Moments

We base our life on moments, pivot points of existence. Our minds let certain memories prevail to remind us of who we are. Some of us are able to capture those brief experiences and share them with vividness.  Driven to share our moments, we find the tools we can manipulate well enough to give them a pulse. We share our moments because we must, because they burn in our veins and plague our thoughts. The snap of a shutter that allows light to bathe the waiting film, the brush that releases its hue, a stone exposing a form, rhythm transforming the air, and language detailing the world with beauty—these are our mediums.

Searching for a voice that will echo far beyond our own existence, we long for a sense of immortality. Our life inevitably fades, so we expose our experiences, our moments.  We scream into the future so our life will be remembered. The medium we choose acts as a beacon so humanity will know we were here, that we mattered. We contort the physical to express the spiritual.

Architects transform the skyline. They move mountains to be remembered.  Scientists explore the unknown to make sense of who they are. Athletes shape their bodies to be remembered for their perfection.  All of us look for a moment that glistens divinely and hope to capture it. We hope to capture it in a unique way that connects all of humanity by setting us apart from it.

Mortality is a moment that we are chained to; however we shouldn’t mourn for our unavoidable demise. We should find our brushes, our hammer and chisels, to capture our unique view.

***Find the language of your immortality and proclaim it to the universe.***  

Tormented

The sky split with a deafening roar. Hail pounded the Earth, punishing the ground. The parked cars echoed the sound of the hail, disguising the torment with a high pitched “plinking”. I waited under the eave of a storefront, hoping for a moment’s relief from the storm’s fury. My shoes, now sponges, were leaking their black dye. “That’s what I get for buying $10 canvas shoes,” I said,lecturing myself. My coat was no longer warm; the rain had made its way through the cotton fibers and was dripping down my back and arms. I still had six blocks left to go and the storm wasn’t looking any friendlier. I pulled my ball cap down tight. Keeping my face to the ground, I started towards my destination.

I didn’t feel like going to work today. I felt even less like going now, because I’d have to work my shift soaked.

I could see the music store in the distance. The sign that proudly announced “Anything for a Song” was being beaten against the façade of the building. Water poured from the roof making a pond directly in front of the door. I built up some speed to try and hurdle the moat that was forming along the entire storefront. My feet missed their mark and sent a tidal wave in every direction. Now my pants were soaked from ankle to waistband. “SHIT!” I said it louder than I realized. My quick burst of profanity echoed almost as loud as the thunder clap directly after. Looking up to grab the door handle I was startled by my boss standing on the other side of the glass. He rolled his eyes and walked off shaking his head. I opened the door to the familiar smell of new sheet music and guitar polish. The brass bells tied to the door handle made me cringe. Day after day the once pleasant jingle had turned into a reaction that Pavlov would be proud of. 

I hung my coat behind the counter; it dripped into the trashcan in a slow steady rhythm. I tried my best to dry off with a few old rags that we reserved for wiping dust off of piano keys. “Do you think you’ll actually be able to sell anything looking like that?” Mr. Childes, my boss, asked in a condescending tone. He had an unusual candor to his speech. I couldn’t quite tell if he was being sarcastic or actually irritated that I couldn’t dodge the raindrops walking to work.

“Can I wear one of the shirts the Fender rep left the other day?”  He looked at me with a snarl, exposing his coffee stained teeth. “It’ll have to come out of your paycheck” he said as he smirked. He got them free, and now he’s selling them for $15. I forced a smile and thanked him.

The fresh, dry cotton stuck to my damp skin as I slid the shirt on. It still had large square wrinkles that framed the Fender Guitars logo. It smelled sterile and crisp. 

The lights flickered with the next lightning strike. “Unplug the keyboards!” Childes barked from his office. I made my way through the sea of amplifiers and guitar stands to the back of the building. The low humming of florescent lights was the only sound in this hidden part of the store. The thunder couldn’t make its way through the bricks and plaster to compete with it. As I stretched to reach the outlets behind the keyboards, the lights brightened for a moment and then crackled out of existence. The room was dark. I fumbled for the cords and yanked them from the outlets. Rising back up, I smashed the back of my head into a shelf of music stands sending it tumbling to the floor. My vision sparkled in the blackness and I instantly felt ill.

 “What the hell did you break?” Childes screamed from his office. “You’re going to owe me this week instead of getting paid. Be careful damn it!”

