i don't know how long i stood there, completely lost inside my head, but by the time i came to my senses and decided to close the door, my front right side, the side facing the rain, was completely soaked. it was the silence, or maybe the sound of the rain in the midst of a thick silence, that brought me back. it was then i realized i was being watched by a boy standing out in the rain. it was a boy who i had seen around the apartment complex, and who sometimes pet my dog. he stood as silent and invisible as the air.
honestly, i was a startled and a little embarrassed to be caught in my reverie. the boy was soaked, arms crossed, shivering in the rain. what the hell was he doing out here in the rain?
"where's your dog?" he asked.
i caught my eyes automatically shifting to the ground, scanning. i didn't say anything for a minute. just stood there. the boy had seen her, had pet her when she had three legs. for some reason it didn't bother me that he had asked, i had to talk about it, if only for a second. "she died," i said, "remember she was sick? she died."
he stood in the rain. neither one of us spoke. i was starting to shiver myself. was it the rain?
the conversation must have ended somehow. i don't remember him saying, "i'm sorry." i don't even remember closing the door and going back inside. i just remember sitting on the floor of my apartment, reading my richard adams novel, and feeling better.
looking back, when i try to remember that moment, i always remember the boy saying something about the rain washing things away, making them new again. but he was a little boy, and lacked that kind of insight. i remembered thinking about something c.s. lewis had written. we may never meet those we love again, but if we don't, it is because we no longer need them. at that moment, for example, i didn't even need a friend. i just needed someone to whom i could say, "my dog is dead; i killed my dog."
the rain went on until morning.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
the rain, part one
that's when i saw the black clouds coming over the mountains. they were like a child hiding in the closet, ready to jump out and startle the first person who walks by. when i first noticed the clouds, the wind immediately began to blow. i stood stupidly in the middle of the parking lot for a couple of seconds, holding my little walmart sacks filled with the daily refuse of my existence, just watching the clouds, my thinning hair and the garbage sacks being blown hectically from all sides. finally, i tossed the two bags into the dumpster and walked home.
when the sun went down, it started to rain, and it rained all night. i was reading in my bedroom with the window cracked so i could smell the ozone and wet earth. for once, i could not hear the neighbors talking. for once, there were no kids playing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment; just the calming hush of millions of gallons of water being diffused over the surface of the mohave desert.
i stepped outside just once, for no good reason at all. watching the rain didn't particularly interest me at the time. i was not one to go for walks in it. to be honest, i just stood with the door open and my arms crossed, looking down at the wet rocky ground, to where the trunks of the trees met the earth, meditating on nothing. on the rain. if i was a smoker, i thought, i'd have a cigarette right now.
when the sun went down, it started to rain, and it rained all night. i was reading in my bedroom with the window cracked so i could smell the ozone and wet earth. for once, i could not hear the neighbors talking. for once, there were no kids playing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment; just the calming hush of millions of gallons of water being diffused over the surface of the mohave desert.
i stepped outside just once, for no good reason at all. watching the rain didn't particularly interest me at the time. i was not one to go for walks in it. to be honest, i just stood with the door open and my arms crossed, looking down at the wet rocky ground, to where the trunks of the trees met the earth, meditating on nothing. on the rain. if i was a smoker, i thought, i'd have a cigarette right now.
Monday, March 5, 2007
falling completely to pieces
i woke up on the floor of my apartment, all tangled up in a sleeping bag. i vaguely recalled waking up at 4:00 and starting a movie. i looked at the clock. it was 7:30. i looked at the tv. it said, "sony dvd" with a blue background that faded to white. must have stopped the movie.
i lay there for a few minutes, reflecting on the implications of watching a movie at four in the morning, thankful i could do something like that without the awkward scrutiny others would experience from spouse, roommate. it's one of those funny things about people that they tend to think only the people around them have idiosyncracies. obviously, these people have never worked in a hospital, or taught in a school, or experienced anything tragic or unexpected in their ordinary lives.
