Okay, okay... so I know it's been a little while, but there's good reason for that: I've been hard at work on something kind of different for me, something that requires a little more ambition and motivation than my typical posts. And below are the first two parts. But it probably requires a little explanation, so here goes...
I was in Chicago for work the week before Christmas. While in the Windy City, my coworker (Brian Dougherty, aka B Doc, aka B Diggity) suggested we check out the Chicago Symphony Orchestra because they were performing one of his favorite symphonies, Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique." Let me preface this by saying I am not a classical music buff, but after Brian explained the 'plot' (for lack of a better word) that Berlioz used as a guide for this masterpiece, I was intrigued to say the least. And upon actually seeing the piece performed, I was blown away.
Instead of outlining Berlioz's composer notes for the symphony, I'll hook you up with a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphonie_Fantastique
I strongly recommend checking out that link and reading the program notes that explain each movement. It will add some sense to what I've done here. Basically, I took Berlioz's five-movement symphony and created a 5-part story that corresponds to the 'plot' of Symphonie Fantastique. Initially, this may sound kind of peculiar and divergent for me, but let's face it, Berlioz's masterpiece is about love, inspiration, longing, jealousy, drugs, murder, betrayal, madness, the macabre...it's definitely some pretty sweet subject matter for 1830! So I figured I'd bring it up to date. I certainly took some liberties with Berlioz's ideas. I suppose I used them more as a guide than a steadfast script. But do I think this story would make him turn over in his grave? I do not. In fact, I think he'd be pretty content to know that someone of an entirely different generation was inspired by his work.
So anyway, the first two parts (movements) are below. They will be followed by the three concluding parts soon. Frankly, it's kind of long and I figured most people don't have the patience/time to just sit and read for 17 pages, so I broke it up. I feel like I put a lot of time, as well as a lot of myself into this one, so I hope you guys dig it!
The Fantastic
I.
Those eyes explode like blue-sky atom bombs. They’re avalanches of pristine oceans that invite me to swim and drown.
I can never remember the conversations, but the tone stays with me—so natural and familiar, like we’ve known each other for years; like we already have an excess of shared experiences to fall back on.
But we’re still meeting for the first time. Every time. We’re repeat strangers, never confusing our chemistry for familiarity.
I remember the first time we met: I was standing by myself at a party full of unfamiliar faces. I was ready to head for the door when she stepped in my path with purpose in her stride and a genuine smile plastered across her face. We exchanged pleasant introductions but spoke with the comfort and informality of old friends. I’ve never felt such an intense instant connection with a person in my life—dream or reality.
We repeat this interaction time and time again. The location is always different and I can never remember the words we speak during our conversations, but I can never forget the extreme and natural bond that forms between us in a matter of mere moments.
But the problem with constantly retracing your steps is you never get anywhere. And during our conversations, it never really occurs to me that we’ve been here before; that we may be reading from a script, telling each other the same thing over and over and over again. And each time I wake up, I can only wish things had gone further.
Sometimes it ends with a brief kiss. Our lips touch with a kind of pained expectation, like we both know this is the apex—the be-all-end-all. Shortly after, I wake up, filled with an accustomed longing as well as a deep desire to go back to sleep.
After all, she’s the girl of my dreams… literally.
But it’s not just a matter of her presence during my unconsciousness. As much as my waking life is aggravated by her absence, that sort of tortured love helps me write. I’m depressed but inspired, lovesick but motivated. I’m enamored with impossibility. I’m completely infatuated with a figment of my own imagination.
Everyone knows that writers are born to be tormented. Or the tormented are born to be writers. Either way you cut it, pain is generally a prerequisite or a consequence.
And don’t get me wrong. I’m not operating under any misconceptions here. There are times when I look in the mirror and tell myself how pathetic I am—for being in love with something I have created, for taking sleeping pills in the hopes of fucking a part of myself. I mean how self-indulgent can you be? There’s no denying that a part of my subconscious has created this girl. Not accepting that simple fact would be adhering to some fantastic—possibly supernatural—idea that the image of this girl has been implanted in me by some force or power. Like I’m meant to see this girl in dreams just to recognize her in reality.
