The Box Collector

I would sit there hiding behind a heap of weeds and overgrown rosemary plants, spending my afternoons watching. People would always come, but on average no more than two a day. When a person walked up to the back of the building and stood at the edge of the descending stairway, I would lift the binoculars that I kept wrapped around my neck and try and get a good look at them. Their shoulders would always be hunched in defeat. Some dressed nice but others looked disheveled. When I got a glimpse of the person’s eyes I would notice the same thing every time. There was blankness, as if no one resided behind those eyes anymore. No matter who they were, everyone who walked to the edge of that staircase would always stop for a minute or longer. They would look down the stairs as if they were staring into an abyss. In those moments I would always feel this uncomfortable sensation come over me because I knew that I would be the last person seeing them alive. I knew that in that moment I could jump out from my hiding spot in the bushes and try and convince them to remain alive, but that was not my role. I was just a spectator and as a result I would always remain in the bushes, waiting for the person to walk down the stairs towards the box.

The city in which I live started the box program a year or so ago, around the time I lost my last job. They started the program in response to the immensely high suicide rate that the city was experiencing. The economic recession was in full swing, banks were swallowing up everything that hard working people owned and jobs were vanishing like mist on a hot summers day. The majority of people who live in my city are middle class people who take great pride in their homes and jobs and when they found themselves without either suicide seemed to become a popular solution. Entire families were killing themselves. At one point it seemed as if everyone was doing it: teachers, electricians, gardeners, construction workers, architects, dentists, chiropractors, therapists, housewives and children. The cost of sending out paramedics and police to the scene of the suicide, hospital and clean up fees were all causing the city to go broke. In response to this crisis the mayor decided to sign into action the box program.

The box program is the cities alternative to messy suicides and to having to pay to send paramedics, police and clean up crews to the scene of a suicide. The program offers individuals the opportunity to climb into a brand new clean white box long enough for someone who is over six feet inches tall to fit comfortably in. Inside the box is a single, complimentary cyanide capsule. There are no questions asked and the individuals final moments can be spent in complete quiet. The person climbs into the box, swallows the cyanide capsule, lays back and then closes the box lid over them. Simple. Every morning city officials come and collect the box and then leave a new one in its place. Bodies are cremated and this is the end of the story as far as the city is concerned. “Everybody Wins,” was how the box program was initially marketed to the general public. For about a year now the box program has been incredibly successful. It seems as if those who want to commit suicide much prefer this method to the more messy ones.

The white box sits against a cement wall in the back stairwell of the cities community center, which was shut down some time ago. The box is on the ground, in the left hand corner and the head of the box is pushed against a locked black door with a sign on it that reads, “Do Not Enter.” Beside the box there is a smaller box of tissue papers and several pamphlets, which offer individuals information about why suicide may not be the best option for themselves and/or their families. On the lid of the box, in bright red letters is written: Please swallow the capsule first and then place box lid on top of the box BEFORE lying down to rest. Thank you.

During my time observing from the bushes I witnessed a few individuals walk down the stairway and then a few minutes later walk back up. I was always glad when I saw this. It was as if the person was getting back something that they almost permanently lost. Their eyes were always bloodshot and filled with tears and they looked as if they were about to collapse. I always wondered to myself why they decided to come back up from the depths. Did they read the pamphlet about suicide prevention and then decide to give life another shot? Or was there someone else already in the box?

It is well known in my city that those who want to participate in the box program should show up first thing in the morning so as to get an available box. The boxes do fill up quickly and even though on many days they are empty way into the afternoon, it is still considered wise to try and get there early. Few things are as disheartening as showing up to commit suicide and then seeing the lid already on the box and knowing you have to wait another day, maybe more. Must be difficult to return home after you assumed you were leaving for the final time.

I would hide in the bushes and observe people participating in the box program a few times a week. I really did not have better things to do. For some reason engaging in this activity added a certain element of excitement and adventure to my life that was not there before the box program. In a strange way I felt as if watching those people gave me a kind of purpose. I would pack myself a bagged lunch, bring a foldable stool and a pair of binoculars and then claim my spot within the weeds and rosemary plants. I would wait there in the bushes behind the community center until I could catch a glimpse of a person who was heading down towards the box. I found it strange that I was so morbidly fascinated by this, so much so that I was willing to spend 4 or 5 hours hiding in the bushes.

It is fascinating to see a person in the final moments of their lives. In my head I constructed a narrative, trying to make sense about what brought them to this point. I was also curious to see if I would recognize any of the individuals who showed up to participate in the box program. It was always the strangest sensation when I recognized someone that I knew. I saw my third grade teacher, my old therapist, my dentist, an old dog trainer my family used to use, a girl who bagged groceries at the local supermarket that went out of business and my parents gardener. Even though my heart would always pound when I would realize that I knew the person- I still never did anything to stop them from climbing into the box. It was not my place to do so- they had made up their own minds and I knew that I needed to respect that.

