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Winter-break writing.

Sorry it's been so long since my last post.  Here you go, a little non-fiction essay.  Hope you enjoy!

The Spark

Mark

“What?!” I hear my wife, Noe, gasp on the phone, the sort of tone that immediately conveys that something is not right coupled with a note of sympathy, signaling distance from the actual bad news. Her mother, Marylou, on the other end of the line describes the terrible news as we relaxed on Saturday morning. Earlier that morning their elderly next-door neighbors, Marge and Paul were leaving in separate cars to take one of the cars to the mechanic. While backing out of the driveway Paul had a stroke, lost consciousness, and the car pummeled down into the ravine with him in it. Noe’s father, Mark, just happened to walk out the back door shortly after this, and could see the car in the stream, water rushing into it. Mark yelled for Marylou to call 911 as he scrambled down the sloping Pennsylvanian hill. His attempts at trying to save Paul were useless Paul had already passed away. Marge turned back, after realizing that her husband was not following behind her, only to encounter that same scene that Mark was seeing at nearly the exact same time. Noe’s phone call with her mother ended and she told me the about the tragedy and we discussed the craziness of the story. You see, years before Noe’s father was in the middle of building a shed, that lay very close to the shared property line of these neighbors, when he heard a gun shot followed by a ping of a ricochet, very close by. Noe’s father quickly scrambled inside to call the cops telling them that he was sure it came from the next-door neighbor. I confirmed with Noe that these were indeed the same neighbors that they didn’t get along with, and one thing stood out in my mind that morning, how Mark reached out without thought to help others in a time of tragedy.

Tommy

It was a cold, dark and rainy Saturday morning in West Seattle on November 10th When Matt Rice’s sister found him unconscious. The night before, Matt had had a friend over and they both had taken a concoction of Oxycontin, Xanax and cocaine, which left Matt comatose. His friend had already gotten up that morning and left thinking that Matt was still asleep. After his sister had discovered him, he was rushed to the hospital where he was placed in critical condition with his family and friends standing by. One of his close friends was Tommy, who watched as his dear friend’s body went through series of medical catastrophes.
Tommy, I met while going back to college, I needed a part time job as many people in that situation do, so I found myself working at a family owned bagel shop in a nice part of town. One of the best reasons to stay at the job was my fellow co-workers, one of the more hard working, was this kid Alex who was extremely intelligent and educated but also able to withhold a disposition of commonality among the rest of us. Later his brother Tommy would come to work with us and eventually also made his way into our lives as something completely different from his older brother. Tommy was a free spirit, all tattoos and earrings, but he still had the same sensibility as his brother, which made him great to work with.
While lying on the hospital bed, Matt suffered severe brain damage that would make his eyes twitch, giving hope to those standing near him. Tommy looked on in the cramped hospital room as Matt’s uncle pleaded, “wake up Matt, wake up for Jerry and Barb.” Jerry and Barb are Matt’s parents who stood with their two daughters and looked on as their only son was afflicted by minor heart attacks followed by brain hemorrhages over the next three days. After fighting for three days Matt’s body finally gave up, Matt was gone but his friends and family celebrated his life. Tommy jumped right in helping the family wherever he could be of assistance, even playing guitar at the funeral service. The place Tommy was in mentally was draining, full of sorrow, guilt and ultimately inadequacy. As a friend of the family he couldn’t do enough to show his grief, I know this because I was in a similar place ten years earlier while at Noe’s parents house on my first visit to meet her family.
It was a few days into our summer trip when the news arrived that Noe’s brother had died of a drug overdose in L.A. The family immediately lost their spirit, time slowed down and little moments took on completely new meanings. As the outsider I tried to help wherever I could, ironing and folding clothes for their trip, until the whole family left for California the next morning. I was left in the house alone, exhausted from trying to be more than I was. I tried to be a better boyfriend, a better supporter and just a better person, it was exhausting, the moment they left I broke down, I lost it. I cried. I cried hard even though I’d never met her brother, I was crying because we had gone through some very powerful and very profound. I had been set into a group of people I barely knew and through one horrible event was brought into a family as one of them, accepted without thought, without hesitation. That single event accelerated what would have normally taken years, it was a beautiful thing, so beautiful that it drained me when they left, to the point that I felt completely alone after having felt so close to them.
I knew Tommy needed support because all his support was being funneled into Matt’s family. I offered to be there for him and still it felt insufficient, so I did what we all do when overcome with guilt or remorse. I began to tell people that day what had happened to Tommy’s friend, and Noe’s parents neighbor all on this same strange day. What I ended up getting back, from one person at least, was yet another story that left me stunned.

