Seek Life, Not Death

She grabbed my hand with both of hers and she closed her eyes, and wrapped my knuckles like a prayer in her palms. I know that normally I would have pulled away or have felt embarrassed out of pure ego, but for some reason I enjoyed this strange, awkwardly nurturing situation.

- Dead? Yes, I had never realized that before.

- You are dead, but you shall learn to dance back to the living.

I could not help but to laugh a little, though nervously,

  -Dance !?  I am going to be a writer, not a dancer. 

-It does not matter, a writer must learn to dance as well.

-So after I learn to dance, then what?

- You must dance before you can fly.

- Now I’m going to fly? Why should I?

She gripped my hand tighter as my voice began to distrust her words. There was no humor in her eyes, but there was light, clarity.

- Sometimes the young, foolish rams have more trouble learning to dance than others. The rams are the creators. You must create the music, but first you must listen to those who have composed before you and who have made others dance. Beware that you don’t stop listening to the music, because the music provokes the soul to dance, and when your soul dances, you shall be able to dance alone. If you truly wish to be a writer, you must learn to dance alone. Alone.

Being born under the sign Aries, her mention of the ram struck a curious nerve. I was enthralled, yet simultaneously reluctant with her portents. I wanted more, I think, but unfortunately during her divination, the final person in the laundry room had ambled over to our section of the laundromat.  He had the submissive, yet naive look of a puppy who had finally learned that due to greater forces at work in the world,  he would never be able to jump on the couch.  His presence obviously was not part of the oracular ceremony, thus cutting my prophecy short when my enthused friend left as she saw an obvious obstacle in our midst.

She whispered in my ear as she left,

- You must seek life, not death.

You're Dead

I looked self-gratifyingly around at the five remaining people in the building. No one cared about what had happened. Encounters with the sixth years were nothing unusual for Augustinopolis, so why should they look? Did I want a medal for given him the huge sum of a dollar?

I noticed that the couple who had come in soon after I did were now well into a connubial spat.  Their little kid was passed out on a chair, obviously quite accustomed to such arguments.  The dad wore a ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ t-shirt which was quite deficient in its office of covering a masterpiece gut, sculpted out of innumerable cans of light beer and frozen pizza.  He rubbed the chef-d’oeuvre to get the pugilistic juices flowing; reared back, chest forward, gut hanging; adjusted his baseball cap turning it to the appropriate 180 degree redneck backwards ass position; scratched his crack; and announced,

-I ain’t puttin no soap in no warsher. That’s yer work, woman.

 He stood mutely, staring imperviously out into space while his wife worked twice as hard to finish the laundry before her  husband’s carnal sculpture began to rumble for a frozen specialty pizza and a sequel to the six-pack of America’s Best Light Lite--one fourth the calories and twice the image for the same cost as real beer. Only once throughout the rest of the “warshing” ordeal did he uncross his  forearms, only to attempt to stretch the soiled t-shirt over the hairy abyss of a belly button.

 He believed every second that he was fully deserving of the testimony that he wore on his chest. The wife never told him differently. When they finally left, her back was wet with sweat.  The same back  on which he would later set his beer on as he unloaded his genetic strands of DNA into her quivering, exhausted body.  The average human’s DNA corresponds approximately 97 % to that of a chimpanzee.  In later scientific journals, it was reported that the man in the laundry mat was 98.3% compatible, an insult for the poor chimp.

Suddenly, a giant cockroach ran across my bare foot. I squealed like an fool and quickly slipped one of my sandals on to squash the intruder of my thoughts.

- Suppose that had been you?

 I had not even noticed the girl, who had been sitting in the far corner of the building, glide up next to me.  She wore various layers of black fishnet stockings and heavy black army surplus boots with a collection of symbols painted on with cherry soda lipstick. She resembled a walking Madonna museum from the early “Lucky Star” days.  Around her neck was an opaque crystal, clutched by a crow’s foot and wrapped with leather straps. I could smell her body, but not by the smell of bad hygiene,  but a more human-bestial, almost, but not quite, sensual smell.

