Battle Scars

“You can hide ‘neath your covers

And study your pain

Make crosses from your lovers

Throw roses in the rain

Waste your summer praying in vain

For a savior to rise from these streets.”

- “Thunder Road,” Springsteen, 1983.

Crunching, crunching.  Fallen leaves give way under Nick’s feet as he climbs from his Civic and heads to the door, pizzas in tow.  The air is crisp and thin.  The sun hides behind a smoky looking sky.  A woman opens her front door and greets Nick, says something about the weather, says something about how hot the pizzas are, something about how fast the food arrived.  Nick, as always, smiles his mostly fake smile, thanks the woman for her (somewhat) generous tip, and rakes off back towards his vehicle – each time, almost always the same routine, the same result.  This is Nick’s life, mostly.  This is his existence, entirely, or so he dreads to think.

The radio station crackles as a nasally voice wavers:  “Thank you for listening to,” a pause, “West Virginia Public Radio,” a pause, “Brought to you by…”  Nick isn’t listening.  Nick is thinking.  He thinks a lot, maybe too much.  He thinks about how different his life could be, if he hadn’t come here, if he hadn’t come with her. He would probably have his degree by now, for one.  He could have a real job, maybe.  He might’ve done something with his life by now, probably.  Everything would’ve been different, perhaps.

As Nick goes over the thoughts in his mind, it occurs to him that it all seems a little presumptuous.  How was he to know his relationship, his adorned her would slowly slip away, would slowly distance herself, would slowly disappear from his life?  Maybe, if he were still at home, nothing would be different.  Maybe he would just be there delivering pizzas, instead of here.  Maybe he would just be there taking classes, instead of here.  Maybe everything would the same, except he would be there and not here.

Nick turns and backs the Civic carefully down the long, winding driveway and into the potholed streets of Catawba County.  He downshifts and speeds up the road, around the curving streets, half-canopied by leering, leafless trees, as two voices on the radio discuss something almost entirely irrelevant.  “Why, yes, in fact dung beetles are a very interesting species…”

Nick sighs.  A dollar tip.  Another goddamned dollar tip.  He has driven 15 miles round trip for a dollar tip.  Here he is, 23 years old, still completely reliant on people’s charity.  He has forgotten how to lie to himself.  He is a sixth year, count ‘em, senior at some place called Marshall.  He delivers pizzas to support himself and his drama queen.  He has no clue where he’s going in life.  It just so happens, on that note, he fits right in with the old Wild and Wonderful.  He should be right at home, except he isn’t.

Nick rounds a curve too fast and nearly sideswipes a passing station wagon.  He sees a woman’s wide eyes flash by in an instant, and then she’s gone forever around the bend.  If she had been half a foot, mere inches, closer to the yellow line, her car would have hit Nick’s Civic, and in the confusion she would almost certainly have lost control of the unruly station wagon.  Horrified, Nick would keep going, too scared to look back, trying to invent a story in his mind, trying to expel what he had just seen.  Nick would get a mile up the road, choking on his own mucus as nausea rises in his throat, trying to ignore the voice on the radio, “Turn around!  You goddamned fool, turn around!”

He would turn around, he would speed back to where he last saw the station wagon, would pull over, would get out and run to the road’s edge, would peer over the side and see the ruined vehicle sitting far below, would smell smoke and burning metal.  He would rush down the mountainside, rush to the driver’s door and see the woman’s wide eyes inside, see the woman’s tattered black raincoat and too-white face blackened by licking flame.  He would thrust his hands through the shattered window, into the oven’s fire, pleading for the woman to grab hold, “grab hold!  I can pull you out!”

She would comply, and he would pull, only to have her skin come off her arm like a sleeve.  She would cry out for him to help, for him to do something, anything, but there would be nothing he could do but pull back and watch the fires engulf her.  Through the smoke and flame, he would see her wide eyes – wide pale blue eyes – pleading with him before they melted away, as he dithered back and forth, helpless, responsible, and far too late.  Then he would spend years trying to get the images of that dying woman out of his head.

But today, none of that was to be.  None of that actually happened, today.

New Literature

Listen, I had a professor say something recently that irked me a bit. I’m going to tell you about it.

We were reading a historical fiction novel in one of the graduate courses I’m taking. In this particular novel, the author elects to omit any usage of quotation marks. Allow me to demonstrate.