And that notion seems like madness to me. There’s no force to guide love. Love itself is a force. And whether in the form of a wrecking ball, a machine gun, an airbag, a parachute, an oasis or a tidal wave, love does what it wants without a traceable meaning or any real discretion. Blessing or curse, love leaves its impression.
Love also loses some of its perfection when you can’t talk about it. Sharing your enthusiasm indiscriminately with both those who give a shit and those who don’t has a tendency to perpetuate the affection. But this infatuation isn’t something I can rave about to friends or family.
“Well yes mom and dad, I am seeing someone. I’d love to tell you her name, but I don’t know it… No, no… you can’t meet her. She doesn’t really exist. But that doesn’t change the way I feel about her.”
Room with padded walls here we come.
Well maybe it doesn’t sound completely crazy—just sad. Yeah, I’ve met the girls reality has to offer, and none of them are for me.
Of course this isn’t totally true, but let’s face it, it’s much easier to slip into slumber and have a companion waiting for you than to search the city’s bars, parties, clubs, coffee shops, concerts and restaurants for someone of dubious compatibility. It all becomes very exhausting after a while.
Besides, when I look into those perfect blue wading pools, I feel like I’m home. When she smiles and tosses that dark hair back to accentuate her delicate porcelain complexion, I can’t think of a place I’d rather be or a person I’d rather be with. I think of promise and expectations, of good things to come, of contentment and absolution. I see her as inspiration and guidance; her gentle yet consuming presence as limber fingers massaging my brain like charged molecules of encouragement.
And she’s mine.
She belongs to me. After all, I created her. She lives in my imagination. She’ll always have a home there.
But she owns as much of it as she occupies. And it only took a few appearances for her to gain that remarkable status. It certainly is impressive for a girl to achieve such a high level of attention with nothing more than a few conversations and a quick kiss here and there.
Conversations I don’t remember, mind you. And kisses that dissipate with the unfortunate clarity of wakefulness.
But hey, no relationship is perfect.
We weren’t built for perfection. No one is. Why would we expect it from our relationships?
Not to mention, devotion and faithfulness are as crucial aspects to any relationship as reality. In fact, the burdens and temptations of reality are generally what cause any lapses in loyalty. At least I know my girl isn’t tiptoeing around to other unconscious worlds, taking interactions a step further with other men, inspiring other artists to create organic and impressive works.
And if she is… well I’m blissfully ignorant. I’m content to believe this fabricated angel only has eyes for me. After all, if your mind’s own invention shies away from you, what does that say about your character?
If a love that you create deserts you, what could possibly be worse?
II.
Hallucination is the first thing that comes to mind—a creative acid flashback incorporating a figure that has become an obsession. But realization settles on me like a hand of icicles on a sunburned shoulder; like a sack of cement mix dropped from a skyscraper.
I blink my eyes to deny reality—I’ve gotten pretty good at that as of late—but reality is steadfast this time around. Even as the subway car sways to some unheard, incomprehensible rhythm, even as the lights flicker, illuminating her as an apparition—something not quite dead, but not residing on the same plane of existence—belief becomes undeniable.
The lights disappear once again, turning the subway car into a coffin of commuters.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three Seconds.
We’re bathed in illumination once again. I’m sitting at the other end of the car from her. In the midst of all the human traffic, she probably wouldn’t even notice if I were to stand up. But I can see her perfectly. That hair. That skin.
And those eyes.
Those eyes bridge the gap between this reality and the dreams where I feel everything my life could be, everything my work could be, everything love could be.
As the subway car slows, I watch her rise from her seat. Without even thinking, I do the same. If reality has granted me this opportunity to make a dream come true, then certainly I’d be a fool for not capitalizing.
I begin to squeeze through the mess of people occupying the train. Although this isn’t my stop, it will be if it’s hers.
The train stops short and momentum pushes her into the man standing next to her. She smiles up at him and squeezes his hand affectionately. She continues to squeeze his hand as he leans down and kisses her passionately and knowingly on the lips. She returns the kiss with rivaled enthusiasm.
