there was a long silence and the twittering of some strange desert bird that didn't quite register in my mind. i could almost hear the violinist trying to clear his parched throat as he rubbed at his cracked lips with the back of his hand, his bow hand. he stared at me, patiently and expectantly.
"well," i asked, "aren't you going to play for me."
"it's no use," he said sadly, "you can't dance."
he reminded me of the wizard of oz, the fraud behind the curtain running the smoke-and-mirrors show. he leaned one shoulder up against the fence. looking down at my hands, i realized i had been nervously biting at my cuticle. everything felt surreal, my senses overloaded, i saw through a fog of bitter tears that continued to come in heaves. "then tell me what to do," i said.
"i can't. i can only play. you have to follow the music. if you don't, it's all wrong." he shook his head and repeated, "all wrong. we can't be held responsible."
the tears came again and i found it hard to breathe for a moment. "then you can't tell me what to do?" i managed. the violinist shook his head grimly. "...and the cheshire cat?"
"he's gone, too." he looked down and kicked at some pebbles on the ground. "he never did help alice. anyway, he could only tell people what they thought they needed to know -- he had no real direction."
"so you killed him?" i asked, indignant, "or had him killed?"
"oh no!" said the violinist, shaking his head violently. "it was them," he said through gritted teeth, looking away as if he was talking to someone else. "millions of them!"
my tears stopped, and i trembled coldly, shocked, broken-down, and disillusioned. the violinist seemed to reflect how i felt, what i had become. but he could make beautiful music. "well?"
"you could pour us a glass of that whisky," he offered.
"but i haven't bought it yet," i whispered.
"...but i know you will. it's already here for me." he began to move away. i trembled at his words and turned to ice.
"will i see you again?" i asked softly, but he was already gone. as usual, only i had heard my words.
she floated through my field of vision, whisked away in someone's arms into another room, the type of image one vaguely remembers as an emotion revealing itself as an image. i handed the assistant my debit card and signed the receipt. she handed me some papers and a clay paw print. i gathered up what remained and left the building.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
the violinist
february 4, 2006.
we took the longest walk we had taken together in months. in spite of the loss of one leg, she kept pulling at the leash until we had reached the mailbox. i would guess the distance from my apartment to the mailbox was at least two full city blocks. even going uphill, she didn't slow.
it was a cloudless day. i carried her back, satisfied that we had made it so far.
february 7, 2006.
i let her out the door and watched her wet beside the tree in front, then called her back inside. it was about 5:30. i drained the navy beans that had been cooking all day in the crock pot, dumped them into a roasting pan, smothered them in tomato sauce and molasses, and added some chopped fresh onion and salt for good measure.
they smelled so good.
shortly after six, i let her out again. the sun had started to set behind the mountains. she walked slowly around the area in front of my apartment and sniffed. this was her usual routine. i watched to see when she was done to make sure she wouldn't bother any people who might walk by and so that i could let her in.
she crouched down, and then immediately raised up again. she looked at me and ran around a bit, then crouched down again and raised up.
i slid on some flip-flops, grabbed her leash, and walked her down to the grass. it had just been watered, and it was cold on my feet. she crouched down. her eyes were wide and staring. i could tell by her body language that she was in distress. i returned to my apartment and paged frantically through my books and magazines on pet health care, but came up with nothing i didn't already know, nothing i wasn't already putting into practice, nothing i hadn't considered or tried.
i remember that night very vividly because mikel came over, and i offered him some beans. sandy was lying on the dining room floor, obviously distressed, and i was doing my best to hold myself together.
mikel left, and i drove to hastings. i bought a book on home vetrinary care, but i knew i was desperate. i got it home, and after several more failed attempts to walk sandy, hoping something would change, that this was just another obstacle to overcome, i sat down and looked for some kind of treatment for this problem. there was nothing but one sentence suggesting the need for professional care.
i don't know why i didn't pick up the phone right then and call the emergency number for my vetrinarian. perhaps i was hoping i would wake up the next morning and discover that the problem had taken care of itself. i carried sandy down the steps in front of my apartment, and put her down. she continued to crouch down. some feces literally fell onto the pavement, and i left them there. i carried her back inside and laid with her on the floor until, mentally exhausted, i fell asleep.
february 8, 2006.
i woke the next morning to find nothing had changed. i repeatedly let her outside, desperately hoping for a sudden improvement, but there was none. i prayed, i forced myself to shave and dress for work, but at 7:30, i was calling my vet.
the receptionist said that my vet was gone, but i could see the other one. i said any vet was fine. her schedule was full, so i had to wait for them to return my call. in the meantime, i called the school where i worked and told them i was not coming in.
the phone rang. i was able to get in at 9:00. i grabbed sandy's file and my car keys, and we were off.