Instead of the following:

Joseph took a deep breath. “Hello.” His voice wavered. “How have you been?”

It goes like this:

Joseph took a deep breath. Hello. His voice wavered. How have you been?

Quite a few of my classmates, including myself, took issue with this style that struck us as a bit strange. Apparently, says our professor, this is a new trend in high literature. Most respectable literature these days, he says, omits quotation marks because “they interrupt the reading.” You don’t use quotation marks when you talk to someone, do you? Apparently, the style is aiming for a more natural thought progression. In this book, characters speaking to one another integrates seamlessly (I guess?) with characters’ internal thoughts, feelings, emotions, as well as any setting descriptions or other information the author deems worthy of note. I guess, now that I think about it, I have read a few books that omit quotation marks. Didn’t Conrad do that? I’m trying to remember.

My qualm is with the reasoning. Seriously, I’m pretty sure we don’t use any punctuation when we’re speaking to one another. What’s wrong with making a clear distinction between thoughts and dialogue in literature? We don’t actually vocalize periods, commas, or other punctuation marks either, so why not omit those as well?

Frankly, I rather like quotation marks and aim to continue using them. Feel free to try and convince me otherwise.

Here goes nothing

Well, I’m absolutely amazed that I remain alive. How about you? How are you feeling?

Goddamn, man, things have been crazy these past few months. I’ve lost count of the “I’ll never do that…” broken promises to myself that I’ve casually stepped over. And, you know, it’s turned out to be a positive step. New is good. New is what life’s about, after all. If you experience nothing new, how can you truly experience life? How can you even be alive?

I still have real issues with kicking aside that pesky laziness that plagues my progress as a person. Here I am, listening to music and staring off in space – sometimes for hours – just thinking, reflecting, but doing nothing, and ultimately accomplishing nothing. How can I be a writer who doesn’t write anything? I’ve often asked myself the question. I have to be the most unproductive aspiring writer ever to walk this planet. I can count on one hand the number of quality, finished fiction projects I’ve finished in the past, oh, six years – and only one of them even scales 10k words. I am in love, in love with my ideas, and yet I seem incapable of bringing them to fruition. This is frustrating, and entirely my fault. I mean, sure, Civilization IV is fun and all, but do I really need to conquer the world again? Jesus, how many hours have I pissed away in front of a computer screen? Sometimes, I think I would be better served with an old fashioned pen and notebook. Back when I was in high school, and before, I would write entire novels – hundreds of pages of material. And, never mind that most of it was absolute shit, at least I produced something. Each time, I improved, I progressed. Now, I can’t even seem to write a coherent story anymore – it’s all about snapshots, where’s the plot, where’s the narrative arch? Despair, despair! Again, I admit, I readily acknowledge that I am fully responsible for everything – all of this – and am probably capable of alleviating these concerns. But will I? Will I? That’s something I aim to shortly discover, my friends.

I often fantasize about being this quirky intellectual type, this renaissance man of sorts, and never mind that this fantasy is completely adolescent and possibly unrealistic, I still hold out hope that I can achieve some semblance of this goal.

For God’s sake, I’m still taking people their food after – what – more than 6 years? How am I any different than I was at 18 years? Sure, I have this piece of paper that people say is valuable. Okay, so I can point out a few more places on a globe than most – I know many names, dates, and isms. Maybe I’m a pretty good writer, but so what? Where does this take me? Why am I still sitting here in the town I grew up in? What the hell is wrong with me? Operationally, I am no different than anyone else.

These last few months, I think I’ve taken some important steps. But it’s time I cast down the bucket and truly improve into something more meaningful – something I can appreciate more.

I think, now more than ever, what I need to do is quit planning, quit dreaming, quit thinking, and start doing. So what if Microsoft Word has spell check? It’s time to resurrect the old pen and paper. Cast down the laptop – open a book, read, improve. I become more uncomfortable with myself each day. Time to get started.

Oh shit man, what the hell is this bellyaching bullshit?  I really like the word shit today.  It’s times like these when, you know, Leonard Cohen and..and a glass of tea can really do wonders.  Jesus, I’m controversial.  Hey, guess what?  So this blog post is totally contradictory and unfocused – Fuck you, man, it’s delightful.  I’m going to go deliver food to about a dozen people tonight – every one of them will love me.  You know why?  Because I’m a bad motherfucker, that’s why.  I mean it.  And for God’s sake, they don’t call it bipolar anymore, they call it…

…you know, it’s really time I started that long-delayed project of writing a novel about the seedy underworld of pizza delivery.  It’s frightening stuff, folks.  I’ve always dreamed of writing the next Goodfellas script, but with pizza.  You don’t think I can do it, do you?  Pizza makes lots of things better.

