of the roses petals. It surprised me just as much as it surprised the flower and we flinched in unison. I was terrified to look up and avoided it for as long as I could. Eventually I did look up and nothing was there.
Was I confused? I was way beyond being confused. I crept up to the flower very slowly and saw what had hit the unfortunate petal. A small drop of blood stood as the only blemish on this otherwise beautiful plant. I had so many questions but there was no one there to answer them and that upset me. It upset me because for so long I’d been the one with the answers. I didn’t know what to do. There was no exit to the room. There were no windows. At this point I was surprisingly optimistic. Then the flower wilted and died. I can’t really explain that. There was nothing on the ceiling.
The headlights seemed a lot more distant than they actually were. I guess now it goes without saying. It’s funny how things work themselves out.
Right before it all happened I remember being extremely tired. I didn’t fall asleep though because I wasn’t physically tired, just emotionally exhausted. I was ready to get out. I was so tired of people trying to make me feel like I was leaving when all I ever did was try to love them. I was only trying to help. I wasn’t the one that left. I still haven’t left. Maybe I just didn’t try hard enough. Or maybe they weren’t trying either. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Well, it still matters to me. I still want them to know. But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.
It was so bright. I was terribly uncomfortable in this room. There was no plant there that I could depend on anymore. Just me. I don’t know if I was still alive when I was in this room. I felt alive, but then again I felt nothing so I can’t really say if I was alive or not. The whole incident is still a blur. Exhausted as I was at the time, I was still pretty happy. Actually, I felt great. It was really bad timing to feel great. I’m not even sure if I remember feeling great. A lot of really strange things were happening in my life that could have easily affected my own judgment of how I felt about me. Just when I was thinking about myself for the first time in a long time, a man entered the room from a door that I hadn’t seen and asked me to follow him.
There were hundreds of newspaper articles written about what happened to me, but I’ve only ever read one. It was the first one I saw the day after it happened. The date caught my attention. September 28th, 2009. The headline on the front page read: “YOUNG MAN DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT.” I laughed at first. There was something about “Young Man” that made me laugh. I don’t know why. I started reading the article and it went something like this: “At approximately 1:30 A.M this morning, Andrew James *******, 20, was killed in an automobile accident. His vehicle was struck by a sixteen year old boy, who was not identified at press time, that ran the red light at the intersection of Hercules Road and Newport Gap Pike in Wilmington, Delaware. Alcohol has been mentioned as a possible factor in the accident. Andrew was pronounced dead at the scene, and it is highly possible that he was killed before the paramedics arrived. The other boy is being treated for minor injuries at the Christiana Hospital and is listed in stable condition. Andrew’s family was not available for comment at the time, however the police have hinted that charges may be pressed.”
There was more than that, but that’s all I can remember. I wish I could tell you what it was like, but my memory has faded since that night and now the only memory I have is supplied by that newspaper article. I remember hearing that the coroner said I died of massive head trauma. I guess that’s true. The young boy was drunk when he ran that red light. For a long time I was very angry. I was angry that some stupid kid made a mistake and took my life and he was fine, but I’m not any more. I’m no longer angry. I’ve forgiven him because he meant no harm. He’s currently spending time in the state penitentiary and I wish him the best when he finishes serving his sentence.
I’ve heard about the general reaction from other people. Most of the people that read the articles just turned the page. Some other people used it as an example for their kids. The “Moms Against Drunk Driving” organizations ate it up. They tried to vilify that poor kid and make me some sort of martyr. I’m not a hero, I just had bad timing. A few people that read it talked about it for a couple of weeks. A couple people cried and even less people smiled. The funny thing is out of all of the reactions there were to my death, not one of them satisfied me. I wish the people that turned the page read the article twice. I wish the people that used me as an example turned the page. I wish the people that talked about it for a couple of weeks cried. I wish the people that cried smiled and I wish the people that smiled knew that I was smiling too.
Like I said, I was ripped away from my world. I didn’t think I was ready to let go, but there was an interim period of ten seconds after the accident where I was just kind of staring at my body. Not at all alive, but not quite dead. I was just hovering above myself. I remember feeling weird watching myself lay there. Ultimately, I made the decision not to return to myself. I let go. It was my decision as much as was anyone else’s.
It’s been 10 days since the accident, although I wouldn’t really call it an accident. An accident implies that it wasn’t supposed to happen; that it was a mistake. I’m done believing that it was an accident. There was a reason for what happened to me, I just don’t know what it is yet. When I was alive I was never a highly religious or spiritual person. I was never too concerned on whether there was a God or not, or if we got sent to Heaven or Hell based on our deeds as humans. I’ve read before that “every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.” I always sort of figured that if there was a Heaven or Hell that I would be sent to Hell. That’s not to say I was a bad kid, because I wasn’t. I had always cheated myself out of so much that I assumed I would be denied access to Heaven. Looking back, I disregarded a lot of signs because I refused to ever believe in anything other than myself. I’d let things slip away from me because of my unwillingness to believe in something more. Even now I still only believe in myself.