does the phrase, "last chance" really mean anything to us? do we really understand what "never" means, as in, "this is my last chance to drive with sandy in the car," or, "i will never again put this leash on this collar to go for a walk"? we always hope for more, look forward to another time. months later, even when i was locking my apartment for the last time, having left the keys on the counter, i did not leave with a sense of finality. i had closed this door so many times. does it ever really occur to us at the time we are closing a door that this door may never be opened again? or even when our logic knows better, are we still haunted by an irrational sense of anticipation that we will, someday, be doing this again?
as i drove with sandy on the passenger seat, i spoke softly to her. she had put me through some pretty frightening situations before, and all my heart wanted to be hopeful, but there was an impending sense of finality today. yet, i could not imagine driving across town with sandy, and driving back without her.
the waiting area was deserted and quiet, except for one upper-middle-aged woman with a timid white cat in a crate. after signing in, i sat across from the woman with sandy in my arms, trying to comfort her as best i could, haunted by the knowledge that she hadn't been able to relieve herself since 5:30 the night before, trying to imagine the discomfort this would cause, and yet trying to put it out of my mind so i could deal rationally with the situation.
"how old is your dog." this was the typical conversation-starter for the waiting room at my vetrinarian's office, and normally i enjoyed answering such questions because although she was fifteen, she didn't look it. even after her amputation, she normally appeared quite spry. today, however, i felt i was going to break down if i started talking. however, i didn't want to be rude.
"she's fifteen." the woman smiled mildly at this and looked right at sandy. i really was afraid she would start feeling sorry for sandy after noticing the loss of her leg, but she didn't mention it.
instead, she said, "she has human eyes."
the tears started to come, but i managed to smile. "i know," i said.
"...eyes just like a human," the woman repeated softly to herself.
the receptionist called my name, the woman wished me luck.
i don't know how to explain the x-rays, the decision to euthanize, the tranquilizer, the time they gave me alone with sandy, repeating the word "calm" over and over in a soothing voice, both for her benefit and mine. i did manage to keep my head enough to request that the procedure be done outside, not under the white ceiling, not near the jars of gauze and alcohol, the smell of absolute sterility.
she was on my lap on a chair under a tree. it was a perfect day, probably 75 degrees, with a light breeze. i heard my voice distantly, apologizing for not being a better owner, assuring her i was giving her to the perfect master, she wouldn't need me any more. i saw them put the needle in, and it seemed curiously routine, as if i had seen this done many times before. i asked how long it would take. she said, "she is already gone."
i played mozart's requiem in my car as i was leaving, stopping to buy a bottle of single-malt scotch on my way home.
vaguely, as though in another room, came the deep dark strains of the violin. a sudden coldness passed over me, and i felt indescribably out of synch with its strains. something passed over me, and i was irreversibly changed.
from around the corner of the building came the violinist. he was standing on the other side of the chain-link fence. unshaven and slightly overweight in the midsection, he was dressed in a navy suit, but the suit was stained in places, frayed in others. he was playing a violin that was so weathered, it looked like it had been left out in the rain during monsoon season, and then set out in the desert sun to dry.
he stopped playing, looked at me, and bowed.
“so, you’re the violinist?” i inquired.
“yes,” he said, “that’s me.”
we took the longest walk we had taken together in months. in spite of the loss of one leg, she kept pulling at the leash until we had reached the mailbox. i would guess the distance from my apartment to the mailbox was at least two full city blocks. even going uphill, she didn't slow.
it was a cloudless day. i carried her back, satisfied that we had made it so far.
february 7, 2006.
i let her out the door and watched her wet beside the tree in front, then called her back inside. it was about 5:30. i drained the navy beans that had been cooking all day in the crock pot, dumped them into a roasting pan, smothered them in tomato sauce and molasses, and added some chopped fresh onion and salt for good measure.
they smelled so good.
shortly after six, i let her out again. the sun had started to set behind the mountains. she walked slowly around the area in front of my apartment and sniffed. this was her usual routine. i watched to see when she was done to make sure she wouldn't bother any people who might walk by and so that i could let her in.
she crouched down, and then immediately raised up again. she looked at me and ran around a bit, then crouched down again and raised up.
i slid on some flip-flops, grabbed her leash, and walked her down to the grass. it had just been watered, and it was cold on my feet. she crouched down. her eyes were wide and staring. i could tell by her body language that she was in distress. i returned to my apartment and paged frantically through my books and magazines on pet health care, but came up with nothing i didn't already know, nothing i wasn't already putting into practice, nothing i hadn't considered or tried.
i remember that night very vividly because mikel came over, and i offered him some beans. sandy was lying on the dining room floor, obviously distressed, and i was doing my best to hold myself together.
mikel left, and i drove to hastings. i bought a book on home vetrinary care, but i knew i was desperate. i got it home, and after several more failed attempts to walk sandy, hoping something would change, that this was just another obstacle to overcome, i sat down and looked for some kind of treatment for this problem. there was nothing but one sentence suggesting the need for professional care.