I’m not one of those people who thinks being dead would be very interesting.  That’s why I’m alive.  That’s it.  Let’s go to work, then.

Really? Seriously?

Republicans are bordering on self-parody with their latest performance during last night’s healthcare address.  I suppose, in some circles, calling a (still popular) sitting US President a liar (in a joint session of Congress, no less) would be courageous.  All the paper thrusting and neck signs really made for good television, but it would seem their uncivil disobedience turned out to be wholly ineffective.  Seriously, Republicans.  Must you act like children?  How can there be any hope of a bipartisan bill when Democrats and moderate Republicans have to work with these characters?  Sure, bipartisanship sounds nice.  I mean, I guess it sounds nice.  But in my view, bipartisan has become a euphemism for watered-down.  Seriously, when Congress created Social Security on FDR’s watch, did they do it with Republican support?  Or did the Republicans heckle the Democrats, calling them communists? 

If you don’t want Healthcare reform to collapse into a heap of name-calling, resulting in a neutered bill masquerading as reform, leave the old boys behind.  When the dust clears, they’ll either adapt or die.  It’s that simple.

It’s a funny thing

Well, being suddenly abandoned by the one you care about most – it’s a funny thing what that does to you.  But as you all well know, opportunities come from strange places.  Suddenly, I find myself in graduate school a year earlier than I expected.  I find myself yearning to satisfy the perceived void in my life, I mean the missing female, but on that note I must face a few tragic realities. 

For one, I don’t exactly look my best these days.  I was with a beautiful woman for six years, and I took full advantage of the (now expired) fact that she loved me by completely ignoring my health.  Consequently, I have a lot of work to do before I can again find a woman of comparable physical assets – a nice body, for you non-machines out there. 

On another note, I’ve spent the last six years ignoring other women – not entirely, obviously, but I avoided any conversation beyond pointless small talk.  Why?  I don’t altogether know, honestly, but you can probably muster some caveman logic out of it.  Well, let me qualify that.  I’ve been one of those “girlfriend guys.”  You know, the type that always turns down the night out with friends because he wants to go home and watch Law & Order re-runs with his chick – that was me.    At any rate, let’s just say I’m not the best communicator. 

Thirdly, I just got out of a six year relationship.  So, I’m apparently emitting some sort of “Don’t date me, I’m just looking for a rebound” aroma.  And truthfully, I don’t blame them.  That probably is what I’m looking for.  I don’t think that’s what I’m looking for, but I don’t exactly have a firm grasp on my emotions these days.  So there.  Not really sure where I’m going with this. 

My advice to you is, if you think it’s going to go wrong – it probably is.  I guess I’ll just focus on graduate school for the time being.  That, and perhaps my health.  But there are so many beautiful women out there!  And, they all have boobs.  I like those.  Being with a completely new woman after six years of the same is an incredibly exhilerating thought.  So, if we’re being honest, which we are, that’s how I feel.  So there.

It’s a funny thing, really.  But you know, I feel a little more alive each day.  Eventually, I imagine I’ll be back – independently happy for the first time in my life.  In the mean time, it’s a lot of struggle, a lot of boredom, a lot of feeling sorry for yourself.  But like everything, it ends too.

Incoherent Bullshit

I care about the you underneath this persona you’ve adopted. You can keep it up for awhile, but eventually the mask will have to come off. I know who you are. I’ve always known. You believe you can escape yourself, but you can’t. None of us can.

Go get lost in your doomed dreams. Go get drunk with regret and shame, go get wasted in loneliness in a room full of people you don’t quite recognize. Do it. I can’t stop you.

I imagine I’m holding you in my arms, I tell you it’s forever, and one last time you believe. A moment passes and you’re gone, and I’m standing in an empty bathroom wondering if I’m going crazy. I am, you know. But like everything, it’s temporary. It will pass one way or another. You’re a beautiful person. No matter what happens, you’ll always be beautiful. Some people are just made that way.

