Excerpt: Daniel

“A mist covers the beach in every direction. It is warm and light like a summer blanket. The light is directionless and diffuse, both silver and gold. I feel as if I have wandered onto a corner of the map that hasn’t been filled in yet. The beach’s other inhabitants come into view one by one like vignettes: A wet dog, breath huffing and rasping around the driftwood clenched in its jaws. A man pointing a video camera at an outraged crab. A raven – very much like a writing desk in that it seems incongruous here on the sand. Finally I reach the water. The waves are calm from what  I can tell; I can’t see very far. I immediately imagine a deadly swell tipped from its South Pacific cradle and fast approaching the very shore I am standing on. Goodbye, dog. Goodbye, Crab Man. The raven might make it. Goodbye, me. I can’t help it. It’s my biggest fear and probably the reason I don’t come out this way too often. Today, however, I am wandering around on a miles-long foggy beach in hopes of accidentally running into a girl I think might live, oh, somewhere in the general area.”

In therapy

The house is full of the scent of flour and apples, cinnamon and butter, and I am experiencing a moment of relative calm, having baked the demons out of me (I hope this doesn’t affect the taste of these muffins any…)
I cleaned a little too, and ran the heaters enough that I’m not restless with the cold like this morning.
I made a long list of books to read and which library branches will have them when I’m ready. It’s tacked on the wall next to the computer and I get a sense of completion just by looking at it. Even the font is calming: 11 point Times New Roman.
My mom might have to go to the hospital again and is afraid that they won’t let her out again. My dad says she’s collecting pictures of us, just in case. We try to reason with her until we’re blue in the face. I make lists of therapeutic classical music tracks for her. We discuss acupuncture, supplements, green tea, religion. I try silently praying for her while lying in bed one night. I find that I am not really praying, just pleading in the direction of her vague, insomniac form across fifty odd miles of foothills. It turns into a mad sort of rambling before I finally fall asleep.
Maybe we’ve been too careless. Just a bunch of happy, godless people worrying over commonplace trials and errors, our car insurance rates and golf handicaps.
I think of every time I’ve promised god over a pregnancy test on the bathroom sink that I would become a better person if, only, if…
I wear a cheap and brittle silver medal of the Virgin Mary on a more expensive, delicate silver chain. Both are from my mom, one bought and the other just taken from a curio cabinet jewelry box. The medal, shaped like a key, is supposedly leftover from someone else’s Vatican pilgrimage, (something earned, but not by me) but I mostly know it as an object from a better time. Specifically the very last day I saw my mom in good health, and sadly, one of the best times we’ve ever had, bonding as mother and daughter. I took it off for awhile, after my dad called to tell me about her “major depressive episode” (clinical terminology, not ours) because I thought it might be cursed, but before I went to visit her I put it back on again so she would see it and maybe be reminded of the day it was purchased.
She noticed — she was still wearing hers too — but it was not the stuff of miracles. It may have even made her feel more guilty for “letting us down.” I don’t know.
All I know is how I feel, and that is only clear some of the time. God and medicine are both letting me down, letting us all down, but I can’t seem to generate a concrete enough response from the almost generous amount of choices I have: anger, grief, bravery, compliance, uncontrollable crying. My coping mechanism is a mystery still. Maybe it’s something stupid like baking.

“Cocooning,” etc.

I just learned a new term today. “Cocooning.”  It’s the American’s tepid version of hikikomori, but still interesting, even if it was created by someone who calls herself Faith Popcorn.

 

Well, the temperature dropped finally, so no more complaining from me, right? Okay, just one more: since I refuse to wear beanies (in order to avoid looking like a 13 year old boy sporting lipstick) my head gets too cold and I get an earache. And I drink too much tea and have to pee a lot. And why did I buy this many persimmons?

Yesterday I went outside of my normal 1.5 mile radius and walked to see Jarrod at work. It’s funny how your favorite leather jacket with fur trim makes you feel confident and cool in one neighborhood and concerned that you might look like a prostitute in another. I felt better about it when a bashful little boy started flirting with me from a car window while I waited for the bus. I considered it a genuine compliment, because the kid likely hasn’t discovered ulterior motives yet. He went so far as to hide his face in his hands afterward.