As the doors to the train open, the kiss ends and she leads him off the train by the hand. The doors close and I watch as he puts his arm around her. She works herself into the partial embrace, finding the comfortable position she has undoubtedly become very used to. While the train pulls slowly away, I watch him lean in for one more kiss.
***
You should never ask if you’re in hell. Much like you should never ask if you’re losing your mind. If the answer isn’t evident, the implication certainly is. You’re already setting yourself up for a conclusion that’s disconcerting. If you’re not crazy and you’re not in hell, then there’s no excuse. There’s no logic to explain your predicament.
You simply are. And there’s only one way to fix that—only one way to ensure you aren’t—and that generally involves some brash, undesirable action.
And I’ve been through all that before, with no real intention of revisiting it.
So what do you do? Cope? I suppose that’s the ambitious way to go about things—certainly more ambitious than washing down a bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of vodka. But it’s the way in which we cope that represents our character.
Generally speaking, I’ve found that reality is the culprit. Or at least a pretty solid scapegoat. And if reality is fucking with you, the best course of action is to distance yourself from reality, like an ex-partner from an aborted relationship.
Reality and I are breaking up.
There are a number of ways to sever the ties. Believe me, I’ve tried them all. And much like most illnesses have a specific treatment or medication, every unfortunate circumstance has its own prescription to push reality to a safe distance.
Alcohol is a pretty safe bet. But sometimes situations call for something stronger. Sometimes the world needs to be transformed from a cold, steel slab into a warm, familiar blanket. Especially when you’re being haunted. Especially when your muse takes all the beauty out of longing and replaces it with oppressive questions that lead you to three possible conclusions.
I am in hell.
I am insane.
Life is purposefully cruel.
Hence the phone off its hook. Hence the needle in my arm. Hence the accumulating messages on my voicemail and answering machine.
Keeping reality at bay is a fulltime job.
It’s just difficult to go outside. If the subway sighting had been an isolated incident, it would be a different story. But she’s everywhere. Inescapable. I’ve seen her at least ten times since the subway and every time she’s with a different companion. And every time she looks right at me before offering signs of affection to her company. She stares at me with those cold blue eyes, then kisses her respective escort right on the lips. She’s in love with a hundred men, but I’m not one of them.
And I don’t dream about her anymore. She’s left me for reality, but forgotten me in this different world. So what’s the point of dreaming?
I don’t write.
I barely eat.
My sleep is heavy and dreamless.
I push off and embrace the warm harmony of poppies. I lace my veins with poison and call it a coping mechanism. I sit back and watch the world move in still frames through the dirty glass of my window. I listen to old jazz and obscure symphonies in the hopes of restoring some form of inspiration, like I’m returning to a time when growth and revelation didn’t come from those eyes.
I’m trying to revert. I’m trying to remember what it means to be out of love.
Because no one really needs love. It’s a luxury, not a necessity.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
My head fills with a thick, muted pounding. It takes me a few moments to realize it’s someone at the door to my apartment.
I look around at the scattered mess: books, pages of worthless scribble, used syringes, a few empty liquor bottles.
This is the apartment of a degenerate. This is a breeding ground for misery.
My first instinct is to just ignore the knocking and let the visitor assume I’m not home. I suppose this is a tough sell considering the jazz music that is flowing from my stereo. My interest for privacy and solitude is also offset by my apparent inability to lock my own door. I watch helplessly from my armchair as the door swings open. As I stare blankly at Gavin, I realize a needle is still perched stubbornly beneath the skin of my left arm.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He has the angry, disapproving look of a parent picking up their child from a detox clinic.
Granted, most of my friends are at least partially aware of my drug habits, but walking in on a scene asserting this level of self-incrimination and self-destruction is undoubtedly very disturbing. If Gavin had low expectations for my quality of life circumstances, I’m sure I even managed to miss that mark by a pretty impressive margin.
He walks over and plucks the needle from my arm, throwing it to the floor. Without any hesitation, he slaps me in the face. Hard. I guess the look of shock on my face isn’t quite sober enough for him, because he reels back and plants another open-palm smack right on my cheek.