Last night was the first time I knew I would be okay. It’s going to be a difficult journey without you, but I can make it on my own. I have to. I have things in this life I need to do. I’ll get them done. Know always that I will care about you deeply. Wherever I am, whoever I’m with, if I’m anywhere in the world and you need anything, find me and I will deliver you. I will save you. But you won’t do that, will you? You’re too proud. Who am I kidding? I’ll probably never see you again.

A Green Iran

I cannot help but stand with the brave protesters of Iran, who are risking their lives in dissenting their government. Pictures of the Iranian bravery from Tehran and elsewhere are moving and inspiring. Never mind the question of the election’s legitimacy. The right of people to peacefully assemble in dissent of their government is something we should all support. The Ayatollah and his President stand against the protesters, threatening to crush the movement. The people’s President now faces a tough reality: Should he disperse his supporters, return to normalcy, or continue the struggle and risk thousands of lives? Are the Ayatollah’s words simply idle threats? It’s easy for us to say to the Iranians, go! Continue your protests! Be brave Iranians, the world is with you! Give us liberty or give us death, and all that. But our lives are not at risk. I do now know what I would do.

If the Ayatollah were to put down the protests with brutal force, it may backfire, leading to further unrest, maybe even some sort of civil war. At any rate, Ayatollah or not, one day the Iranian people will have what they desire.

Holocaust Museum Shooting

I was there, incidentally. I was there observing displays of Nazi propaganda on the fourth floor of the museum. I was there in the dark, cool room. Nazi-era video trumpeted in the background. Hitler’s distinctive voice roused crowds as he pounded on a podium and shook his fist – but that was decades ago, a lifetime ago for many. On a clear day in June, 2009, at least one elderly extremist was still listening. I was there.

“There’s been a disturbance! There’s…a situation at the front of the building. Shots were fired at the front of the building,” the panicked security officer exclaimed as he herded people away from the platform which overlooked the lobby.

Another guard tried to console us, and alleviate our concerns. “Everything is going to be okay. If you would like, you can continue looking at the displays on this floor. We should have the situation resolved shortly.”

But soon after, we were backed against the far side of the building. “Proceed very carefully and quietly down the emergency exit stairway.” Sounds of a Nazi parade prevented absolute silence. One of the guard’s two-way radios crackled and spoke in fragments about “securing the basement.” Behind me, an elevator stirred to life.

Did the guards have weapons, I recall thinking. Have they detained the gunman (I never doubted it was a man)? Are we sitting ducks in here?

Down the stairs, quickly, quietly. We emerged to see helicopters circling in the sky, with snipers hanging from their sides. Police sirens wailed. Car engines roared as emergency vehicles bolted from intersection to intersection. More and more police cars arrived.

“Take cover!” I heard someone shout. Police were forcing us back, back across the street, back into the field, farther and farther from the building. I saw panicked school teachers urging their children to stay together. I saw families separated in the chaos, searching desperately. Nearly everyone had some sort of recording device, camera phones, camcorders, capturing the scene. Others smiled nervously, confused. “This is like a movie,” someone exclaimed. Fear struggled with curiosity. Some tourists left the area, some stayed. “I want to see what happens.” Police blocked the streets. Two officers forced an eighteen wheeler truck to turn around. The annoyed driver U-turned the truck at an impossible angle, but pulled it off somehow. “I taught him that,” one of the officers said. The other grinned.

Blood spilled that day, at a memorial designed to appeal to our common humanity. Blood spilled, for reasons unimaginable to most- but to some, all too reasonable. Blood spilled for a way of thinking said to be dead, dying – in its “last throes,” if you will.  In two weeks, three people acted independently, decided to take lives in separate incidents to make a political statement. In a matter of hours, millions are made witness to their ugly ideology. Most turn away. But some take another look. They don’t represent America – not all of it, anyway. But they don’t have to. With a gunshot, they’re made famous. America stares, stares at the grotesque, appalled, mortified, yet curious – too curious to look away.

American Woman

“I believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman.  No offense to anybody out there, but that’s how I was raised.” – Carrie Prejean, Miss California

Did you hear, despite being in a state of threatened collapse, the Pakistani government is currently going forward with plans to build a new generation of nuclear bombs?

No, of course not.  But I bet you did hear about this little side-story:  A hot chick says she’s against gay marriage.  Cue political pundits, give it a couple days, and you have a full-blown media blitzkrieg.  On the right, Miss California is brave and principled.  Enter stage right:  Morning talk show appearances and reiterations of stuff we’ve already heard.  On the left, Prejean is a hypocrite.  Enter stage left:  Shameful photos of a topless Prejean (complete with stars to obscure that most intolerable part of the body:  the human nipple).  Then, Donald Trump has to decide whether she keeps her crown.