Debra

I met Debra years ago when Noe was invited to teach ballet and small ballet school in eastern Washington for a week, so I went with her. The owner and director of the school, a wonderful Australian women who reminded us of Noe’s mother, (also Australian) made us feel at home with her endless stories and endless drinks. She had such an amazing personality and warmth, we came back year after year, resulting in a true and solid friendship.
That Saturday evening while talking with Debra about the days earlier tragic events she shared with me something, in her own way of reaching out I guess. Days earlier, she tells me, a couple in there mid seventies were at a hospital in Pasco, Washington because of a heart condition the man had. They were there only for a checkup, and while leaving the hospital that afternoon the married couple were crossing the street, and a man driving a truck, not drunk, not on drugs, and not paying attention to them, struck the two. The old man had tried to push his wife out of the way, but he just didn’t have enough time to react. He was placed in critical condition and his wife passed away that afternoon.
As she was telling me this I realized that Debra offered this story as a way to connect, to show that our lives are closer than what I had imagined originally. It was her way of bringing the world in closer and creating a bond. In essence she was trying to create that same connection, created from that same spark that made Mark look beyond his past squabbles as he ran down a hill and waded through the water to help another human in need. That same spark ignited a friendship with Marge that may not have ever developed. Just in the same way that spark made me an instant part of my wife’s family after her brother passed. And in Tommy’s case, because of that spark, he ended up being a much bigger part of Matt’s family, than he had ever been, or ever intended. It seems all of these stories contain intense moments that somehow create a bond between people. It sort of condenses time and intensifies friendships to a degree in which we have no control over. There is a famous saying by an unknown author, “it is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.” And although that is very true we should also remember the spark that will be there bringing us closer to others still around us.

A haiku, by phone.  

I am done with school
and homework for a while
I am so happy.

Brady

Noe's back from Hawaii!

Noe took this picture for me because this lady, feeding the birds, was wearing such odd colors and it reminder her of me. She knows that I like odd colors mainly because of my facination with Wes Anderson films. I think the lady looks great! In fact shortly after this photo the lady, just being shy of what appears to be an octogenarian, ran into the sea to boogie board through her golden years. Good for her.

So here is the poem for today, I wrote this a couple months ago for an assignment to use words we liked the sound of.  See if you can find the words I chose:

In Bed

The other night while lying in bed sleepless
our bodies satiated from the day
I found your bare shoulder close to mine
tangled within sheets of aromatic memories.

This worn mattress with pillow top tattered
has brought us together
in a manner more lascivious than accidental.

Your leg crept through the darkness
with cunning mastery
and cuddled my calve with a frigidness
similar to that of dry ice.

This worn mattress cups our bodies
as the linens give way
to fidgeting, more accidental than lascivious.

Our bodies smashed we rise out of bed
into a near requiem state
in honor of this lifeless mattress
we lift its limp body rotating it
to extract whatever life
it might hold
on the other
side.

Noe's in Hawaii and I'm here.

So I thought I'd post a photo of Noe and I (I look a little drunk), and also post a another poem. I have been working hard in school and writing more poetry than I ever thought I would. It turns out that I kind of like the poetry genre, although I still feel the need to do some journalistic writing. Either way writing is writing and it's all good practice. So here is a poem of mine, hope you enjoy.

Her Ritual

this city is alive
in the way you and I are alive,
she breathes fresh ocean air
and exhales pollution

roads are her arteries
she bleeds just as you and I bleed
cars pouring in and out
throbbing earthly rhythms

her flesh, the buildings
so sensitive to the elements,
she peels away old
to be replaced by new

she bathes in winter rain
pushing autumn leaves out of her pores,
making way to be dressed
by colors of spring flora

she takes summer off lying beneath sun
before disrobing her colors
while days become shorter,
ready again for showers from above

she sleeps when you sleep
rises when you rise
feels what you feel
grows as you grow

and she does all this
for you
without you
noticing

the attempt

I haven’t spoken with anyone in my family since my mother’s funeral nine months ago. I live alone and spend most days staring at the ground. My name is Akbar Kumar, I have been hired by attorneys to scan the sidewalks of New York City and map out all cracks, depressions, protrusions, potholes, whatever might cause someone bodily harm. This information is then submitted to the city so that those injured by the sidewalk can have recourse to sue the city. A child approaches me curious to find out what I am doing. I tell the child that I am making note of all the imperfections in the sidewalk. The child gazes at me quizzically and then walks away. I study the place where that child stood for a while and wonder, what am I doing? Staring at the ground, marking the scars of this ragged city so that people can take advantage. So I step into the busy street, and a taxi catches me under the hip crushing and flinging me into the air. I’m now riding an elephant painted white, decorated with orange and pink fabric, my family looks on from the branches of porcelain trees waving and directing me to throw myself into a crevice of cracked white paint on the elephants shoulder. So I dive in. Into the fridged spring waters, down deep until I fall through the bottom and into a huge car that my father is driving, my feet can’t reach the floor, and he is telling me that I should be a man, never back down, and always look my best. Then there’s nothing – until a man shining light into my eyes yells and the ceiling is rushing by and a woman yells and pain slowly creeps into my body cleaning it of all my sorrow. I feel this pain, and for awhile it feels right and I see what my life should be, but then the pain no longer has clarity but is dull and writhing as I try my best to hold in the vomit. But before I puke clarity returns while I feel the piercing of my skin and my body drinks the needles offering. And then I hear country music and I’m back on the white elephant who tells me his name is Alejandro as we ride through a Mexican village kicking up dust as kids chase behind and Alejandro tells me to never forget were I came from. As I awaken in the hospital I can hear my body buzzing from the trauma, and hear the hustle of hospital chaos, and the haunting hum of cars in the distance. My brothers and father standing over me tell me I made it and ask how I’m doing, but all I can do is cry because now with their solace I can clearly see that problems in life don’t get smaller, our capacity to deal with them gets larger.