The man took me from that room to a very large open area that stretched on for miles and miles. There was a long line of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds. People from all walks of life. I couldn’t even see the beginning of the line from where I was standing. I was handed a packet of papers that was to be filled out by the time I reached the front of the line. At the top of the paper was a date: October 21st, 2009. I could only assume that that would be my judgment day. I started looking through the packet of papers to see what kind of information was requested. Instead of filling out the required fields I started writing this very story on the hallowed sheets. Now I’m next in line and I don’t know what to think. My whole life has been all or nothing.
For so long people have gathered and prayed and cried and fought and lived and died over an idea. Over speculation. Over a story. I can’t say that I believe in this anymore than I did when I was alive. I’m not going to use death as a reason to believe. All that I can hope for is that the world remembers me. I hope one day one of you finds these hallowed sheets that were written by a hallowed pen held by a hallowed hand maneuvered by my hallowed mind guided by my hallowed heart. I hope after I’m gone the only memory you have of me are these words. I hope they provide balance and stability. I hope they provide strength. I hope one day you realize that I never made an excuse. I never betrayed a friend. I never turned my back. I never gave in to temptations. I never sat on idle hands. I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope you realize I never turned my back.
I never turned my back.
And I will be back for you.
And this is where the story ends.
And this is where you fall apart.
And this is where the story ends.
William Wallace
Forever GMK.
I was just laying there. Completely motionless. Thinking back, I don’t remember if I felt dead. I wish I could remember what dying feels like. I only remember being numb. There was a certain strange urgency to it though. It was like my body was in a hurry to leave itself. I remember not feeling very good about that. Not good at all.
Looking down on your dead body isn’t exactly a common experience anyway. I must have took a pretty good hit to the head at some point, because I also don’t remember how long I was laying there before I was helped. Maybe “helped” isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say that when they put me on that stretcher and ripped me away from my world, that the last thing that they were doing was helping. But who am I to say who helped and who didn’t? They had the medical equipment and the ambulance. At that point I was just dead weight. A tombstone and an inconvenience.
The room was so white. It was bright. My eyes took some time to adjust to the striking whiteness of everything. There was nothing in this room except for a white rose in a white vase. The only discolorations of the room was the green stem of the flower and the dirt that it sat in. In some very foreign way, I could feel some sort of pull from the flower. Not a physical pull. It was a mental pull. I just stood there looking at it. I remember feeling really troubled about this situation. Just as I started to feel comfortable something fell from the ceiling and hit one of the roses petals. It surprised me just as much as it surprised the flower and we flinched in unison. I was terrified to look up and avoided it for as long as I could. Eventually I did look up and nothing was there.
Was I confused? I was way beyond being confused. I crept up to the flower very slowly and saw what had hit the unfortunate petal. A small drop of blood stood as the only blemish on this otherwise beautiful plant. I had so many questions but there was no one there to answer them and that upset me. It upset me because for so long I’d been the one with the answers. I didn’t know what to do. There was no exit to the room. There were no windows. At this point I was surprisingly optimistic. Then the flower wilted and died. I can’t really explain that. There was nothing on the ceiling.
The headlights seemed a lot more distant than they actually were. I guess now it goes without saying. It’s funny how things work themselves out.
Right before it all happened I remember being extremely tired. I didn’t fall asleep though because I wasn’t physically tired, just emotionally exhausted. I was ready to get out. I was so tired of people trying to make me feel like I was leaving when all I ever did was try to love them. I was only trying to help. I wasn’t the one that left. I still haven’t left. Maybe I just didn’t try hard enough. Or maybe they weren’t trying either. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Well, it still matters to me. I still want them to know. But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.
It was so bright. I was terribly uncomfortable in this room. There was no plant there that I could depend on anymore. Just me. I don’t know if I was still alive when I was in this room. I felt alive, but then again I felt nothing so I can’t really say if I was alive or not. The whole incident is still a blur. Exhausted as I was at the time, I was still pretty happy. Actually, I felt great. It was really bad timing to feel great. I’m not even sure if I remember feeling great. A lot of really strange things were happening in my life that could have easily affected my own judgment of how I felt about me. Just when I was thinking about myself for the first time in a long time, a man entered the room from a door that I hadn’t seen and asked me to follow him.