I can feel a thick strand of drool leaking from my lips.
“Get the fuck up asshole,” he says with all the patience of an abusive husband. “Take a fucking shower. I’m having a party tonight and you’re coming. And you’re leaving the goddam junk at home.”
“I dunno Gav, I’m not feeling so…”
“You’re playing the sympathy card on the wrong guy,” he says, still standing over me. “I’m going to hang out right here until you get yourself showered and put together. Then we’re going to head over to my place. No one has seen or heard from you in almost two weeks. You don’t return phone calls. You don’t return emails. It’s like you’ve been fucking dead.”
“If only life were so merciful…”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” he says without the slightest inkling of compassion. “You wanna die? Huh? You really wanna die? Well I guess this is a pretty slow way of going about it.” He picks up a used needle off the ground and hurls it across the room for dramatic emphasis.
He closes his eyes and looks to collect himself. He crouches in front of me so we’re eye-to-eye. His expression has softened. “Look man, what have you been beating yourself up over anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in this kind of shape. At least…well…not in a long time.”
Wow, thanks for tiptoeing around that one Gav—I want to say this, but in truth I don’t even know what to say. I’m in an impossible situation to describe. I just sigh.
“Is it the writing, man?” he asks, his tone becoming more concerned with every word. “When you went MIA I spoke to your editor so I know you haven’t been writing. She told me. She hasn’t been able to get in touch with you either. I also know you haven’t been seeing your therapist. And if the problem is writer’s block man, the junk can’t be your muse.”
It’s just easier to let him believe it’s all about the drugs and the writing (or lack thereof). I just nod. A choked kind of sob pushes past my tongue and through my lips. This is so fucking pathetic.
“I’ll tell you what man—you take a shower and put yourself together. I’ll listen to your messages while you get ready. You can take a few minutes to sort through them and then you’re coming over and you’re going to be social. Remember that asshole? You remember society and how to act in its presence?” His tone is lighter now and I can tell he’s trying not to let too much relief creep into his voice.
“Alright Gavin,” I say standing up. “Gimme a few minutes and we’ll get out of here.”
Sometimes it’s just easier to abide.
I take a long shower and get dressed, popping a few Vicodin during the process.
Hey, what have I said about perfection?
I emerge from my bedroom to find Gavin sitting at my desk with a stack of note cards in front of him. He hands the pile to me. “Your messages,” he says. “Did you even know your parents were in Hawaii?”
“Guess I missed the memo.”
Gavin lets out an airy sigh. “They won’t be back for another week… maybe that’s what you need man, a vacation or something. Ya know—get away from things for a while. We live in a great city, but sometimes it can be overwhelming.”
“Something to think about,” I say absently. “So are we getting out of here or what? I can deal with all this shit tomorrow.”
“Yeah man,” he says. “Oh, and you might want to remember to lock your door this time.”
***
There are a lot of recognizable but indefinite faces, like a living sea of hazy associations flowing in some manic yet discernable pattern. Some smile, some nod and some divert their eyes. I guess I’m something between an oddity and a pariah. I wonder how many of these people know about my recent issues. Or any of my issues for that matter.
I follow Gavin. He introduces me to people I should know but don’t, as well as people I’ve never met and am completely unlikely to remember. I respond to all of them inattentively while still trying to remain courteous. I understand what Gavin’s trying to do, appreciate it even, but this is not where I want to be.
I sip my drink and force a smile. The conversations enter my ears, sift through my brain and exit without a trace. There’s no retention. These people could care less about me. They’re about as interested in me as I am in them. They’re going through the motions just like I am—nothing more than attempts at social politicking. It’s all very superficial really.
I’m starting to feel exhausted. By now I’ve lost any buzz the Vicodins may have provided. I excuse myself from Gavin’s side and move towards the bathroom in the interest of collecting myself. I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I immediately run the water over my hands and splash some on my face.
I need to get away from this party.