untwisting myself from the sleeping bag, i pulled on a worn beastie boys t-shirt and walked to the bathroom. my reflection was pale, ghostly, but somehow serene. my hair was a staticky mess. i ran some water into my palm and patted it down, then shaved. it's a funny peculiarity about me that no matter what happens, i feel compelled to shave. it's not just that it makes me feel better -- it makes me get in touch with myself, as if my whiskers somehow blurred the real me, like some kind of interference with the reception of my being. not that i haven't gone without shaving, but i've always felt on-edge, anxious, like i'm one step from falling completely to pieces.
i did thirty crunches and thirty push-ups, then rinsed off in the shower, promising myself i'd do yoga later on. i juiced two grapefruits with one lime and downed it in one shot. i walked to the mailbox, opened it with the key, fully knowing that the mail did not come until early afternoon. i sat in the community hot tub while the maintenance man cleaned the pool. i started reading a book, richard adams' the plague dogs, for the third time. i kept checking the fridge for something to eat, unable to bring myself to touch the leftover baked beans.
sometime in the afternoon, i turned on the tv and started watching animal precinct, the show about people who abuse or neglect their animals and the people who prosecute them and bring them to justice. every time an animal had to be put down, i wept, and i became indignant at the mild sentences most of the violators received. after a couple hours, i turned off the tv and decided to take the garbage out.
i lay there for a few minutes, reflecting on the implications of watching a movie at four in the morning, thankful i could do something like that without the awkward scrutiny others would experience from spouse, roommate. it's one of those funny things about people that they tend to think only the people around them have idiosyncracies. obviously, these people have never worked in a hospital, or taught in a school, or experienced anything tragic or unexpected in their ordinary lives.
untwisting myself from the sleeping bag, i pulled on a worn beastie boys t-shirt and walked to the bathroom. my reflection was pale, ghostly, but somehow serene. my hair was a staticky mess. i ran some water into my palm and patted it down, then shaved. it's a funny peculiarity about me that no matter what happens, i feel compelled to shave. it's not just that it makes me feel better -- it makes me get in touch with myself, as if my whiskers somehow blurred the real me, like some kind of interference with the reception of my being. not that i haven't gone without shaving, but i've always felt on-edge, anxious, like i'm one step from falling completely to pieces.
i did thirty crunches and thirty push-ups, then rinsed off in the shower, promising myself i'd do yoga later on. i juiced two grapefruits with one lime and downed it in one shot. i walked to the mailbox, opened it with the key, fully knowing that the mail did not come until early afternoon. i sat in the community hot tub while the maintenance man cleaned the pool. i started reading a book, richard adams' the plague dogs, for the third time. i kept checking the fridge for something to eat, unable to bring myself to touch the leftover baked beans.
sometime in the afternoon, i turned on the tv and started watching animal precinct, the show about people who abuse or neglect their animals and the people who prosecute them and bring them to justice. every time an animal had to be put down, i wept, and i became indignant at the mild sentences most of the violators received. after a couple hours, i turned off the tv and decided to take the garbage out.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
today st. francis, tomorrow the world
today the snow is blowing and school has been called off. the snow has buried the pineapple scraps i put out for the rabbits; it has buried st. francis up to his knees, and much more is yet to come.
yesterday, i helped my brother push his car out after he got stuck in his own driveway. in spite of all the snow, it was a rather mild day for a winter in south dakota. i would take this any day, i thought as i watched my brother driving his car back and forth, trying to work his car out of the ruts, over those cold, merciless days when the thermometer drops far below zero.
i made spaghetti and opened up a myspace account, which was probably a bad idea, read a little bit. if only i could start going for a morning run, i know i would feel so much better. running here is a "weather permitting" type of activity, and the weather is certainly not permitting.
st. francis looks down at the spot where i buried tiger. i consider a story i once read about st. francis taming a wild wolf who had been eating the children of a certain village for his dinner. francis spoke softly to the wolf, and then informed the villagers that the wolf had repented of its sins and promised to take Child off its menu. francis also instructed the villagers to keep the wolf well-fed, probably good advice. the villagers co-existed with the wolf until he died of natural causes.
st. francis could save a wolf, i think, but i was not able to save a dog named tiger.
Friday, February 23, 2007
by the fence
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.
"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.
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!
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