Today I added a little more to the notes of the story I’ve been working on, but was unable to pick up where I left off in the actual narrative. Out of the blue, I decided to add a subplot that makes the main character more…hateful, I guess. Like, a moment or a time where she is genuinely a bad person. I don’t know what came over me. I was just watching music videos and the idea just struck me; I had to write it down. I probably have some deep-seated psychological issues I need to work out. Or maybe I’m just bored and throwing myself a wild pitch. Maybe both. Anyhow, it’s a love story, which is uncharted territory for me so I don’t know if I’m doing any good. I’ve been reading love stories lately to get a better feel for it, and before them I was reading Ambrose Bierce ghost stories, which also have left their mark. I think my biggest problem right now is the style in which I’m trying to write. There’s definitely some confusion. It’s like there’s a battle occurring between my naturally descriptive, sometimes slightly old-fashioned style and my own sense of humor. Half of me is trying to make jokes while the other half is trying to concentrate on writing. It’s like I’m looking over my own shoulder making unasked-for suggestions like “Make it funnier.” I’m not against juxtaposition, but even contrast has to be cohesive in order to be interesting for more than a few seconds.

Now I should go outside before the sun goes down. But I probably won’t.

I can’t get no

I looked at apartment listings for San Francisco today. I don’t know what I expected to find, but definitely nothing in our price range. I do know that I’m too tired to be slumming again. I’ve never found that exciting like some. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about a lack of conveniences. That’s just camping. I’d rather sleep in my own car (RIP) than on someone else’s couch or in a noisy, unclean, expensive, cramped apartment whose rent I was responsible for paying. Out of curiosity I looked at some listings for houses in the far reaches of the north bay. Spacious, affordable, run-down, nerve-wracking to consider. If I were a published writer working on my next book then perhaps a cottage in Lake County would suffice, but even then I can think of many other places I’d prefer to hole up on a publisher’s dime.

I can’t say I’m not in kind of a foul mood today, with nothing being able to meet my expectations and where there is a place for everybody, except that each place is a little pigeonhole of resentment. The kind where I imagine walking right past you on an empty street, where I’d rather speak to the waitress incessantly refilling my water glass than exchange a hello with someone I have any memories with. That said, I don’t actually hate anyone.

Whenever the question of regrets comes up, I have never had much to contribute, as in, I could live with all of my life’s past mistakes. Today, I feel somewhat different, in that there are some revisions I would make if I could. And maybe a handful of complete erasures. I would meet some of the same people in new ways or not at all. I would spend less time sitting around waiting for people to show up, people who I wanted desperately to matter but really didn’t. Sometimes I can’t help but think, Are we all just wasting each other’s time? Time is not money. Time is time. It cannot be accumulated and it spends itself when you are not looking and when you are asleep at night. So, how much more of my own time can I neglect to spend on myself? I seem to constantly fluctuate between needing less and needing more, but I think what it comes down to is having the right things and holding onto them. I make corresponding lists all of the time: things to get rid of, things that will make me happy if I own them. I guess I haven’t quite learned how to pare down without cutting everything away, or how to accumulate in a healthy manner.

Human after all…

September 27

I don’t know what to do with myself.

I wish it were cloudier.

If I were to psychoanalyze myself I could say that aforementioned wish speaks to a desire that the world outside be obscured and abstracted from reality, and thus be made to match the world inside.

Being alive does not mean feeling alive.

Sauvie Island

To get to Sauvie Island you head northwest out of Portland on Highway 30, passing on the way one of the prettier bridges, St. Johns and everyone’s favorite abandoned building, the old Portland Gasworks, whose story no one can agree on, but which I think makes for a passable haunted orphanage or crumbling Harry Potter train depot. There is only one small bridge and few through-roads to choose from. Despite being on an island, I prefer the interior ones, each one with it’s own atmosphere to go along with the changing scenery. Oak Island Road feels shadowy and oddly Southern in places like you might discover a plantation before it dead-ends and you have to turn around and see it all again. The first leg of NW Reeder takes you through level French farm country where on sunny days lines of cyclists in primary colors pedal in front of a backdrop of wheat and the occasional behemoth oak tree. (Speaking of Provence, there are also lavender farms on the island.) Then it runs past a few dumb RV parks next to the Willamette and the infamous Collins Beach (a clothing-optional affair) before dead-ending itself in a small parking lot before miles of fire trail hiking and mostly empty shoreline. Collins Beach is an odd place. I’ve only been there on overcast, nude-less days. My only memories of the place are of some rusting structure set back in the trees that looked vaguely like a submarine, but one from Jules Verne (others call it the Sauvie Island spaceship,) American goldfinches providing the only color as they flashed through the branches. I found a page from a nudie mag folded in half, breasts and overly made up face facing up. I flipped it over with a twig, revealing a penis on the other side. It was a good joke.