When I initially lost my job as a librarian I also struggled with suicidal thoughts. I did not know what was going to happen to me or how I would survive economically. I felt like a failure. Bills were piling up and all of a sudden a chronic feeling of impending doom invaded my life. Suicide seemed to be a less painful way out from the difficult situation I found myself in.

Before I became a regular observer watching from the bushes, I was one of those people who made their way down the stairway and into the box. I climbed into the box and held the cyanide tablet in the palm of my hand. I looked around and saw the tops of trees, birds and I could hear the distant sounds of the little league baseball team playing on the old baseball field not far from where I was. As I held the capsule in my hand, I was violently shaking. I felt a wave of fear come over me, since I was not sure about what came after death. I also felt like I was not a hundred percent ready to leave this life. I read through one of the pamphlets besides the box, searching for a sentence that would give me the strength to want to continue to live. Fortunately, I realized that even though I was broke, depressed, without a job and with little hope I could still enjoy being. I could still enjoy the pleasures that hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling and touching had to offer me. I heard the distant and beautiful sound of a bat connecting with a baseball and decided to put the cyanide capsule down and make the most of whatever life I still had left to live.

Since that day when I managed to climb out of the box I have been fascinated with those people who are in a similar situation that I was in. Maybe it made me feel less alone to see others who were struggling just as much as I was. When I saw a person stop before those stairs I was convinced that I knew what they were thinking: “Do I really want to do this?” “I don’t think I can take any more of this life,” “I am such a failure,” “I just don’t want to live anymore, death will be easier.” When they decided to walk down the stairs I knew that they had just made the biggest decision of their entire lives.

For the past month or so I have decided to quit hiding in the bushes. I think that I have seen enough from behind the weeds and rosemary. Ironically enough, several months ago I applied for a position with the city working as a box collector and last week I was fortunate enough to get the job. Every morning, seven days a week, I come with my partner to collect the box. I still find it interesting that there is never a day where there is not a body inside the box. We lift the box together, carry it up the stairs and then put it in the back of a long white city van. I then take out a new white box and put it in the old box’s place. My partner is in charge of lifting the box lid and placing the cyanide capsule inside the box. We both try and leave the area in as nice of a condition as possible so that those who are going to participate in the box program spend the last few minutes of their lives in a clean space. The other morning when we were bringing a box up the stairs I noticed something that made me laugh out loud. My partner asked me what was so funny and I said, “nothing.” What I noticed was this older gentleman hiding in the bushes, dressed in tan pants and a green button down shirt observing us through a pair of binoculars.

Profile of a Young Rampage Shooter #2

“his conditioning is worsening and he is withdrawing further into himself. he is also struggling to articulate feelings which concerns us.” this is a part of a letter that a counselor at my school recently sent to my parents. fuck. “what is the problem son? school is a place where you have tons of support groups, it is a safe place, your teachers care for you and you are the most talented student in the tech club,” my mom said to me in response to the letter. what is she talking about? every teacher in that school is concerned about me. i feel like they are constantly on my back observing me. always giving me tasks to stay busy and telling me that they do this because I have special needs. special needs? are they fucking kidding? “you are given the best services to assure that you will be successful in high school,” one of the school psychologists likes to tell me. really? the best that the school has to offer is a bunch of unhappy, under paid and stressed out adults who can’t think for themselves and sound like robots when they talk about procedures and programs? and they want to turn me into a robot like them? are you kidding me. i do what they say because if I don’t I get into trouble. my parents take things away from me. the school gives me more work to do. i have to do what they say for now but they have no idea how much I hate them. i hate all of this but I cant let them see this or they will bury me in crap. but one day they will see it and then like the idiots they are they will wonder why.

the only place in the world that I have to myself is my room. it is the only place that I can feel like my shoulders are unburdened by the crap that adults put on them. i can do just about anything I want in my room. my mom and dad tell me that I spend toooo much time alone in my room. they tell me that I am going to get eye strain from staring into my computer too much. fuck them. they have no idea what I have to tolerate on a day to day basis. every day I go to school I am flooded with support groups, counselors and special needs programs. do they have any idea just how demeaning this is? do they have any idea the stress that it puts upon me to be put through this day in and day out? always something to do, always someone watching me the moment that I step outside my bedroom door making me feel like I am doing something wrong. and they wonder why I like to spend so much time alone in my room. my room is my sanctuary. in my room I am king and my computer is a universe where I call the shots. in my room I am not seen as a kid with special needs, I do not have to walk around with all these fucking labels adults stick on me. in my room I can be myself, do what I want and point my fuck you finger at the outside world.