There were hundreds of newspaper articles written about what happened to me, but I’ve only ever read one. It was the first one I saw the day after it happened. The date caught my attention. September 28th, 2009. The headline on the front page read: “YOUNG MAN DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT.” I laughed at first. There was something about “Young Man” that made me laugh. I don’t know why. I started reading the article and it went something like this: “At approximately 1:30 A.M this morning, Andrew James *******, 20, was killed in an automobile accident. His vehicle was struck by a sixteen year old boy, who was not identified at press time, that ran the red light at the intersection of Hercules Road and Newport Gap Pike in Wilmington, Delaware. Alcohol has been mentioned as a possible factor in the accident. Andrew was pronounced dead at the scene, and it is highly possible that he was killed before the paramedics arrived. The other boy is being treated for minor injuries at the Christiana Hospital and is listed in stable condition. Andrew’s family was not available for comment at the time, however the police have hinted that charges may be pressed.”
There was more than that, but that’s all I can remember. I wish I could tell you what it was like, but my memory has faded since that night and now the only memory I have is supplied by that newspaper article. I remember hearing that the coroner said I died of massive head trauma. I guess that’s true. The young boy was drunk when he ran that red light. For a long time I was very angry. I was angry that some stupid kid made a mistake and took my life and he was fine, but I’m not any more. I’m no longer angry. I’ve forgiven him because he meant no harm. He’s currently spending time in the state penitentiary and I wish him the best when he finishes serving his sentence.
I’ve heard about the general reaction from other people. Most of the people that read the articles just turned the page. Some other people used it as an example for their kids. The “Moms Against Drunk Driving” organizations ate it up. They tried to vilify that poor kid and make me some sort of martyr. I’m not a hero, I just had bad timing. A few people that read it talked about it for a couple of weeks. A couple people cried and even less people smiled. The funny thing is out of all of the reactions there were to my death, not one of them satisfied me. I wish the people that turned the page read the article twice. I wish the people that used me as an example turned the page. I wish the people that talked about it for a couple of weeks cried. I wish the people that cried smiled and I wish the people that smiled knew that I was smiling too.
Like I said, I was ripped away from my world. I didn’t think I was ready to let go, but there was an interim period of ten seconds after the accident where I was just kind of staring at my body. Not at all alive, but not quite dead. I was just hovering above myself. I remember feeling weird watching myself lay there. Ultimately, I made the decision not to return to myself. I let go. It was my decision as much as was anyone else’s.
It’s been 10 days since the accident, although I wouldn’t really call it an accident. An accident implies that it wasn’t supposed to happen; that it was a mistake. I’m done believing that it was an accident. There was a reason for what happened to me, I just don’t know what it is yet. When I was alive I was never a highly religious or spiritual person. I was never too concerned on whether there was a God or not, or if we got sent to Heaven or Hell based on our deeds as humans. I’ve read before that “every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.” I always sort of figured that if there was a Heaven or Hell that I would be sent to Hell. That’s not to say I was a bad kid, because I wasn’t. I had always cheated myself out of so much that I assumed I would be denied access to Heaven. Looking back, I disregarded a lot of signs because I refused to ever believe in anything other than myself. I’d let things slip away from me because of my unwillingness to believe in something more. Even now I still only believe in myself.
The man took me from that room to a very large open area that stretched on for miles and miles. There was a long line of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds. People from all walks of life. I couldn’t even see the beginning of the line from where I was standing. I was handed a packet of papers that was to be filled out by the time I reached the front of the line. At the top of the paper was a date: October 21st, 2009. I could only assume that that would be my judgment day. I started looking through the packet of papers to see what kind of information was requested. Instead of filling out the required fields I started writing this very story on the hallowed sheets. Now I’m next in line and I don’t know what to think. My whole life has been all or nothing.
For so long people have gathered and prayed and cried and fought and lived and died over an idea. Over speculation. Over a story. I can’t say that I believe in this anymore than I did when I was alive. I’m not going to use death as a reason to believe. All that I can hope for is that the world remembers me. I hope one day one of you finds these hallowed sheets that were written by a hallowed pen held by a hallowed hand maneuvered by my hallowed mind guided by my hallowed heart. I hope after I’m gone the only memory you have of me are these words. I hope they provide balance and stability. I hope they provide strength. I hope one day you realize that I never made an excuse. I never betrayed a friend. I never turned my back. I never gave in to temptations. I never sat on idle hands. I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.
I hope you realize I never turned my back.
I never turned my back.
And I will be back for you.
And this is where the story ends.
And this is where you fall apart.
And this is where the story ends.
William Wallace
Forever GMK.
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