One very hot summer day I decided I wanted to walk to the tip of the island. The fire trails were full of stinging nettles and monster brambles, so following the shoreline seemed like the best idea. It took forever. Sometimes we had to swim or climb over snags that had fallen across the beach. My boyfriend at the time had taken to calling me Sacajawea and I felt that I had to live up to that. At one point I grabbed a huge gartersnake by the back of its head. It lashed around, hissing and peeing all over the place. I stood there grinning and trying to keep my grip on it, my boyfriend simultaneously expressing his admiration and backing away from me. Perhaps the sun was getting to me. I smelled like reptile for the rest of the hike. We saw a small shipwreck and a beaver working on its dam. Eventually the beach ceased to be and we had to pick our way inland to find the trail again. It wound through small clearings waist high grass and into deep deciduous forest where the decaying foundations of a house lay unreachable through layers of brush and wild grape, making itself known only by the crown of an intact brick chimney. I was beside myself, just completely in love with the place. Emerging from the trees, we saw our goal: the little white lighthouse on Warrior Rock, guiding ships down from the Columbia into the Willamette since 1889. It is Oregon’s smallest lighthouse and is still in operation. We ate apples and crackers and swam in a shallow cove on a clean sandy stretch of sand next to the lighthouse. It felt like paradise until I looked up and saw a man in swim trunks and a dwarf lady in a ruffled neon monokini holding hands and coming up the beach toward us. A sleek speedboat came into view. My isolated paradise was called Reeder Beach and was a favorite of Chriscraft-owning elite and sketchy St. Helens party animals alike. The spell was broken and the walk back was about 75% less fun.

When I retire and move to Sauvie, I’m going to stay inland.

 

Japanese album covers

Snow globe with no snow

I’ve certainly complained about the lack of summer this year and spent a good deal of time on my favorite park bench in the soft glare of the lake surface, but now my fickle nature demands another kind of weather and another kind of life to live in it. I wish I had access to separate small worlds, like snow globes. The one I’d be in right now is the dreary downtown daytime one where all sounds are channeled through a rainwater filter and most people are inside. I’d have boots, a raincoat with an adequate hood and a sturdy umbrella. The parks and plazas would be all but empty. Maybe it wouldn’t be raining per se, but always on the verge of starting or stopping, and you could still hear yourself think. After walking awhile, I’d eat soup and drink coffee (and the coffee would taste good, because coffee in my mind is never how it tastes in real life) and both of these things would stay hot the whole time. I’d stumble upon the greenest, mossiest park in the whole city and there would be sad camellias weighted down with water, still pretty today but whose heads will drop off tomorrow. And there would be rabbits on the borders of the lawn, where there were never rabbits before — inexplicable, making me think of Beatrix Potter stories, my mom…

And then the whole thing dissolves. These are uncertain times and imaginary worlds are no exception.

Should I finish this?

 Tod was camping once in the desert with his girlfriend. They had both been fascinated by the idea of the desert in Southern California, but for entirely different reasons. I don’t know what his reason was, but the girlfriend was interested in secret airforce and naval bases (you know, because of the underground sea) and the comings and goings of  extraterrestrial entities, both friendly and hostile, but mostly just indifferent and coldly scientific. Basically, a lot of fucked up stuff goes on in the desert, since there is mostly no one around to see it happen, and the random few that do witness something are of no concern, because everyone knows that if you are willingly spending an excessive amount of time in the desert you are not to be believed and are of no concern to anybody, anyhow.

Tod had just arrived in his girlfriend’s car with his girlfriend and she had finally, finally turned the air conditioner on and Tod realized that a) they had nearly drank all of their water supply already and b) he really had to urinate and so did his girlfriend, it turned out. So they got out, set the remaining half gallon of water rather precariously on the roof, made sure no one was around (and of course no one was) and went to opposite sides of the car to do their respective things. Tod pissed and his girlfriend peed and a rather large stone moved about an inch on its own, though both of them were too busy to see. This sounds amazing, but the stone didn’t think anything of it, not because stones cannot think, but because they are unparalleled when it comes to modesty.