I look into the mirror. My eyes are starting to get bloodshot and my face is about as pale as it has ever been. It’s at this moment that I really see how much weight I’ve lost in the past few weeks. I’m certainly not emaciated, but my cheekbones are more predominant than usual, my eyes more sunken.
It’s definitely time to leave.
I walk out of the bathroom, towards the unfortunate swells of partygoers. Once again, the faces start to bleed together, like I’m staring at a melting mosaic of skin and expressions—no single face or feature is identifiable. None except for one.
She’s looking right at me—eyes glued with her arms draped around some bulky guy’s neck. His back’s to me and she’s peering over his shoulder, looking at me with a sense of knowing. But there’s no compassion, no sympathy. Her stare is callous and haunting, purposefully so. She leans up and kisses her companion right on the lips, never breaking eye contact with me. I can feel my expression change from that of disbelief to that of anger and outrage. I feel a sudden and disturbingly powerful urge to pick up the candy dish on the table beside me and smash it into her face. I can almost see myself doing it, like I’m watching from an overhead security camera.
I look away from her and walk into the other room. My hands are shaking and I think my face may have grown even paler, although there’s no nearby mirror to confirm that. I see Gavin in the midst of a small group standing in the living room. I quickly walk over to him and interrupt him mid-conversation.
“Hey man, I need to get home.”
He breaks from his current conversation, looking at the surrounding group with an expression of apologetic irritation. “Can you excuse me for a second?” he asks as he guides me to an empty corner of the living room. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks. “You think I’m stupid?”
“What are you talking about Gavin? I’m just not comfortable with all these people.” My tone is bordering frantic and I’m sure I’ve got the appearance to match.
“Right man… cause I’m just going to let you leave so you can go home and push off, right? If you’re feeling so uncomfortable, why don’t you go lay down in my bed? Close the door, turn on some music… whatever. Just keep the fucking needle out of your arm.”
I can feel frustration building inside me, frustration branching off in a million different directions, like a growing tree of fury. I’m enraged about my inability to explain myself and enraged that he thinks it’s all about the drugs. I’m shattered, sick and heartbroken and I can’t even provide the details to my best friend. I’m angry at life in general and angry about my lack of control. It begins to build up and without any real warning, it explodes.
“Fuck you!” I scream in his face. “Fuck you! How are you going to keep me here, huh? Are you going to lock me in a goddam closet? Tie me to a fucking chair? I’m leaving and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
Conversation in the living room ceases. Gavin’s looking around the room now, his face streaked with anger and embarrassment. He keeps his voice surprisingly calm and stable. “Just calm down a second, man. I really would prefer if you took a few minutes to collect yourself. But you know where the door is if you feel compelled to leave.”
I look into his eyes and see true concern. I can only hope he can see the pain and apology in mine. I turn my back on him and walk towards the door. The small sea of people part before me and I exit without another word. As I burst into the cool night air onto the crowded city street, I keep my eyes plastered on the ground, afraid to look at any of the faces around me, afraid every one of them will be her.
Suddenly I hear the door to the apartment building swing open. I turn around to see Gavin standing on the stoop. “You need to get away.” He says calmly. “Get out of the city. I can see it: this place is poison for you right now.”
Without waiting for a response, he heads back into the building, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.
I turn away from the building and begin to head in the direction of my own apartment.
Maybe Gavin is right. Maybe I need to get away from the crowds and faces for a little bit.
I consider my options. Can I really afford to leave? Can I really afford the expense of booking some hotel in the middle of nowhere and staying for a week or so? I haven’t turned in a thing to my editor. I’ve spent a fair portion of money on drugs. I still need to pay rent. Do I really have the money to just throw around?
Suddenly the thought of my parents in Hawaii pops into my head. I think of the big house on the North Shore of Long Island that’s just sitting there on two acres of property—dark, empty and isolated. No crowds. No pressures. Just free, peaceful solitude a few hours away.
As I head down the steps towards the subway, I settle on the idea. I’ll head back to my apartment, grab what I need, then head for the country. A little fresh air could be just what I need.
I feel a sudden hint of something I haven’t felt in a while: optimism. This could be very good for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment