lervely

nothing, really. at least, not yet. –ik

she stands at the kitchen sink and gazes at the 6-inch chef’s knife in the dish rack.

she fantasizes about what it would feel like to just reach out and grab that knife by the blade and squeeze:

the sensation of nothingness that surprises her, at first, before her hand realizes what she’s done.

the sting and the numbness of her body’s attempt to control the damage.

eventually, the dull throb of a bad decision made.

. . .

he stands in the shower where the tears are disguised

and hopes the despair will wash off this time

Tags: scene // Add Comment »

this started out being based on a dream i had, then took a left turn and never looked back. –ik

the droplet moves slowly, languidly, down his neck, tracing the lines of his sternocleidomastoid as his jaw tightens and he rotates his head to the left. he breathes in bursts through clenched teeth, determined not to make a sound.

the droplet is salty, and gathers strength and speed as it travels down, down, down.

he can smell her shampoo as she moves around him, closer and then further away. he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. control. he must maintain control.

she pauses. “do you want me to stop?” she asks softly in his ear.

no, he grunts, keep going.

he keeps his palms on top of his head so that they remain steady. he flexes his biceps and relaxes them helplessly. his fingers grasp and release his hair in spurts. more droplets of sweat bead up from his forehead, his upper lip, the spot just behind his ears.

his teeth unclench suddenly as his mouth forms an “ah” shape. eyebrows slant in surprise, the forehead creases horizontally and he inhales and exhales in a gasp.

the muscles of his back spasm, and he fights the urge to jerk. he can’t move now, he knows, or he’ll ruin everything.

she moves carefully, methodically, tiny little darts and dabs across his naked skin. she traces patterns on him, her touch firm and professional, her pace agonizing. she has done this thousands of times, and it shows in her skill. he can barely contain himself.

if only he’d asked for a smaller tattoo.

listening to: Massive Attack featuring Mos Def, “I Against I”

Tags: scene // Add Comment »

behold! behold this man! this man that i love.

see! see, with your own eyes, a man who stands for goodness. a man who is comfortable choosing between Right and Legal. see his tenacity and ingenuity. see him for his complexity and simplicity. see his ghosts and his ambitions. see his failures and his greatest achievements.

observe! observe those he leaves in his wake. look upon the lives of his students, his successors. see the paths they might have chosen without his guidance. see the lives that they have affected with their choices.

gaze upon this man who has saved hundreds from death, who has saved hundreds from suffering. look upon his withered hands, which once held gauze, needles, the hands of children. trace the scars left by shrapnel. the scars from the burns. trace the path that he has traveled, just to the threshold of his secrets.

bear witness to this giant! bear witness to the shadow that he leaves! bear witness as he grows smaller, colder, paler. bear witness as his eyesight fails, his breaths become shallow and hitched. clutch onto his every heartbeat; hang onto his every word. be with this giant as he becomes just a man, after all. be with this man as his giant shadow lingers.

behold this man that i love. this man at whose side i sit. this man whose limp, cold hand i hold. behold this man for whom i give thanks, and grieve.

listening to: Sufjan Stevens, “A Good Man Is Hard To Find”

Tags: herald // Add Comment »

this is a work in progress. i don’t know what it’s about, it’s just there. so i’m writing it down. judge if you want, glass houses, stones, all that. –ik

i still have the scars.

the round brown spot from where i scraped the onions into the pan and the grease splashed onto my hand. those onions that went into that risotto dish that i fed you the night you first kissed me.

the 6-inch long stripe on my knee from the screw sticking out of the bedpost of our futon. the screw that remained sticking out of the bedpost after you sat on it and broke the arm off. the screw on which i later slashed my knee while lunging for the phone at 2am, the night my dad died.

the needle marks from the biopsy. the one where you sat and held my hand. the one where the doctor said it couldn’t be cancer. of course, it was. and when i found out, you held my hand then, too.

the tattoo, this one - F - on the inside of my wrist, that i got when you left town and i needed something to touch to remind me of you. it was a poor substitute for you.

these stretch marks, like the branches of a live oak across my belly, acquired while our child lived inside of me, and inside of you. the child with your eyes and my smile. these marks that i thought would be a source of shame, but which are instead a badge of love.

you are gone. i don’t know why you were taken, but you were. and all i have left are these stories, these reminders all over my body of how we were. of how you were. your goodness. and your stubbornness. your solidness.

i don’t know what i did to deserve you.

i don’t know what i did to deserve losing you.

listening to: Radiohead, “Videotape”

Tags: letters // Add Comment »

the smoke is not as thick as it could be. it is not as thick as it will be later tonight. for now, it is more of a scent than a sight, and that is just fine.

the girl shifts in an infinity pattern, her weight moving back and forth on her feet in a lackadaisical impatience while she waits for her turn. chronologically, she is a woman, but she will continue to refer to herself as a girl for at least another decade before she becomes comfortable in her woman skin.

the music plays low and melodic, reminiscent of a hushed conversation between two lovers. as her opponent aligns and realigns his posture, the girl keeps time to the music on her cue, much as one would on, say, a steering wheel or a clipboard, or even the side of one’s jeans - thumb plays bass drum, fingers hit snares and cymbals.

the base of her cue rests on her dorsiflexed front foot. she has stood this way thousands of times, in various bars across most of the I-5 corridor. she has developed a rhythm with this cue today, the same rhythm that she slips into in other bars, with other cues. she jogs the stick up and down with her foot, corralling it loosely within the confines of a C-shaped hand. she taps her foot in time with the music as she watches her opponent’s eyes do the math on a tricky bank shot. he’s 2 beers in and finally loosening up, but he has the air of someone who misses shots a lot.

he starts to take the shot and thinks better of it. she breathes in through her nostrils, out through her mouth. with the index finger of her free hand, she caresses the side of her beer glass on the windowsill, creating contrails within the condensation. the song changes on the juke. she modifies her infinite sway to keep time with the new tempo, examines the tip of her cue, scans the table for the cue chalk.

it is right next to her opponent’s arm.

she waits.

he calculates.

she stops swaying.

he misses.