I could hear him fumbling through his desk drawers and cursing under his breath. His office lit up with a single flashlight beam. The circle of light moved around the room casting long distorted shadows through his doorway. “Stay there,” he yelled, “I’ll come back to get you. I don’t want you to break anything else.”   

I felt the warm stream of what had to be blood tracing its way down behind my right ear. “Great.” I murmured. “I suppose he’ll want me to shampoo his carpet too.” 

Just seeing his flashlight swing in his grip, I could tell he was pissed.  His arrogance was apparent even with only seeing his obscured silhouette. 

I pressed my hand hard against the throbbing cut on my head. I was hoping to hide it; I didn’t feel like another lecture or sarcastic comment. His light got closer and stopped about ten feet away from the doorway to the room.  Lightning flashed outside backlighting him. The snap-shot image of him took a minute to register. He was standing, frozen in place, and staring past me.  “What’s your problem?” I said growing impatient. My head thumped with each heartbeat. “Seriously Mr. Childes, I’m hurt.” He stood there, I could hear him breathing. “I can’t see Mr. Childes, shine your light back here!”  Another flash of lightning lit the front windows. His flashlight dropped to the ground with a thud. I heard his heavy feet stumble as he tried to run. “What the… where are you going?”  I lunged forward to grab the flashlight and catch up to him.  The blood that was oozing from my scalp was starting to run down my shirt.  I could feel it spreading over my chest. I stepped past the doorway, and the warmth I thought was blood tightened around me, crushing my chest, pulling me back. I grabbed the back of my neck. My hand sunk into my flesh, my fingertips touched bone. Panicked I thrashed and twisted trying to see what held me.  Long black lines were stretching from the wall, pulling the flesh from my bone. I felt the skin on my chest ripping, pulling away from the muscle beneath. I pulled hard. I tried to move, to run, to fight. I was being stripped down to the bone. The skin on my fingers stretched tight ripping over my fingertips. The white of my bones poked through the pads. My lips pulled across my teeth, tearing and falling away. The blackness that was tearing me apart pinned me against the wall to finish its job. 

With a snap I felt the last of my flesh twist from my back. I crashed to the floor in a heap. My bare skull cracked as it hit the floor.

The room was instantly re-lit with the arrival of electricity. My vision was fuzzy. The room came into focus. Mr. Childes was standing over me.  “Get up!” He gave me a swift kick to my shins. 

I was lying on my side, disoriented. What the hell had happened? I felt my arms expecting to run my fingers down smooth wet bones. Relieved, I felt warm skin. I got to my feet and my head throbbed with every inch of elevation. “What a dream.” I murmured. Mr. Childes turned around to face me from the front of the store, his hand raised in its usual pose before a long lecture. I walked past the doorway, almost expecting to be pulled back again. 

“We need to move those keyboards from the back today,” he said, stretching each word with emphasis. “I don’t like it back there.” Something changed in his usual mindless gaze and he looked straight at me. “This place used to be a clothing store in the 1920’s. It sat empty for years, that’s why I got it dirt cheap. They had their own tanner, Mr. Evans. He was famous, at least around here. He sold his leather to all of the shoe factories, cobblers; most of the leather workers around here bought his stuff. The old print shop on the corner even bound some Bibles with it. He had the best leather on the East Coast, hell, probably in the U.S. One morning old Father O’Kelly stopped in before Mass, hoping to get Evans to attend church. Well, he couldn’t find the old codger. Yelling for him, he walked into that backroom.” Childes pointed to the back of the store and his hand trembled a bit. “He found the bastard skinning his neighbor. So all those Bibles, all those shoes and coats—yeah, you guessed it, human skin. I heard he even gave slabs of meat to the soup kitchen.” He smiled uncomfortably. “The whole damn town was full of cannibals wearing people boots.”   

***My second entry in the 'Ghost Story' contest. 

For a writing contest at OUC

Rituals

Thin strips of light laced the room. Each line followed the contour of every bend, every feature. My eyes slowly focused, sharpening the striped scene. My bedroom was in its usual state--jumbled. I slid out from underneath my sheets; my toes searched the floor for my slippers. The morning air was creeping in through a small crack in my window, leaving a blanket of crisp, cool air on the floor. Finally my toes found their Mecca and climbed inside my wool-lined slippers with a sigh of relief. I felt each vertebra crack as I pushed my arms up to stretch. A deep yawn announced my consciousness.