- Excuse me?

- Suppose that bug had been you, and your foot was Death?

- Then I suppose I would be dead right now.

- Is that all?  You would be dead and nothing more?

- Sure. Food for worms as they once said.

-I don’t suppose that you have ever had visions?

- Visions of what?

- Death.

- No, I can’t say that I have.

- No, I would guess that you just sit here comfortably in this laundry mat without ever contemplating death, perhaps death by your own hand.

- Suicide? I don’t think so.

- I don’t believe you. I would imagine that you have sat home at night alone with all of that knowledge that you have acquired at college, then you have the startling realization that nothing really matters. Sitting there all alone, listening to the voices in your head. You do hear voices, don’t you?

My initial hostility had disappeared under the calmness and effluent penetration of her voice. The pacific smell of sandalwood incense seemed to exude from her clothes.

- Sometimes.

She placed her hand on mine. I didn’t move mine. The touch of another human being upon my skin felt nice, but it was much more than just a physical tactile sensation, much deeper. I could not remember if even Carol, my girlfriend, had touched me so curiously inward as did this stranger. I did not feel like myself. I did not feel anything. The only thing I could feel was her warm hand on mine, which remained motionless under her touch.

-Sometimes? You were listening to them when I sat down next to you without you noticing me. They were talking to you about that family.  They were telling you that those people did not matter to you. They were telling you that nothing matters to you any longer, nobody matters to you, least of all, yourself. That is why you stepped on that bug. It broke your concentration. Its sudden presence jolted you into existence, and brought you out from the Void. The Void into which you seek to escape. The Void that offers you silence from all of the other noise in the world. The Void in which you can hear only the voices. Your voices. Voices which ask you questions. Voices which try to answer your questions. Voices which tell you that you are in heaven, yet they sometimes drag you through the mental hell of anxieties and insecurities.

She firmly pressed her hand upon mine. Her touch seduced me while her voice mesmerized me, paralyzing my brain.

Who am I? Why was I here in this laundry mat? Shakespeare. Final. All is lost. Words. Matter. To be or not to be Ellis. Who is Ellis? The Beast. Iago. Ophelia. Puck. Lear. Hamlet. Hamnet. Othello. William. Bacon. Jonson. Blah, blah, blah.

I returned to her.

- Who are you?

-Does it matter right now?

- Not really, I guess.

-No, I guess not. So, I ask you again, do you have visions?

- Yes, I do. Sometimes I see myself in a room full of people. Everyone is telling me everything that I have ever wanted to hear. Everyone is so honest. Nobody lies to me. Nobody tries to hide from me. I try to speak, but I am mute. I try to move, but I can’t.

- You are dead.

Crickets, Cockroaches, and Cows

Crickets, Cockroaches, and Cows

    And  God said,
 “Let the earth bring forth living creatures according to their kinds:
  cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.”
                                -Genesis 1:24


    - Say coz, can you spare a brother a dolla?

      Billions.  Carl Sagan told us that there are billions and billions of stars in the universe.  About seven billion people inhabit the Earth. Millions.  Millions of millions of galaxies exist in the universe.  Over five hundred million Indians live below the poverty level of an annual income of two hundred dollars.  Approximately three hundred and fifty million people will soon live within the United States. Thousands.  One hundred, fifty-two thousand, three hundred  sixty-seven students attend the Southwestern University of Middle America in Augustinopolis, give or take seventy-four resident campus transients.  A new Italian sports car costs one hundred, twenty-seven thousand, four hundred  seventy-eight dollars and forty-six cents with air-conditioning and tinted windows.   Four and a half thousand calories make their home in a basket of Jeremiah’s Cheese Fries. Hundreds.  Three hundred and sixteen graduating English majors at the Southwestern University of Middle America in Augustinopolis fight for classes designed to accommodate two hundred.  The average superstar baseball player in America makes one hundred eighty-nine dollars each time he is seen scratching his crotch on national television.  Tens. Forty-seven students in my Shakespearean Tragedies class at the Southwestern University of Middle America in Augustinopolis will show up for our final.  The average American first date costs fifty-seven dollars and sixteen cents, prophylactics not included.  Ones.  Seven people are in the Coin-op laundry mat in which I am currently washing my clothes, and unsuccessfully attempting to study for the last final of my undergraduate career in my Shakespearean Tragedies class in the Southwestern University of Middle America, that is, SUMA.  One of the seventy-four resident campus transients, affectionately labeled ‘Sixth year Seniors’ by the undergrads of SUMA, now asks me for one dollar. One.