Now, with the temperature soaring and the vultures landing nearby — chatting amongst themselves, while occasionally glancing over in a rather unsettling manner — it was time to consider not only their chance of having a good time, but their prospect for survival with most of the water gone.

“Your zipper’s down,” said Tod’s girlfriend.

“That’s it!” said Tod. “We could take apart your car and create a mechanism that would filter our piss. Like in Waterworld.”

“Pee,” Tod’s girlfriend corrected. “And your zipper is still down. And…”

Tod’s girlfriend trailed off in a very meaningful way, causing Tod to turn around and look at what she was looking at. There was some kind of SUV-sized electromagnetically-propelled hovercraft coming towards them. It was a very pretty greenish silver color and ejaculated a beam of a similar hue in their direction, which completely annihilated the jug of water sitting precariously on top of the car with the lid off because Tod had lost it between Bakersfield and Barstow.

They both watched their precious water soaking into the hard packed earth and giving life to seeds or perhaps those little dehydrated shrimp that lay dormant in the desert, waiting for rain to come and make their worthless little days before the sun dries them out again. The vultures kind of laughed, before the laser fried them. But this all happened in a split second, because then Tod and Tod’s girlfriend were scrambling and ducking and cowering behind the car, despite knowing full well that the laser could annihilate that too. There was really just nowhere else to hide. This is probably one of the exact reasons why people do not like coming to the desert.

“Oh, shit,” said Tod’s girlfriend, out of breath.

“Oh, fuck,” panted Tod, never one to be outdone, especially by a female.

The rather large stone didn’t say anything. It just scooted away feeling uncomfortable.

Instead of firing the laser once more and causing Tod’s girlfriend’s car to go up in flames and Tod’s girlfriend’s car insurance rates to go up exponentially, it came to a smooth stop several yards away. Actually, it was more like a pause, as it was still hovering, bobbing up and down slightly like a balloon on a short string. A door appeared in the side. It wasn’t there and then it was, and a figure appeared with it, and appeared to gaze down at the cracked earth and then up at the parched sky before leaping from the craft with uncertain grace. It dragged its feet in the direction of Tod and Tod’s girlfriend, who were still cowering dumbly behind the car like rabbits. The thing took what seemed like hours for it to reach them and they lay frozen in terror watching its approach from beneath the car. It was wearing a silver-green helmet and what looked like a long smock fashioned from one of those reflective sun shields found in the glove compartments of many cars, and as the gap closed between it and them, they noticed that it was wearing a pair of dirty suede shoes with the shoelaces missing. For some reason, this made them more afraid than ever and they clutched at each other, whimpering wordlessly and drooling into each other’s hair.

It came and stood in front of them and menacingly began to unzip its smock. They found that they couldn’t look away. At first they were under the impression that they were being mind-controlled, but in retrospect they realized that they were merely raised in a society where, if someone begins to undress, you watch them do it. Also, no one has “impressions” when they are scared to the point of nearly shitting themselves because they’ve encountered a trigger happy maybe-spaceship in the desert, no matter what they try to tell you.

Beneath the smock, which turned out to be a whole lot gauzier than something that unfolds across your windshield, were a light cotton sweater and a pair of non-descript blue jean shorts. These gave way to legs, hairless and bloodless, but humanoid. They both noted that the entity was female enough to be referred to as a “she,” though neither Tod nor Tod’s girlfriend was sure they would ever find themselves alive enough in the near future to refer to anyone as anything again. They stared expectantly at the pale, knobby-knuckled hands, waiting for them to reach up and remove the helmet, but the moment never came. The entity had decided that she was done undressing and stood silent and unblinking (from what they could tell) and almost seemed to be absentmindedly scratching her thigh. Tod’s girlfriend yawned, but it was a nervous yawn, like the kind that small dogs often do. Though still frightened, Tod began to feel irritated as well and the two feelings battled it out inside him.

Finally, she spoke and they both jumped out of their skins.

“I know what you’re thinking.” A woman’s voice.