Under the surface, we have an argument about what the idealized American woman should be.  And to me, that makes all of this a little more important than your average left/right he said/she said bullshit fest.  Maybe I don’t have any business delving into this territory, but what can I say, I’m interested.  So give me a chance.  If I did have a stake, I would say something like, “You know, if we want our Miss Americas to be all pious and virginal, why do we take most of their clothes off and parade them across a stage for our entertainment?  Isn’t that a bit creepy?”  If I weren’t paying so much attention to Pakistan, I would add, “Seriously, you take a topless photo and you’re a filthy whore.  You take a bikini photo and you’re a role model for millions of budding American girls.”  I might say, “Okay, so she broke the rules.  But maybe the rules are fundamentally flawed.  We’re sexualizing our American women while simultaneously insisting that they remain chaste and unscathed.”  We ask their opinions and expect a prepared, scripted answer?  There are plenty of intelligent women out there – women who rival Ms. Prejean in beauty and absolutely kick her ass in intellect.  So, we trot out fifty bimbos who aren’t exactly stock, implore them to prance around and insist on boring, parroted answers to simple questions.  Seriously, this is our idealized American woman?   So when one says something different, something unexpected, something unpopular, she is reprimanded, threatened, crucified, and disrobed before the entire country – in a frightening display of intolerance from the the all-inclusive, live-and-let-live left.  She didn’t say what they wanted her to say, so they destroyed her.  And from the intolerant right, she is pardoned, uplifted, deified.  Never mind that she took some scantily-clad photos that they would normally find objectionable – they can use her.  She’s useful.

Never mind the politics – cast that aside for a moment and realize this is about more than that.  She may have whored herself out to Right-wing media in the midst of the storm, and she espouses a belief which I personally object to, and she may be a bit of a hypocrite (give me a break, who isn’t?).  This is about more than her.  It’s about the hers out there, who are perpetually confused about what’s expected of them in this dualistic whore/virgin society that we live in.  And political views?  Our idealized woman isn’t interested in such things.  We inform her of the correct answer, and she dittos it back to us with an awkwardly choreographed delivery – but with a smile (you’re a doll, babe).  What does it mean to be a woman in American society, what should our girls strive for?  Is it this?  A beauty pageant complete with a question-and-answer charade?  Oh Jesus, someone went off-script.  She doesn’t agree with you, she’s a “stupid bitch.”  But what if she answered correctly?  What if all went as planned?  What is she then?  And is this “she” what we want our “shes” striving to be?  Likable – not intellectual.  Sweet – not argumentative.  Complacent – not independent.  Detached – not engaged. Beautiful – but hollow.  Do we want our girls to be any of these women?

Carrie Prejean:  Sure, she’s probably not familiar with all the nuances of the gay marriage issue, but she gave her opinion – the real one.  And now, she’s swept into the firestorm.  It’s too late for her now.  We all know what follows.  The tabloids, the Entertainment magazine, the prime time interview – then the downward spiral, the meltdown, the vanquished gladiator lying beaten in the dusts of the arena.

I bet she’ll write a book.

Back into the fray…

“This is a person who is one of the most anti-American leaders in the entire world. He is a brutal dictator, human rights violations are very, very prevalent in Venezuela. And you have to be careful. When you’re talking about the prestige of the United States and the presidency of the United States, you have to be careful who you’re seeing joking around with. And I think it was irresponsible for the president to be seen kind of laughing and joking with Hugo Chavez.” – John Ensign, Nevada Senator, as reported by Politico.com

Hold on a second there, Senator.  When you say “brutal dictator,” I think you mean the foreign leader who some officials have some very notable concerns about in regards to his commitment to freedom of the press and other essentials of a free society, but who otherwise is the democratically elected President of Venezuela.  I would not characterize Chavez as strictly “anti-American,” but he was certainly “anti-Bush,” particularly in the area of foreign policy.   And can you really chastise President Obama for shaking the hand of Chavez and smiling for the camera when the former President had a particularly puzzling and well-documented first-term bro-mance (God forgive me) with a foreign leader that is as bad (and probably worse) than Chavez (Last name Putin, first name Vladimir)?

I rest my case.