    -Say coz, can you spare a brother a dolla?

    I took a long draw of my lukewarm No-Time-to-Stop coffee. No Time to Stop was yet another addition to the myriads of run-in and run-out convenience stores that allows Americans to waste no less than one minute and forty-two seconds to grab a sixteen-ounce cup of Mountain Glory coffee and a candy bar of choice and be on their hurried way without ever noticing the bump in the smooth road of American expediency.  I usually did not succumb to the stale aroma of Mountain Glory, but when finals call and it’s raining outside, I guess the true American in me comes out, and I make my lightning fast pilgrimage to the local No Time and purchase my steaming sixteen ounce cup of Glory with my choice of cordial flavored-creamers, “Grand Marnier and Milky Way.” Although I never use the creamers, I always grab a handful because I feel that it is my duty as an American to take advantage of this luxury of freedom. Tonight was no exception. I grabbed my quota of Grand Marnier and Milky Way-flavored creamers and a candy bar and was out in one minute and thirty-seven seconds, a new personal record.

    The end of a four-year saga at SUMA was about to come to a screeching halt in merely twelve hours. At noon tomorrow I would cut the final remnants of the academic umbilical cord, which had fed me multiple-choice tests, overcrowded classes, political red tape, a mixed bag of professors, an up and down relationship, and an unprecedented number of gallons of coffee.   Of course, I would not be free from SUMA since the Alumni Association was already securing their financial lifeline to my back pocket, I was nonetheless graduating.

    I arrived at the laundry mat at ten-thirty with the illusion of a valiant quest to study for the test, which was the final cut of the cord. The intention was sincere, but the illusion was too weak to deceive my test-weary mind. By ten-fifty-one, I had loaded my laundry, opened my notebook to study, spilled one third of my Mountain Glory while trying to put up the top to my car in a sudden downpour,  closed my notebook, and begun to work on the draft of my novel, Ashes to Ashes, a story of a naive freshman who comes to college with the idea of grabbing life by the balls only to meet a sordid high school drop out named Ash who shattered the paradise illusion of college life. All of that within twenty minutes. Only two minutes shorter than the average American sit-com.

    I was editing the scene when Ash takes Trip, a headstrong naive freshman, to a strip joint where the dancer is younger than Trip’s little sister when the ‘Sixth year’ came up to me and asked if I could spare a dollar. I could never understand why a dollar seemed like such a small amount of money until someone asked me for one. I don’t claim to be some hypocritical philanthropist who makes everyone feel guilty for not helping every homeless person, but tonight a dollar just didn’t seem like much money to me. I was graduating, right?

    -Sure.
    I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar bill.

    -OK,  Grab a cup of coffee, maybe. 
    -Hey dat’sh cool with me man. I luuv coffee. ‘Cause I been drinking ‘sh-piders’ all night long.
    -Spiders ?
    -Yea, man. Don’t you know what  ‘sh-piders’ is?

    Through his drunken haze he could still sense my puzzled look.  He staggered over to the trash can in the laundry mat,  pulled out a beer can, swirled it to test if any substance remained, took a whiff of the aroma emitting from the can as a connoisseur would smell a high-dollar 1985 Cabernet Sauvignon,  kicked his head back,  drained the aluminum can of its remaining liquid,  threw the can into the trash with a triumphant smile and announced,
    -Sh-piders!