Eyes wide, Tod and Tod’s girlfriend looked at each other and then turned and looked at each other again, except this time they were each a reflection in the opaque visor of the helmet.

“You’re thinking about being the first to discover the entrance to our subterranean colony, about the fame and the prestige it could give you. And you think you are close.”

They both shook their heads no, though Tod’s girlfriend looked slightly unconvincing.

“No? Really? Hm.”

She cocked her head and the weight of her helmet put her off-balance, causing her to stagger a bit.

“I’m supposed to be able to do this!”

She was suddenly frustrated, clenching and unclenching her fists.

“Do what?” Tod ventured to ask.

“Telepathy. It’s kind of our thing.”

The sun glinted proudly on her visor, which seemed to repel dust, as well as make any insect that flew close enough fall dead to the ground.

“But,” she continued, “I’ve got a lot I have to work on if I want to become… truly great among my people.”

A tinge of sadness crept across her helmet and then quickly dropped dead to the ground.

“Hey! can i practice with you? I’ll give you a ride in my hovercraft.”

With the way her visor flashed there was no way that Tod and Tod’s girlfriend could say no. They were pretty compassionate people at heart, though sometimes they accidentally convinced each other otherwise.

“I wrote a story about self-improvement once,” said Tod, trying to be comforting. Using the helmet, he arranged his features in a sympathetic way: widening the eyes, softening the line of the lips.

“Really?”

There was a silver-green glimmer of hope.

“Well, kind of. Science-fiction, though I reject that term. Made use of Barthelme’s fragmentary style… It was about this zombie…”

“What’s a zombie?”

This was how Tod and Tod’s girlfriend met Casio White.

Casio White had just moved to this particular desert about 200 years ago.

Casio White was 5’7” and possibly the shortest person in her entire race.

Casio White had 28 teeth and enormous lungs and no pineal gland.

Casio White could get pregnant at any time, but wasn’t worried about it for some reason.

Casio White was not a guardian angel.

Casio White had an inferiority complex and no friends.

This is what they learned on the short electromagnetically-propelled hovercraft ride back to her apartment, which didn’t look anything like an apartment from outside, but very much like the partially collapsed entrance to an abandoned mine shaft, which it actually was. It was a studio and $500 a month including utilities. She didn’t need a garage, because the moment they stepped out of the hovercraft, Casio White pointed her finger at it and it became invisible. Once they were inside and had politely turned down her offer of a glass of homemade kombucha, Tod and Tod’s girlfriend were able to broach some of the more serious topics, such as, “Why did you shoot at us back there?” and “What the hell are you?” and “What is this about a subterranean colony?” though this last question was Tod’s alone.

Casio White sipped her foul green alien beverage with a straw that she poked through a slit in her visor and patiently explained everything.

The hollow earth. The military men in their black helicopters. The impending cataclysm.

“Oh,” said Tod’s girlfriend, after some pause.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Tod, not to be outdone.

Make better

I am no longer in complete denial. The first step, regardless of the problem, is really admittance. I am experiencing a level of depression, that though muted on the surface, is threatening to level me. And I denied it to myself and if anyone had asked, I would have denied it to them, too. I chalked it up to dissatisfaction, misanthropy and my period, when applicable. I chalked it up to the fact that I couldn’t just sit around and watch The X-Files all day and instead had to go to work. In reality, my body aches all the time, I have lost my appetite and forget to eat, (while still developing a protruding gut) I’ve lost most of my motivation and interests and I don’t want to lose anymore. And I could sleep forever. I mean it. Forever. When I get in bed at night it feels so good that I honestly don’t care if I never wake up.

So, since I hate when people are able to make a laundry list of their problems and then skirt the issue of not attempting to do anything about them…

1. I need to buy some athletic shoes and clothes and begin with some brisk walking and stretching, commit to it, not expect any miracles and then see what happens.

2. I need to get outside of myself and hang out with a friend at least once a week for a whole day. Preferably Natalie. On Mondays.

3. I need to get my hair did. And buy expensive conditioner that makes me want to use it. And remember to wash my face. And take better care of my skin because I’ll be 40 before I know it.

4. I need to eat consistently and drink water. And probably not eat so much ice cream late at night.

These are all no brainers, I know. But if I don’t force myself, I will never leave my bedroom, even to eat.