Listening to: Ani DiFranco, “Pulse”

Tags: scene // Add Comment »

written one line at a time over a period of a few weeks, when i was distracted. probably will be edited and reposted over the years, not sure. –ik

there are times when i watch you and

and all i can think is

iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

it washes over me in a wave of surprise

the tiny compatibilities

it is not always perfect. it has never been passionate. but it has always been a given.

it’s like the number zero. how often do you think about the number zero? can you imagine not having the number zero?

i remember the day when i found out that you were as nervous about me as i was about you. what a relief! what a fright! what next?

in some ways, you are a mirror of me. in others, you are a portal to an alien world.

your kindness is reflexive and reflective. let me examine myself in the shimmer of you. am i really as a good a person as i thought i was? i am better because of you. and i bet you never could have predicted that.

your hands fit mine

if it’s this easy, why did it take this long to happen?

Tags: letters // Add Comment »

the coroner has been called.

you lie there, pale and stiff, with toenails unclipped, on the couch in the garage.

we gather around in the kitchen, arriving in twos and threes as phone calls are made. we console ourselves by telling each other how much we love each other. somebody makes coffee. some of us mill around aimlessly, helplessly.

our hands pick at pieces of lint, shuffle through papers, straighten and fold blankets, do dishes. they touch elbows, squeeze shoulders, rub backs.

somebody shuts the dogs in the bathroom. the dogs know that something’s up.

cell phones compete for our attention with tunes that seemed cheery yesterday. it feels inappropriate now to listen to the Can-Can song.

we recall the last times we saw you. one by one, we go into the garage to be near you one last time.

your cousin arrives with a plate of cookies. we are not hungry, but we eat them. we put on another pot of coffee.

your death was not completely unexpected. we just didn’t expect you to die today. and now we can’t imagine what life will be like without you.

you were our superhero, our rock. you were an indomitable presence. our annoyances with you melt away, and we are left with a bittersweet, incomplete memory of you.

listening to: Sufjan Stevens, “Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day”

Tags: scene // Add Comment »

my mom kicks ass. –ik

THE VINE
by Marianne Klekacz (my mom, duh!)

You were so small the day I brought you home,
mere inches tall, a greenhouse cutting, dug
from warmth and comfort, roots still new. I placed
you in a bed of fertile soil to grow.
Behind I put a trellis in the shape
I hoped to train you, pulled the weeds ’til you
could choke them out yourself. I fed you with
the best of foods, and watered when you drooped.

But you resisted being trained and tied.
Your errant shoots grew out in random ways.
You spread in curls and spirals loose and wild.
I did not have the heart to cut them off.
Then late one spring, you burst in rosy bloom,
the best on tendrils that I might have pruned.

Tags: other people's words // 3 Comments »

this piece keeps floating around my office, and i’m afraid i’m going to accidentally recycle the paper it’s on. this perfectly explains why i do what i do. –ik

“This is the true joy in life. The being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.

“I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”

–George Bernard Shaw
–”Man and Superman”

Tags: other people's words // Add Comment »

this is based on a true story, but it feels like it belongs here more than it does over in the ingernet “memories” archive. –ik

his car is on its last legs. a lemon yellow ‘74 toyota wagon with scorching black vinyl interior (mostly complete), it has served his family well, but it will ultimately die in his possession. the tape deck is blaring “I Know What Boys Like” by the Waitresses.

the light is hot, too hot, and heat waves come up from the pavement on the main road of Sauvie Island.

they are out of college - he for the summer, she for good (not that she’s told her parents that, yet). they are headed to a nude beach that they’ve heard is out this way. she is barefoot, keeping time to the music on her knees while he navigates the wagon past sharp curves and bicycling families.

they come to a fork in the road. “which way?” he asks.

“it’s an island, does it matter?” she replies.

he shrugs.

“right,” she decides, pointing with her foot and he takes the right fork.

half an hour and several random turns later, they are lost. an average IQ of 150 between them, and they are lost on an island.

so lost, in fact, that they’re starting to wonder if they’re even in the same city. the road is now gravel, the weeds tall. there is no water in sight. bravely, they drive ahead.

from behind, the camera captures the Toyota dipping visibly into potholes roughly the size of bathtubs. giant clouds of dust are raised in the dry July heat. he is too new a driver to know how slowly to drive through these potholes; several times they bottom out.

she is cackling uncontrollably with laughter. “somewhere,” she says, “somewhere there is a banjo playing for us.”

they do find water, gentle reader. but it’s not the water they’re hoping for.

parking the car in a field of cow pies, they approach the stagnant green body of what can only be pond water. all around them, flies buzz around thistles. no nudists in sight. they spread a blanket and eat their lunch. this, they both think, is a perfect representation of their friendship…never on course and rarely what they expect, but not nearly as bad as they’d feared, and entertaining for the moment.

Playing: “Black Bear Road” by C.W. McCall

Tags: scene // Add Comment »