paranoia (excerpt)

viii.

Enter Alex and Dexter

Jake – Hey guys, long time no see! What are you doing he—wait, you guys know each other?

Dexter – Oh. Yeah, we go way back.

Jake – Really? I had no idea.

Alex – Yeah, well small world.

Jake – I’ll say. So what’s going on?

Dexter – Well, funny you ask, Jake.

Alex – Maybe you should sit down.

Jake – What is it?

Dexter – We, uh, have to tell you something.

Jake – Ok.

Alex – I’m not quite sure how to explain this, because it’s kind of—

Dexter – Complicated.

Alex – Right.

Jake – Ok…Well?

Dexter – It’s actually pretty funny.

Alex – (to Dexter) Well, maybe to us. But it won’t be to him.

Dexter – Yeah, I guess you’re right.

Jake – Are you going to tell me or what?

Alex – Jake—(deep breath) Jake, we’ve been meeting.

Jake – Who? Meeting about what?

Alex – Us.

Dexter – About you.

Jake – I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense.

Alex – Jake, let’s face it. You’re a disaster.

Jake – What?

Dexter – You expect too much.

Alex – You’re too demanding.

Jake – What are you talking about?

Alex – (shrugs shoulders) Uh, how do I say this.

Dexter – The paper.

Alex – Oh yeah! (takes out sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket and starts to read) Let’s see…“you’re self-centered, oversensitive, and unreasonable.”

Jake – What are you saying? What are you reading?

Dexter – Jake, we’ve been meeting.

Jake – Guys—

Alex – Thursday nights.

Jake – (agitatedly confused) What? Who?

Alex – Well, a bunch of people.

Dexter – Who all know you.

Jake – What’re you meeting about?

Alex – Well, lots of things, really.

Jake – Alex—

Dexter – Uh, you, mainly. We meet to talk about you.

Jake – What do you mean you meet to talk about me?

Alex – Uh, well, every Thursday, we get together and talk about you.

Dexter – Behind your back.

Jake – Guys, this isn’t funny. Cut the fucking bullshit.

Alex – Yeah, your analyst said you might react like this.

Dexter – Oh yeah, that’s right! He’s good.

Jake – My analyst?

Alex – Yeah. Theodore comes, too.

Dexter – To our meetings.

Alex – He warned us about your irrational temper.

Jake – My irrational temper? What the fuck are you doing meeting with my analyst?

Dexter – Renee invited him to come.

Alex – To our meetings.

Jake – Renee? My ex-girlfriend, Renee?

Dexter – Yeah, that’s the one.

Jake – Ren—Renee is meeting with my analyst?

Alex – Well, we’re all meeting. Not just Renee and Theodore.

Jake – Who else?!

Alex – Lots of people.

Dexter – Lisa, for instance.

Jake – My girlfriend??

Alex – Yeah. She and Renee get along great.

Jake – What the fuck is going on?

Alex – Oh, right. I knew this was going to difficult.

Dexter – It’s complicated.

Alex – Right.

Jake – What are these meetings?

Alex – Ok, let’s try this again.

Dexter – Just stick to the paper.

Alex – Right. So basically (reading again from crumpled paper) “we feel that you are self-absorbed and have too grandiose a sense of self-importance.”

Jake – No I don’t!—what are you reading?

Dexter – Oh, those are just some notes.

Alex – So we remember what we’re supposed to tell you.

Jake – What you’re supposed to tell me?

Dexter – On the group’s behalf.

Jake – What group?!?

Alex – Aren’t you paying attention?

Dexter – Listen up, Jake, this is important.

Alex – Yeah. (continues reading) “You also seem to believe that you are ‘special’
and unique, and can only be understood by other ‘special’ or high-status people.”

Jake – What are these meetings about!?

Dexter – Well, basically we meet to talk about you.

Jake – Behind my back, yes, you said that. But why??

Alex – Well, basically we’re sick of your shit.

Jake – What shit?

Alex – (reading again) Uh, “you frequently show arrogant, haughty behavior and attitudes and are often envious of others or think they are envious of you. ”

Jake – That’s not tru—would you stop reading!?!

Alex – I just want to get it right.

Dexter – We spent the entire meeting last time making sure we got this worded right.

Jake tears the paper out of Alex’s hand.

Jake – Without reading from this goddamned paper, tell me what these meetings are about!

Alex – (agitated) See, this is exactly what we mean. Every month we consider disbanding, but every month you justify our meetings with your continued—

Dexter – Pomposity and self-importance.

Alex – Exactly!

Jake – Every month? How long have you been meeting?

Alex – (counting on his fingers, then looking up at Dexter) About 4 years now?

Dexter – Yeah, it’ll be 4 years in March.

Jake – What have you been doing for 4 years!?

Alex – Well, basically, we devise strategies.

Jake – Strategies?

Dexter – Ways to keep you mired in perpetual uncertainty.

Jake – I don’t believe this.

Dexter – Well, it’s true.

Alex – We all conspire to keep you frustrated and discontent.

Jake – You guys are full of shit.

Dexter – You know how Lisa keeps refusing to, you know—

Jake – That’s none of your goddamned—

Alex – You’re wondering does she not love you enough? Is she not attracted to you? Is she justified in needing more time?

Jake – Alex, I’m warning you—

Dexter – Well, none of that’s really the issue.

Alex – We all decided that she should keep saying no just to play on your insecurities.

Dexter – But take my word for it, she’s dynamite!

Alex – Oh yeah.

Jake – What?! Fuck you!

Dexter – And remember how no one invited you to the Super Bowl party at Ken’s house?

Jake – Get the fuck out of here!

Alex – Were we mad at you for something? Did we not want you there? Are we really even your friends?

Jake does not respond.

Dexter – All part of the plan.

Jake – What plan?!

Alex – We’ve made a pledge, Jake.

Dexter – We’re neither going to love you as much as you’d like nor cut you adrift.

Jake – Wh—why!?

Alex – The truth is, nobody really likes you.

Dexter – Especially me. I hate you.
--

Excerpt from 'paranoia,' a one act play originally written in March 2001.

amplified silence

Arms folded and scared, I kneeled over the back of the couch and stared out the window into the darkness. No headlights. For at least six blocks down the street, there was no approaching car, no signal of a possible return.

It had been snowing. Hard. The roads, they had said on the news, had been "assaulted." The temperatures had dropped still further. Beware the black ice, they warned, showing only a glimpse of the 36-car pile-up on the Interstate. Eastbound, just west of Grand River. There were several fatalities.

Still no headlights. Oh God. Come on, please. The snow had stopped outside the window. It was, in fact, eerily still now. Dark, but only as dark as it can get with an 18-inch blanket of glittering white draped upon the lawns, streets, and sidewalks, illuminated by the waning crescent of the moon. The bare branches of the trees shivered in the wind, sagging wearily under the weight of the night, the gravity of the sky. The houses sat stoically like toy soldiers, frozen at attention; they held their chimneys upright like bayonets, unfazed by the bitter cold.

Sitting next to the warmest heat vent could momentarily temper my anxiety. But now the furnace groaned wearily and shut down from the basement, hushing with one command the entire house. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs; the silence was suddenly amplified; my apprehension grew exponentially. I had turned off the television twenty minutes ago, according to the clock. It had in fact been much longer.

...

Hope flickered in pairs down the street. A set of headlights approached gradually, fishtailing helplessly between the curbs. My eyes focused intently on the strengthening glow. "Come on," I whispered desperately, "come on." Three blocks before my house they turned cautiously into an unfamiliar driveway (thankful to be home, no doubt) and vanished. Again there was only darkness as far as I could see.

My urgency intensified. They were now two full hours late. My eyes began to water dejectedly. I fought it angrily, the hollow lump in my throat, the scorned tears on my cheek. I hated myself for crying, for not showing the proper courage. I scolded myself harshly and hastily wiped my face dry with the heel of my palm.

...

I began to imagine my mother's last thoughts, her last words, as she lay crumpled beneath the shattered glass and cold steel, shivering and bleeding helplessly. The ambulances wouldn't be able to get to her in time. The crimson streaks in the snowy embankment would mark the site of the wreck for the rest of the night and into the morning until the sky opened up again, callously whiting out the remaining evidence and moving forward like the rush-hour traffic. The roads would be plowed and salted by then.

I would get a call from the hospital. "I'm sorry, son… We did everything we could," and the phone would fall from my hand as I crumbled to my knees in disbelief, hands clenching fistfuls of hair. "Hello?" they would call from the receiver. But I would not hear. My eyes would be tightly shut; my head would be shaking in denial. I would remain there on the floor until someone came and found me.

...

I began to pace in the hallway. Past the kitchen, past the stairs, past the bathroom, into my bedroom and, after a momentary glance out towards the shadowy white corners of my backyard, back the same way. There was nothing else I could do.

My eyes struggled drowsily to stay open, but the prospect of falling asleep terrified me. What if I was to wake up the next day at noon and again hear only stillness?

I would look anxiously out the window at the undisturbed driveway. No tire tracks. The garage would be sealed shut now by 20 inches of snow. My stomach would churn mercilessly as I scrambled upstairs, nauseous with panic; the lump would be rapidly reasserting itself in my throat; the tears would be streaming uncontrollably down my face. I would turn the corner into the master bedroom and stand fearfully in the open doorway, finding the bed neatly made and empty, just as it was last night. And it will have been over twelve hours since their scheduled return. What would I do?

...

The furnace restarted with a grunt from the basement. The heat vent again warmed my bare feet, breathing gently into the room. My eyes first wavered, then closed involuntarily for several minutes, sinking slowly into darkness.

I emerged momentarily, dazedly rolling my eyes in an arc from the far corner of the floor past the painting on the adjacent wall and onto the ceiling directly above me, which faded magically from white to dark, taking me under once again.

Images rushed in from all sides like water until I was immersed. I descended gently until I reached equilibrium, and, suspended within, felt weightless, consumed.
It was ecstasy, the pure submission to it. It did not occur to me in that final moment of semi-consciousness to fight it any further. I happily surrendered, gaining composure in my oblivion.

But even that was ephemeral. I soon found myself scrambling frantically in a mist, helpless. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh please, God," I cried desperately. I looked up apprehensively and saw the plane. An explosion bellowed out fire and volume into the night sky and resonated for what seemed like an eternity. I collapsed to my knees, covering my bowed head with both arms and sobbing hysterically as hot shards of red debris rained down on me.

My face was scalded; my head pulsated with pain. The anguish and the guilt crippled me. I was left with nothing. I could not stop sobbing.

I thought for sure that I would drown on the floor of this raging sea, suffocated by heat and grief, engulfed in despair.

...

The sound of a distant echo lifted me from the bottom. The cool touch of a palm on my forehead extinguished much of the fire, and I again felt suspended, weightless, consumed. I remember catching a second fleeting glimpse of the ceiling.

Only moments later I awoke to the tear-blurred sight of my undisturbed backyard, glittering in the sunlight, and the sound of a teapot, clattering in the sink. According to the clock, however, it had been much longer.

Originally written in October 1998.

out of the question

He knew she was coming. He wanted to be ready; he wanted her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. The moments when he was vulnerable to being caught off-guard worried him; he obsessed over them in an attempt to minimize their frequency. He had conceived a notion of his 'element,' and it was in the epitome of that element that he wanted to be seen, to be recognized, to be remembered.

He sat ponderously, pen in hand, in a premeditated pose as he awaited her arrival. He knew precisely what she would see when she looked at him; he had painstakingly made sure his appearance was precisely as he wanted it. The anticipation of her arrival quickened his pulse now; he took a deep breath and looked down as he cautiously checked his hair with his hand once more in a nervous habit.

The book in his hands offered him distraction, but only in small doses. His eyes kept darting periodically from the page to the door, to the window, for a glimpse, a sound, anything that would signal (or even suggest) her impending arrival. The door creaked (it was not her); someone coughed (it was not her); a whisper from the corner (still not her). He kept himself readied for her emergence; it was critical for him to maintain his focus lest hebe caught unaware.

At last, she appeared. He recognized her form, her demeanor, peripherally; her black hair curled slightly up and out at the bottom, as it dangled just above her shoulders. Her stride was neither hesitant nor confident, but it was closer to the latter than the former when her arms were folded across her chest as they were now.

She had an alert look to her, as always, as if she had just taken a cold shower, fresh and attentive. And her eyes! How he longed to be granted some sort of permission to gaze deeply into her eyes for as long as he pleased. A photograph might even do; just an image of her face, her smile, for him to examine shamelessly at his any whim. He suspected that her eyes were brown, but he couldn't be certain. Eyecontact, especially extended eye contact, was dangerously engaging.

She sat down near him. He took a casual glance about as she did, inhaling nasally (unnecessarily), with a meticulously calculated nonchalance. He strove (successfully) to just barely take notice of her arrival; acknowledgement had been out of the question. He felt empowered in his silence; his stature was heightened when he fell within the unknown. Here he could be anything and everything to her. His strength was in his possibilities as she perceived them, and he clutched to these for security, relentlessly denying the prospect of any further action that could elucidate his real character and thus threaten to undermine his assumed status.

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to wonder what he was thinking. He wondered what she thought he was thinking. He was, after careful preparation, a stoic there, with his face, with his aloof stare, his distracted eyes. He was the embodiment of non-concern for her situation. He was truly engrossed in his question, agonizing over the scenarios, the mechanisms, and the possible solutions in his mind. His look of determination, he thought (hoped) was surely intriguing, his iron will certainly admirable. He was perplexed (though only momentarily, of course); enveloped in astate of contemplation. He was an enigma facing one himself.

He was putting on a show. He sat in her presence distractedly for the next two hours, discretely sneaking peripheral glances as to maintain his relative disinterest. After this time, however, she gently closed her book, pondered the back cover a moment, and then got up and walked out, followed closely by his gaze. He was torturing himself with thiscomplicity.

He had taken a detour through the alley this afternoon, in order to pass by a bench where she probably would not be. But 'probably would not be' had significantly better odds than 'had never been,' so it was only natural he make the trip, if for nothing more than an outside chance. It was the anticipation that motivated him; it had to be. He was too great a coward to live in any particular moment; that implied present tense. Memory and anticipation were his realms; past and future only. Realization, the moment, was uncharted territory; it lacked such critical words as 'safety,' 'certainty,' and 'control.' It was, therefore, out of the question.

This afternoon, though, he had been faced with the moment, for there she was from a distance: a flash, the unexpected. He was ecstatic. This meant a glimpse—he could see her, and she him. He was well prepared to be seen (for the outside chance). He had rehearsed potential passing remarks, potential conversation starters, and even extensions for possible 'awkward silences' that could eventually provedisastrous. <>But when the moment came, it paralyzed him yet again. A feverish wave suddenly flushed across his face, beads of sweat appeared on the back of his neck, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ear. He became unnerved and scrambled to alter his plans.

He found himself walking by in a pre-constructed daze, back within his comfort zone. He stared distractedly down as he passed by, (as if he hadn't had even the slightest notion of her presence there!) as if concentrating on the stains of the leaves that were once on the sidewalk, how they shadowed in crimson and mahogany the ones that were there now. His attraction, he decided while berating himself for his latest failure, would have to be his mystery.

He was conscious of each time he passed in front of her window and acted as though she were gazing out at him every time. Each separate time, he reasoned, there was a chance that she could be looking out (seeing him). So he carefully gathered himself before each pass and made himself into the person he wanted her to see. God forbid sherecognize him (remember him!) any other way.

He had never met the girl. He had not even heard her speak. He was merely enraptured by her aura, her look. She was someone intriguing; this he knew (from her silence, from her mystique). He could not rationalize it; it was an instinctual obsession. Soon, though, he was going to meet this girl; he was going gather up the courage to introduce himself. Very soon. Tomorrow, in fact. Each successive failure, though, forced him to postpone, and each day postponed, he knew, was one less day he would have left. His window was progressively closing as his urgency intensified.

What was it, he wondered, that restrained him? It too, whatever it was, was strangely (cruelly) fundamental, instinctual. Why this paradox, this seemingly programmed dilemma? Look, he seemed to be told, but do not touch! Which impulse would he be forced to deny (toovercome)?

It was up to him. She would never (could never) take the initiative herself, this he knew. Exclusively from her demeanor (her walk), he knew it would've been out of character for her. He already had a well-constructed notion of the type of person she would be. For him, it could be (would have to be) completely natural, nonchalant, to introduce himself, to take the initiative. In fact, he would almost be doing her a favor. It would, in any case, be progress; a move from the status quo.

His one attempt at an introduction (at acknowledgement) had surprised them both. It was met with a momentarily startled look, then a hurried reciprocation, as clumsy as its unplanned stimulus; and that was it. Though it was far from ideal, it was certainly fitting.

He could not help but to analyze the one encounter. She probably had not expected anymore than to simply walk by, focusing on the ground as usual, and nothing more. She had no reason to expect any different; there had been no prior interaction between them, and there was no sign (sigh!) that there would be anytime in the perceivable future. What other reaction could be hoped for?

Had she thought anymore of it? Had she ever looked at him as more than just background, a passer-by, an extra? He feared (hopelessly) that she had not. And hence the apprehension seeded within his fascination (but the status quo simply would not do).

He sat quietly (thoughtfully) at a bench of his own now, preoccupied rather than distracted. He was relaxed, mindless, (disorganized!) just before he realized that she was about to pass by.

Again, he found himself flushed with chaos and reaction, the realization of which simultaneously triggered an instant of utter exasperation. On her approach, she looked over at him (he sensed it), and there was an ideal moment (frozen) for him to establish eye contact, for a smile (for success!). But almost automatically, before he even realizedwhat he was doing, he began (and continued) to stare profoundly at his blank notebook page, lost in his hastily reconstructed, disgustingly artificial enigma as her eyes left him; acknowledgement had been out of the question.

why i write

a brief letter to a friend

written inside a card, with a black and white landscape, and the
following caption:

"do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?"
--marcel marceau

the mime said it best. perhaps it is useless, then, to write inside this card in an attempt to explain something that is better understood when left unsaid. but I don't know if I'm ready to accept that on faith quite yet. so on to the attempt to say what doesn't (or shouldn't) need saying.

wait. this first about my motives. maybe I want to say it, or to write it, because it's so fragile. vivid right now, yes, but fragile nonetheless. so maybe I am writing it for future reference. but that's what frustrates me (and, odds are, you, too). trying to capture something that always seems to elude me. the best I can do, it seems, is to be able to bear witness to it; to know I am in the moment. it is an intrinsic, wholly indescribable (as far as language will allow) essence. and here's the hitch: I don't know if I want to capture it. I always find myself (however futile the struggle is) trying (and wholeheartedly at that). but inevitably it is an attempt that ends (and, I feel now, rightfully so) in failure. coming close is maybe the more approachable (if you'll pardon the word choice) goal.

so maybe I'll spend my life as an asymptote. always coming closer to my limit (pure and complete expression?), but never quite arriving.

there were times when I thought, ignorantly (blissfully), that I had done it. that I had accomplished my unattainable goal. but that was naïve. the reason I thought that I had done it, I think, was a result of mistaken identity. I only 'captured' what I had, I know now, after the original and consuming sense of it had passed. so, when I think about it now, I wonder if what I had really 'captured' had even really been what I originally set out searching for. there was certainly something there before me on the page; but it was not what I had intended it to be. I think it would've been worrisome, in retrospect, had I actually done what I set out to do. in fact, I am rather comforted by the impossibility of attaining such expression with language, of an experience I deem so influential, so beautiful to me as to inspire me to write about it. if I could actually capture with a set of 26 letters and several punctuation marks an essence that profound, that moving, then I would have to question my judgment ofthe impact of such an event on me.

so maybe this is just an attempt to remind me one day when (god forbid) "the original and consuming sense has departed," of the magic I bore witness to for a moment, an hour, a night. I pray that I am given such an opportunity to again feel such euphoria in my life. but I guess I don't want to be left wondering how it really felt some day, although (because?) it will inevitably happen anyway.

I think the futile struggles are the most heroic, though. that is why I will always try, even though my ceiling restricts me from attaining any distinction above failure. but I think the glimpse of success, even from beneath, like the sight of the light sky from just under the surface of the water, is enough to drive me indefinitely, and forever passionately.

echo

Echo

The music stopped so long ago
But still I hear the sound
Keeping dreams from dying
And hopes from off the ground

The rain falls alone tonight
My thoughts land in July
I am left without umbrella
Staring at the sky

The water streams down my face
My eyelids slowly close
All I feel is the emptiness
Of raindrops on my nose

All I hear is the music
Echoing in my ear
The song against the raindrops
Playing crystal clear

The chorus like the numbness
Consumes me then and there
The wind whispers promises
As vacant as my stare

I am driven to distraction
And for a moment, I forget
Sodden with illusion
I am cleansed of all regret

The lightning flashes instantly
And all the dark is light
My eyelids slowly open
To see the blackened night

The music stopped so long ago
Now I cannot hear the sound
The echo is forever lost
And silence briefly found

do I dare?

do I dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions
which a minute will reverse
---t.s. eliot