i don't know why i didn't pick up the phone right then and call the emergency number for my vetrinarian. perhaps i was hoping i would wake up the next morning and discover that the problem had taken care of itself. i carried sandy down the steps in front of my apartment, and put her down. she continued to crouch down. some feces literally fell onto the pavement, and i left them there. i carried her back inside and laid with her on the floor until, mentally exhausted, i fell asleep.
february 8, 2006.
i woke the next morning to find nothing had changed. i repeatedly let her outside, desperately hoping for a sudden improvement, but there was none. i prayed, i forced myself to shave and dress for work, but at 7:30, i was calling my vet.
the receptionist said that my vet was gone, but i could see the other one. i said any vet was fine. her schedule was full, so i had to wait for them to return my call. in the meantime, i called the school where i worked and told them i was not coming in.
the phone rang. i was able to get in at 9:00. i grabbed sandy's file and my car keys, and we were off.
does the phrase, "last chance" really mean anything to us? do we really understand what "never" means, as in, "this is my last chance to drive with sandy in the car," or, "i will never again put this leash on this collar to go for a walk"? we always hope for more, look forward to another time. months later, even when i was locking my apartment for the last time, having left the keys on the counter, i did not leave with a sense of finality. i had closed this door so many times. does it ever really occur to us at the time we are closing a door that this door may never be opened again? or even when our logic knows better, are we still haunted by an irrational sense of anticipation that we will, someday, be doing this again?
as i drove with sandy on the passenger seat, i spoke softly to her. she had put me through some pretty frightening situations before, and all my heart wanted to be hopeful, but there was an impending sense of finality today. yet, i could not imagine driving across town with sandy, and driving back without her.
the waiting area was deserted and quiet, except for one upper-middle-aged woman with a timid white cat in a crate. after signing in, i sat across from the woman with sandy in my arms, trying to comfort her as best i could, haunted by the knowledge that she hadn't been able to relieve herself since 5:30 the night before, trying to imagine the discomfort this would cause, and yet trying to put it out of my mind so i could deal rationally with the situation.
"how old is your dog." this was the typical conversation-starter for the waiting room at my vetrinarian's office, and normally i enjoyed answering such questions because although she was fifteen, she didn't look it. even after her amputation, she normally appeared quite spry. today, however, i felt i was going to break down if i started talking. however, i didn't want to be rude.
"she's fifteen." the woman smiled mildly at this and looked right at sandy. i really was afraid she would start feeling sorry for sandy after noticing the loss of her leg, but she didn't mention it.
instead, she said, "she has human eyes."
the tears started to come, but i managed to smile. "i know," i said.
"...eyes just like a human," the woman repeated softly to herself.
the receptionist called my name, the woman wished me luck.
i don't know how to explain the x-rays, the decision to euthanize, the tranquilizer, the time they gave me alone with sandy, repeating the word "calm" over and over in a soothing voice, both for her benefit and mine. i did manage to keep my head enough to request that the procedure be done outside, not under the white ceiling, not near the jars of gauze and alcohol, the smell of absolute sterility.
she was on my lap on a chair under a tree. it was a perfect day, probably 75 degrees, with a light breeze. i heard my voice distantly, apologizing for not being a better owner, assuring her i was giving her to the perfect master, she wouldn't need me any more. i saw them put the needle in, and it seemed curiously routine, as if i had seen this done many times before. i asked how long it would take. she said, "she is already gone."
i played mozart's requiem in my car as i was leaving, stopping to buy a bottle of single-malt scotch on my way home.
vaguely, as though in another room, came the deep dark strains of the violin. a sudden coldness passed over me, and i felt indescribably out of synch with its strains. something passed over me, and i was irreversibly changed.
from around the corner of the building came the violinist. he was standing on the other side of the chain-link fence. unshaven and slightly overweight in the midsection, he was dressed in a navy suit, but the suit was stained in places, frayed in others. he was playing a violin that was so weathered, it looked like it had been left out in the rain during monsoon season, and then set out in the desert sun to dry.
he stopped playing, looked at me, and bowed.
“so, you’re the violinist?” i inquired.
“yes,” he said, “that’s me.”
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
flesh would melt
to evaporate
to turn to steam
to dissipate
i stare at my handwriting scrawled on a 3x5 notecard and sigh. yesterday, during 4th block, i erupted at a student who had rudely slept through my class, then woke up at the end of class and ate handfuls of food she had hidden in her purse.
later that night, i lay awake, trying to remember a line from shakespeare's hamlet. something about sullied flesh melting. or was it thawing? thawing or melting?
it was melting and thawing. but was it melting first, then thawing? that wouldn't make any sense. it had to thaw first, then melt. what was the difference between thawing and melting?
"okay, you know what? you don't need to be here. why do you even come to school?"
"i was listening! i could hear every word you said!"
"there's no way! i called on you to read, and you didn't respond; how could you be listening? why don't you just drop out of school?"
i looked it up. the exact line was :
o, that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