    As I felt the nausea of truth grumble in my stomach, I nodded,
    -Spiders.
    I reached into my pockets and handed him the six warm creamers and told him to enjoy.
    -Thanksh man, I’ll pay you back when I finish college. I go to the univershity, ya know.
    Most of the ‘Sixth years’ insisted that they would go and actually finish college one day. Hence the name.
    - That’s all right, it’s on me.
    -No really man, I’m goin’ to college, man. I wanna start a basketball camp next summer.  Say, what are you doin’ this summer? We could be partners. Yeah, I’m an idea man. I just need some fundin’, ya know?  We could be partners. What do ya shay?
    - No thanks, I’ve got plans, already.
    I was lying, I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do with my life. I might have well been his partner.
    - Okey-dokey man, your loss. I’m gonna do it myself den. Dis is America, and I kin do what I want, jus’ look at me!

    He adjusted his vision and danced out into the rain with an imaginary waltz partner serenading his ‘Sh-piders’  to the hot, wet  night.

Part One: A Tale of Dancing Goats

Jetzt bin ich leicht, jetzt fliege ich, jetzt sehe ich mich unter mich, jetzt tanzt ein Gott durch mich.
                        -Friedrich Nietzsche, Also Sprach Zarathustra


A Tale of Dancing Goats

    Once upon a time, a time not so long ago, perhaps it was yesterday or maybe it was one thousand years ago, it really doesn’t matter now, in a country not so very near, yet not so very far, in a quiet little monastery, a young goatherd named Kaldi kept his herd of goats under a careful eye. Kaldi was a very meticulous and heavy-hearted young lad who believed that his work was of the most important nature. He never missed a day of work, and refused help from anyone, for he knew that only he could be responsible for the welfare of his goats. Kaldi would not sleep until he knew that all of his kids were safe and sound. No matter how the monks pleaded, Kaldi would not even rest on Sundays. He knew that his position as goatherd was his calling, his destiny, his life.
    One day, however, a strange occurrence took place, which would alter the quotidian progression of Kaldi’s very existence. A fascinating, preternatural phenomenon dumbfounded the poor young herder. He could only blame himself for what he now witnessed as what could only be described as an aberration of life itself, an intoxicating mutilation of all that Kaldi had previously deemed as Truth and Reality. What Kaldi saw on that fateful day was simple--his goats were dancing!
    Yes, dancing. Not just prancing playfully as some animals are known to do. No, they were dancing. A large circle of his nannies were executing the most graceful of pirouettes, while the young buck, who had hitherto been as solemn and ruminant as the young Kaldi himself, now danced a insouciant jig in the midst of the nannygoat ring. Alas, this was too much for the miserable Kaldi. Things were just not right. Nobody had ever warned him of such horrors. He had lost control of his herd.
    Kaldi was beside himself with solicitude and grief. He thought of scolding the frivolous goats, yet they were so happy. He then thought of berating himself, yet he could not imagine what he had done wrong! Resigned to the angst that he had failed as a goatherd, Kaldi prepared to take his life. Suddenly something caught his eye--the goats were eating the fruit from the flowers of a most beautiful tree. Deciding that he had nothing left to lose, Kaldi indulged himself with a few of the fruit as well. The young goatherd now understood the magical transformation of his herd! He felt the life grow inside, and he began to dance with his former subjects.
    A monk on his matitunal preambulance of the rectory grounds saw perchance the phantasmagorical site. Believing the presence of God to be at hand, the monk inquired as to the cause of such jubilance and energy. Kaldi, heavy hearted no more, pointed to the tree and returned to the dance.
    The monk, albeit dismayed at the true cause of the joy, was more prudent with the discovery. His percipient mind told him to try something unheard of in these parts. He plucked the berries, dried them, and crushed the beans in order to add them to hot water so as to secretly serve his brothers the new drink. The ingenious monk had planned to use his concoction to thwart the lassitude of the fellow monks at the evening vespers. The monk surreptitiously served the brew, and soon the monastery gained a reputation as the happiest and most spirited in all of the land. And they all lived happily ever after.