Upon opening my door, I stepped into the hallway; it was a somber scene. Still cloaked in darkness, the pictures that held images of smiling family members were in shadow. They looked like a dismantled jigsaw puzzle made of all square pieces. The other doors were still shut, silent, hiding pools of energy wrapped in blankets. It was always quiet this early. The only sounds were the deep, slow breathing of sleeping children and a snoring poodle; and an occasional hum of a car going by the front windows. I enjoyed these mornings; my ears reveled in the delight of the relative silence.

As I walked to the kitchen the floorboards kept their silence. Their usual song was vacant. It seemed the house itself was sleeping in. Still, I stepped softly, wanting to keep this moment to myself.

The refrigerator poured light into the kitchen as I searched for the last drop of orange juice. I could feel my skin tighten the further back into the cold I searched. With my prize in hand I walked to the window to open the curtain. Light dripped its way in. Since a thick canopy of maple leaves helped hide our backyard from the waking sun, the window wouldn’t display the morning for at least an hour. The grass was decorated with small splashes of light that had managed to weave through the trees. Spider silk was trapped, highlighted by beads of water. It decorated the fence with a macabre collage of insect shells.  

I could see the remnants of my vegetable garden in the distance. A few tomatoes still clung to life on the vines. The stakes that once held a forest of healthy green plants were now grave markers with summer’s epitaph written by dying vines.

My sabbatical was interrupted by an abrupt bark from my dog. She was standing by the back door waiting, wanting to pounce on the day. When I opened the door, cool air rushed in finding its way into every gap of the clothing I wore. The clumsy paws of my poodle galloped through the yard marking her trail in the damp grass. Nose to the ground, she filtered the confetti of scents in the yard. I watched, amused at the importance of her morning ritual.   

The sun was stretching the pools of light in the back yard. Deep purples and blues were becoming more vibrant as the sun warmed the sky. A few red leaves dotted the green carpet of grass. Venus hung low on the horizon, the only survivor left from the night.

Retreating to my living room I drained the last of my orange juice. Its acidic bite poured across my teeth. “Eye opener,” my grandfather called it. He swore it was better than coffee.

My piano slumbered in the corner. The songs trapped inside are waiting patiently. I ran my fingers across the keys, the cracked ivory catching on my fingertips. I wanted to play, but the stillness of the house longed to remain, so I traced the sheet music with my eyes. The melody on the page came to life, pulsing through me, hypnotizing me.    

A hallway door crept open. Little feet staggered into the kitchen. Standing on tip-toes she reached for a bowl. Gathering the rest of her breakfast supplies, she sat down at the small wooden table where we always ate. “Good morning, daddy,” she said quietly. I felt the smile grow on my face--this was our morning ritual.

My daughter turned to the door; our dog was standing on its hind feet, fogging the window with its breath. “What are you doing out there?” she asked. Opening the door, the dog lumbered in, tracking blades of cut grass across the floor. Toenails scraping the linoleum, she slid to her water bowl and started lapping up water faster than she could swallow it. “Don’t be so messy,” my daughter remarked. “Wet floors drive mom nutty.”

She quickly finished her breakfast and she put her dishes in the sink. Off to get dressed, she skipped to her room. Re-appearing moments later, she had dressed herself in a red top, pink pants, and bright orange socks. Hopping into the front room she scrambled for the remote. The television popped into existence. Familiar cartoon sound effects filled the room. A kaleidoscope of primary colors swirled on the walls. The television painted the moment with a Disney pallet.

“I love this cartoon, don’t you, daddy?” she asked in a hushed voice. I sat down on the couch and watched a nameless character create havoc on the screen. Looking over, expecting to see my daughter’s smile, I was disappointed to see tears tracing their way down her cheeks. She wept silently. She was staring at a photograph cupped in her hand. Lovingly she traced it with her thumb, “I miss you, daddy, I really do. It’s been six months today.” Tears welled up and poured down her cheeks. Softly I whispered, “I’ve never left.”

****It had to be a ghost story for the contest.****

Notable

She sways in ¾ time,
Notes spring through the air.
Bouncing from cracked wood,
Splashing the room,
Walls damp with melody.
Long fingers walking on ivory,
Squeezing eighth notes into existence.
Bright green flip-flops help keep time.
The piano exhales a stream of emotion,
A mist of timbre and sustain hang in the air.
She transforms the gray dusty room;
Now a carnival of rag-time harmony
When the last drop of music rolls from the keys,
She shuffles the pages to find another treasure.
Every note a diamond.
Each bar made of gold.

Eight Years

Standing in the bathroom,

She watches the mimic.

Hunting for imperfections,

Her hands smooth the wrinkles.

A smile grows and dimples appear.

Standing tall in sparkling shoes,

Spinning on one toe,

Her skirt takes flight.

Graceful lines spill from her arms.

Finally she proclaims;

“I do look 8 today, I really do!”

She notices me watching,

And she squeals with excitement.

Then springs through the doorway,

Arms wrapped around me now,

Burying her smile into my chest.

She trembles with exhilaration.

“Eight years” I tell her,

“Have gone too quickly”.

“Can it be my birthday tomorrow too?”

She says in a muffled voice.

Still squeezing tight,

Latched on to me,

Keeping herself from floating off. 

Finally she let go.

She buzzed about the room.

Pouncing from the ottoman,

Landing on a mountain of pillows.

Leaving Home

Rough weathered boards creak beneath my feet,
Each step closer to the waiting sand,
Cool from the early morning breeze.
Wind pushes me to the water
It salts my skin.
A jellyfish rides a wave to shore
Another drags it back home
I’d escaped but must return.
Home waits in silence,
Beneath a canopy of maple leaves
It waits for me patiently
Alone in the stale air.

Reflection

Recently I rediscovered a part of me that I thought was lost—expression.  I have the ability to describe the world as I see it, to unscramble the view, and solve the puzzle. Years of being unarmed against an opponent that was invisible, known only by the scars it left behind—is over. I can stand without fear. I can run in the sand. The confidence of expression, without fear of failure is a gift that won’t collect dust again.  My salvation lies at my fingertips and escapes from my core. How did I ignore the voice that was screaming for freedom?  My only answer is “fear”.  Fear that it wasn’t who I was.  Afraid that it was too arrogant to believe I had the ability to define who I am, what I can be. A diminished self-esteem was the result of a prolonged ignorance branded by an uncontrolled illness.  Worthlessness was the lie it professed.  Feeling irrelevant disguised my passion.  One drop of clarity in a cloudy mind lets life shine through.  The realization that I’ve only taken a few baby steps out of the desert isn’t discouraging.  Knowing I’ll be able to run soon invigorates me.  

Words that use to hide behind the lightning in my mind have found their way through the electric bars. I can feel them tumbling out of me. It’s a vocabulary sticky and wet, which begs to be molded.   Piece by piece I’ll uncover the sculpture that is hidden beneath the marble.  I’ll smooth the edges and release the elegance of my craft. There is a power in understanding yourself that I didn’t know existed. The power creates the confidence to stare in the mirror and not doubt the image staring back.

Waiting for the next nightmare to explode through my mind is over.  Fighting to breathe, straining to remember, and dragging myself from the darkness, are all over. I don’t have to learn to be me anymore.  I know that my limits are only what I limit myself to.  I’ve walked in the dark for so long I don’t need a light; I have the maze memorized.  I have the advantage of knowing where I am going even during the darkest part of my day.   

I discovered that being the tortoise isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.  If I had been the hare, I wouldn’t have had the time to soak in my surrounding.  I’ve learned to reflect on the things I’ve seen and felt. I am slowly being able to narrate my life. I know to break the puzzle into its smallest parts, study each piece, and take my time to reassemble it. The images of a life have intricate pieces that deserve to be examined with acute detail.  Missing a single moment is an insult to what it means to “live”. 

My “Carpe Diem” is my ability to write.  Every day I work on honing my skills.  Capturing the smallest moments in time and reliving them through a creative lens helps me “seize the day”. About six months ago I heard another Latin saying that I’ve been trying to live by:“Temet nosce” or “know thyself". It is a perfect match to “Carpe Diem”.   Knowing yourself well is the first step necessary to “Carpe Diem”.  I believe without the knowledge of your true self, there can’t be a moment that you willingly take. You’ll be left with what you are given.  I don’t want the scraps from someone else’s day; I want to feast on the meat of my own.  

Possibilities pave my future. The gravel, sand, and mud are far behind me.  My feet are still wet but they ache to run.   So I push the ground away from me and lean into the wind.  Nothing will stop the determination that surrounds me.  I’ve been jaded with a purpose.  I have been infected by a hunger that cannot be satisfied. 

  I went to a music store. Its walls were lined with guitars.  I walked past them noticing my reflection change every time a different guitar made its appearance.  Which guitar do I play? Do I grab the one with the crisp reflections, sparkling frets and tuned perfectly? Do I grab a guitar with dents and scratches?—Imperfections are what made me. If I were pristine I wouldn’t be able to define myself. Every scar, every mistake, all my imperfections bear the story of my life.  Where would I be if my life was being displayed like those guitars?  I would be in the back of the room, scratched, dented, and waiting to be tuned.

The Music Maker.

My grandmother always sat one of two places.  Her chair in her front room was her reading spot. She was an avid reader.  Hundreds of books were stacked around her chair, all worn, and all loved.  Not great works of fiction, there were no classics in the mix.  All the books were paperback with images of romantic encounters printed on them.  The reading light above her chair was stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke. The table next to her held more books, her coffee cup, several music boxes and an overflowing ash tray.  Tucked under her chair there were several pair of flip-flops. They were awful plastic with big flowers adorning the straps. Her television was a few feet away and always on.  She never really watched it, she listened.

                Her other favorite place was at her dining table.  Surrounded by shelves lined with music boxes and knick-knacks, she sat facing the front room. She made sure to keep the front door in her line of sight. A shelf stuffed with board games sat to her right.  Most of the time there was sheet music sitting nearby or unfolded in front of her. She read it like she read her romance novels.  She traced the notes on the page with her fingers. To her it seemed that each note had its own texture and they were all worth exploring.  After a few days of touching the pages she would go to her piano in the next room and play the music she’d been touching.  Her finger traced the piano keys like they did the sheet music.  The yellow cigarette stains between her fingers exposed themselves in rhythm to the music. Her piano was unique. She had bought it for $10 at a yard sale in the 1940’s.  It had real ivory keys and was a player piano that now only waited to be played. She was the machine that drove it, controlling it with her thin hands.  Her bare foot tapped the rusting pedals in perfect time. There was elegance to the scene.  Cracked ivory keys against dark stained wood punctuated by my grandmother’s frail form. She was draped in a flowered moo-moo swaying in time to her music.

                My grandmother wasn’t a formally educated woman.  I don’t think she made it past the eighth grade. She learned to read music on her own. She had a strong mind that absorbed knowledge without effort.  Hours upon hours of playing word games had increased her vocabulary vastly.  I used to laugh as she answered “Jeopardy” questions faster than Alex Trebek could read them from his blue cards.  No one could beat her at Scrabble.  I am not sure if it was a mark of intelligence or someone who was simply a skilled game player. 

                I’ll never forget her vegetable garden.  She always had aluminum pie pans tied on strings that stretched across the length of it. She said it was to scare the birds.  It was so loud when the wind blew I often wondered if it scared the tomatoes. 

                Her favorite snack to give me, when we were into our second or third round of “Sorry”, was “Tang” and butter cookies.  She always mixed the “Tang” with too much flavoring so there was thick orange syrup in the bottom of the cup. She even made a game out of eating the butter cookies. They were shaped like flowers with a hole in the center. She would slide one down her index finger and start to nibble it away to see how thin she could get it before it finally broke. Of course she was the champion of this game also.

                Liberace was her favorite artist. She would play his records on her large console record player and dance with me in her dining room. She has sort of a school girl crush for Liberace.  I laugh now thinking of how flamboyant he was.  I wondered if she ever realized that he didn’t really go for women. My parents took her to see him in concert and she was elated.  She told me about his long white fur coats and how his fingers shimmered with diamonds as he played.  Her eyes sparkled like diamonds as she told me about it.

                She was a unique person.  I’m sad that my children never got to know her.  They would have loved to have acted like elephants with long trunks prancing around her living room—something she always did with me after playing “Baby Elephant Walk” on her piano.  I have her sheet music for that song.  It’s old and brittle now, but I touch it once in a while.  I trace the notes like she did.  It keeps me connected to her.