An Organic Malfunction

A glitch in the system.

A hormone releases.

Enveloping sadness

Secretes, verging madness.

Despondent dejection,

A subtle intrusion,

Appears undetected

Obscured and restricted.

A muted, dull tide

Rises slow in succession

Until the god-child

Is awoken and puzzled.

"The source of this gloom

remains hidden from me."

Reflexively Mind guts

the archives of memory.

Backwardly clambering,

Searching for clarity.

Not forgetful, unforgiving

Mind uncovers all past erring.

A mistep in dancing,

Regrets proving fancy.

A toil in vain,

A shipwreck of shame.

Personality, jealously

Rivalry, negligence.

With a glance at the past

Melancholy's explained

By a fear that the god-child

Will foible again.

An organic malfunction,

Lies deeply embedded

Within the strange folds

Of biological credit.

Disappearing as quickly

As it came to existence

It slips away silently,

Carefully reticent.

Mind, secretion has ended

The clouds have dispelled.

There's no need to expound

On these memories found.

But the Mind keeps 

Explaining,

Indicting, and

Claiming.

'Til out of whole cloth

A depression is gaining-

Momentum and strength

And perversion and greed!

The god-child is crestfallen,

For she simply agreed.

Recurring Dream

Dream #1

The hot summer afternoon is thick and caramelized. Globs of minutes and crystalized seconds amalgamate into a heavy mound that grows bigger and bigger ..and bigger.... and bigger, and then the blob gives way to gravity, pulling against the sticky goo until it slides a few millimeters down the inside of an upside down plastic honey bear.

Bored, I grab the bottle and run upstairs to the hot deck and into the air-conditioned house. As I enter I am met with a laugh. A laugh that tickles my temporal lobe, but sends shocks to my pre-frontal cortex. A laugh that--

That laugh.

My blood drains.

That vibrant explosion of vocal happiness. I don't have to look to know that her eyes are closed, her head is thrown back, and her hand is set on her collar bone as if she was keeping the laugh from bursting out of her vocal chords.

I turn the corner and cards flutter into my face from across the room. I swat them away, but the queen of hearts gets stuck in my hair. "Whoops...," Caleb breathes out a laugh, shakes his head smiling, and then looks up matter-of-factly and points to them with a grin, "let me try that one again. Just onnnne second" He holds up his hands indicating that everyone should wait as he snatches each card around the room. The 16-year-old Clint laughs bashfully, rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the ground smiling. "Ahhhhh!!! Blozodianlainagian!" Andre swings into the room via a gigantic glass chandelier, yelling and beating his shirtless chest and then he jumps out the window. "Yeah, I'm excited for college," Kirsten explains to them. "But I'm afraid to talk to boys." "Do you want to hear the new song I wrote?" Clint asks eagerly, but humbly. And then she sees me and gasps--

"George!"

Her hand reaches to her collar bone to keep the emotion from bursting out of her heart. I stare horrified. The she laughs, "How's it going Georgie?

I'm horrified.

I can't breath, I can't move, I can't--

"Hey Keith, look who's here."

"Oh wow, George. How have you--"

"Okay! okay. I'm ready," Caleb jumps in between us to face them. He smiles widely and offers them the deck. "Pick a card, any card." His eyebrows bounce with excitement. "Okay...And you don't have to, uh...you don't have to, uh....you don't have to pick..."

Words dissolve around me, but my stare pierces through, spotlighting the two adult profiles.

They are not supposed to be here.

Not here at the Lindon house. Why are they here? They can only be here when Caleb is 1, and Kirsten needs to be 12.

My hand reaches to my head in confusion.

What the Crap is going on? Why did I think that they were...? Why do we live with Lane and Marcia now? If they are here, then why haven't we been with them for the last 8 years?

I look up and they hand Caleb an authentic Chinese finger trap, Kirsten's caressing a Cambodian cloth doll, Clint's plucking a Guatemalan lute and Andre's admiring his new African running sandals.

...A vacation? They've been on ...vacation?

"And Rome was just incredible. But Venice took my breath away. And the Louvre! I finally got to see the Louvre. Keith got to go once before, but I had to stay behind to take care of kids."

"I loved Moscow because I love Tetris," he interjects "I've won 3 national competitions in Chess, and I'm the current World Champion of board games. But my favorite thing has been following Star Trek Conventions around the globe." He lifts his hand over his heart and activates his communicator. "Beam me up, Scottie."

Everyone laughs, except me.

"You guys, Jerusalem was such a spiritual experience. I wrote a book about it. In fact, I've written 5 books. Can you believe that? Do you want a signed copy?"

My siblings are laughing and smiling. Andre is 5 and he keeps trying to jump into our mom's arms, but she's not paying attention. She's laughing and signing her name in books. She throws me a copy and I open the front cover: "Don't ever give up your dreams, -Nan."

I stare at the words. I stare. and stare. and stare. and then: "Where have you been?" I whisper. Commotion and laughter continues.

"Where have you been!" I shriek.

They both look up with frozen smiles..."What?"

"We thought you were dead! We had a funeral!" Silence. "It's been years! and you were on vacation? You've been on a vacation! We're your children..." I pause anxiously searching for their remorse. She stares back at me and her frozen smile melts into confusion. "You left us!" I scream and then start sobbing and gasping for air. "Other people had to take us! You made other people take your responsibility so that you could have fun! I'm so embarrassed, I'm so ashamed!" Choking on sobs, I can hardly speak. "These kids needed you! ....I needed you! You left us! What were you thinking?!" I throw my hand up onto my collar bone to keep the pain from bursting out of my chest.

Her stare turns blank. He grabs his wrist and feels his watch. My siblings stare at me horrified.

"Well, anyways we just wanted to stop by and say hi and give you some souvenirs, kids. I hope you liked them." She starts laughing. "You guys have really grown up!"

"Yeah, Clint you look just like me now," he says smiling happily. Clint turns to him with deep, sad eyes.

"K, Keith, we've got to catch our next flight. We will miss you guys so much! Muah! Muah! Love you!"

"Bye." Caleb offers with a half smile and a little wave, cards dropping from his clutch. Yellow sunshine follows them out the door leaving behind grey walls and shadows. They leave and the front door shuts. Click.

Everyone stares.

I launch the honey bear bottle and it shatters against the closed door. Time splatters in a sticky mess over our clothes and sticks between our fingers.

...and then I awake.

Dream #2:

"You didn't know that?" Mike stares at me with his mouth half open in disbelief. "Yeah, Keith is still alive."

Honk-Honk.

He looks over his shoulder, and turns back with a smile. "Whelp, gotta go." He throws open the door, his soccer bag swings against the doorframe and gets caught on the door handle. He jerks it and toy semi truck falls out a pocket and lands onto the weather stripping.

The door slams noiselessly, and a floating thought bubble falls gently to the ground displaying the word: "Crash!"

Lane walks anxiously into the entry way and throws open the coat closet pulling out coats. "Are you going to Marci's piano concert? We have to leave in 5 minutes."

He tosses black velvet coats out of the closet and they float across the house, looking for their owners.

"Is my dad still alive?"

"Huh?" Lane turns slightly from his task, positioning his good ear to hear my question.

"I thought my dad was dead!"

He turns suddenly and stares at me intently. "What do you mean?"

"Mike said my dad is alive! Is that true!?"

"Well, barely." Lane turns back to the closet and continues throwing out velvet coats.

"You LIED to ME!!! Look at me!"

Lane turns again, "What are you talking about? No one lied to you."

"What do you mean no one lied to me?! I THOUGHT MY DAD WAS-"

Suddenly my gaze is caught by an abandoned nail sticking out of the  drywall - the remains of a hanging memory. It was where words to Lullaby hung, but over the years the letters fell off one by one until the canvas was blank.

"George," Lane walked over, "We never took him off life-support, so technically he's still alive. But in all reality, he's been a vegetable this entire time-"

"A vegetable? Don't call my Father a vegetable!"

"George, this is why we didn't tell you. Knowing your mom and your dad both died gave you the closure you needed to move on with your life. It was the best decision we knew to make."

"How often do you get to seen him?"

"I've only seen him a couple times since the accident."

"He's been alive 10 years and you've only seen him twice?!!!"

The image surfaces in my mind. Donned in faded yellow robe and pink pajamas, shriveled in his wheelchair, staring at nothing for 10 years. He stopped listening for the sounds of his children, because they never came.

...and then I awake.

Dream #3 - framework only

Ring, ring.

"Hello?" 

"George, this is Lane. Your father just died. We need to start funeral arrangements. Please come to the house so we can discuss more."

Click.

"Who was that, George?" asked a familar aquaintance. 

"It was my uncle. He said that my dad is finally dead," I explained nonchalantly. 

"I thought your dad died in that car accident 12 years ago?" the friend inquired. 

Confused, I search my memories.

"No, he's been alive. He had pretty severe brain injuries, but he can still function. He talks a little bit, but not very much. He just sits and watches TV all day. At least that's what I'm told. I've never been by to visit him." 

"Where is he staying?" the familiar aquaintance asks.

"Yes, in a rehab home, just down the street from here."

"Why haven't you ever tried to visit him?" they ask.

"I don't know. I've been busy. I forgot about him," I shrug.

The aquaintence stares at me in disgust, "I can't believe your dad has been alive this whole time and you forgot about him. What kind of a daughter are you?"

...and then I awake. 

  

The Bloodless Battle

This is a dark piece. I've struggled with an unhealthy view of myself, especially in middle school and college. This story attempts to vocalize the thoughts that built a solid neurological pathway within my mind. I feel like I've finally overcome this dark period of my life, but I don't want to forget how I got out of it just in case it happens again. Although my faith is shaky and I often question God's existence, I can't deny that I found comfort by turning to God during these despairing moments of irrationality. 

------------------------------------

What the heck is going on?!

I screamed inside my thoughts. It was just another one of my dramatic monologues crashing through the insides of my brain.

Realistically, you'll never accomplish anything.

A sigh of relief.

It was better to admit it inside my head, rather than wonder if it was true.

You're ugly and wretched.

...I hate myself.

Aerosol Vitriol sprayed my inner thoughts, ripping holes through the delicate edifice of self-respect...but I was wielding the can, I was creating the inner dialog. So goes the epic collision with reason, but Thomas Paine could not save me now.

I was trapped inside my mind.

You're worthless

and heartless

and selfish

and stupid.

I know, I know.

You're pathetic. Stop trying.

...I know, I hate myself.

Heartless, unloved, unloving, you're pathetic and worthless.

Ugly, and remember that time when you failed, and again this other time. You always try, but fail. You think you have potential, but you never succeed.

No, I'm better than this person, and better than this other person. But wait, I guess this person is better than me and this person is better than me. And why are you comparing yourself at all? You're not supposed to compare. You're bad. You only love yourself, you don't care about anyone or anything. You're selfish and lonely. You'll always be alone because no one wants to be with a selfish bitch like you. Stop trying you wretch. You're a disaster. I hate you. Why did I have to be you. You were the worst person I could have been.................................................

"I hate myself."

...surprised, I looked around and then suddenly realized that it was me who had spoken...out loud. My thoughts had suddenly escaped into a verbal declaration. Did anyone hear that? No. I smiled. I'm so weird. Why would I say that out loud?  My eyes closed softly, chin held high. Because I could admit it and still be strong. I could live with my constant failure.

-and then I crumpled into a ball and started sobbing.

A sudden burst of emotion would not seem quite so sporadic if you could hear the thoughts she hears.

My body ached, my head reeled, my heart bled. But at least this time the cognition of black tar was evicted through water droplets falling from my eyes. It was worse when my numbness held it captive. Seconds, minutes, hours, eons. How long have I been crying?

And then my sobs ran out. My tears welled to the brim, then settled.

What just happened? A whispered prayer fell from my lips and I waited for heaven - though the transmission speed is always unpredictable. However, this time God seemed relieved that I had finally asked and His response came quickly. Peace suddenly poured over my dusty wits, revealing a muddy disarray deep inside the caverns of this girl's grasp with self-reality. The prayer did not nothing to comfort, but it did provide clarity and my thoughts were exposed for what they truly were, broken and distorted.

I rolled out of the crumbled ball onto my back, exhausted. I stared at the ceiling and picked out images in the paint's texture.

A cat, a balloon, a house, a backward "S,"

another cat.

enough. Enough. I slowly sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees and I sharply whispered my counter, charged with defiance:

"I am a beautiful daughter of God, loving and capable."

The words were given to me by the graces of an armored angel. I called her mom, though she preferred Nancy.

Self Portrait

A well of deep azure

 Sinking in blue

 …so she floats atop sunbeams to embellish her hue.

Dada

“What does that one look like, georgie?” My dada and I looked through the branches of the big tree that towered over our little basement apartment. Big fluffy clouds hung in the sky forming shapes to awaken even the dullest imagination. I smiled at this new game. We laid on our backs next to each other and my dada pointed out frogs, elephants, and donuts hidden in the cumulous blanket.

 The memory is more like a shadow that quivers in and out of focus. I can’t quite grasp it from the archives of my mind. I don’t think I could even talk yet, but I remember lying there and my eyes didn’t hurt even though we were looking strait up into the sky. Soft white seed balls fell from the tree and piled up around us like warm snow.

 “Dada” was my first word.

Unconscious Philosophers

I’ve met a lot of unconscious philosophers who don’t know they are philosophers; instead they see themselves as spigots of clear truth not noticing that ideas ripple across reflection.

 …our paradigms collide.

 At first they annoy me because…well, philosophers are annoying. They have ideologies that expand and grow, but that growth is ultimately locked within the confine of their limited sphere. They don’t know my experiences; they don’t have my knowledge. How can they assume that they are right?

 But I’m an unconscious philosopher too…and I also live by assumptions. You have to live by assumptions because without assumptions you’d be stuck in bed with Descartes ranting “I think! Therefore I am…unable to get out of bed because the floor might suddenly fall out from under me!” This is the result of a falling-out with assumption.

So we walk across a delicate edifice of assumptions, some call it faith. We walk, hoping to learn something of truth. These annoying philosophers theorize all day long about their cosmos …making predictions and judgments, contradicting themselves every step of the way.

 But I love them for it because, let’s be honest, we’re all walking contradictions muddling through our own experiences and the experiences of others passed down from thousands of years of truth seeking. Some efforts yield a more lasting grasp on ultimate reality than others, but the continuous attempt is almost as important as the discovery.

So here’s to the unconscious philosophers—they who have opinions and don’t know it!