recently my dad has been giving me shit about only wearing black. he likes to call me the boogie man or remind me that I will never get a job if I walk around like that. at school counselors ask me why I always wear all black. they have even asked my parents to stop buying me black clothes but if my parents do that I will refuse to wear anything at all. i like wearing black because it makes me feel like I can blend in. all other colors make me feel like I stand out and I don’t want to stand out any more than I already do. i already get enough shit and other colors would just bring me more problems. plus I love the color black. it expresses how I feel on the inside. when I wear black I feel like people fear me and stay away. like I am the grim reaper or something. i have heard some kids in my high school call me this. maybe I am. fuck them.

“friends, why don’t you have more friends?” my parents always wine. fuck friends. friends are a waste of time. i don’t like other people and other people don’t like me and I am fine with that. anyways the majority of kids my age are a bunch of sell outs. they do what the school and their parents say and never question anything. all the kids in my special needs group accept that they have special needs. they accept that they are the problem. they have been brainwashed by their teachers and parents. they don’t realize that the reason why they have special needs is because deep inside they are pissed off. they are pissed off by their parents who are pissed off at someone else. they are stressed out by a society that runs its citizens down to the bone. every where they go they are being forced to do things they do not want to do. they don’t have special needs because they are retarded, they have special needs because the entire society that has been erected around them is retarded and fucked up. but these kids are too brainwashed to see that the problem is not them. if any one should have special needs it is their parents, this is what got them into this situation in the first place: their parents special needs.

i know that I am young but I am not dumb enough to think that my condition is worsening. it is the condition of the american society that I live in that is worsening. it is my parents condition that is worsening. what the fuck do they expect from me, to be happy and outgoing when all around me the condition of adults is worsening? the economy is getting worse, the environment is getting worse, adults are over worked, there are more laws telling them what they have to do, it is more expensive than ever to survive and on and on. the condition that the world of adults have created is worsening and they don’t think that this is going to have an effect on us? what the fuck. open your eyes idiots. look at yourselves rather than blaming us. you wonder why the fuck I spend all my free time in my room, the world you adults have created is getting worse and worse by the day and I don’t want to have anything to do with it. i’m trying to escape people. but you blame everything on me. my behavior is my fault. i have a fucked up brain. go do dishes, clean up the yard. feed the dog, be a good little boy. you really want to make me believe that I am the one who has special needs and needs support groups? you really want me to believe that I am withdrawing further into myself? you really want me to believe that I have trouble articulating my feelings? read this motherfuckers, does it look like I have trouble articulating my feelings!!? fuck you adults and all you stupid fucking kids who have gone along with what adults tell you to do. just fuck you that is all I have to say to all of you. you have no idea what is really going on.

The Garage

Dust, dust and more dust. The inside of my garage is covered with dust. Small and large pieces of dust. Gray and tan tendrils of dust. There are also paint cans filled with VOC free and non VOC free paints. A potpourri of various colors- blues, greens, oranges, whites, yellows. All colors used to paint the various walls inside my home. Other things located in my garage: bicycles, tools, chairs, canvas, pieces of wood, a dog house (this is where my German Shepherd hangs out), dog hair, saw dust, buckets, boxes filled with things that I think I need but will never need, a wood table, door hinges, spiders, a television set that I have boycotted and pair of shoes that my dog ate. The garage has many potential uses (painting studio, relaxation room, office). None of these potential uses are in the process of being fully realized at the moment. Instead the garage sits there, a mess.

The garage is detached from the house. It looks like a one room house with a triangular roof sitting alone in my back yard. It is positioned beneath a large oak tree that is currently loosing all of its leaves. The leaves are creating a frustrating mess all over the roof of the garage and on the property all around it. Sometimes I become so frustrated with these leaves that I roll around in them. As much as I blow and sweep them away they keep coming. Dead leaves are like humans in this way- just when you think there was enough, there is more. When I roll around in the leaves I feel like I am crushing them. Crushing them. Crushing them. There is some kind of deep, psychic or supernatural pleasure that I take in doing this. Rolling in the leaves is very satisfying. But anyways back to the garage.

Garages fascinate me. In America they seem to be sanctuaries for the average working/married male. I often notice men, who are usually over the age of 45, hanging out in their garages. It seems to be the one place in the suburban house where they can hang out alone unperturbed by the domestic space that is taken up by all the other family members who live inside. These men often come up with projects for themselves in their garages. Whether it be working on old cars, putting together model airplanes, building machines, or conducting strange experiments- the garage seems like a space where the average American man can have some power over their world. They can be alone and free to do what they want.

I want my garage to be this for me. As I said- my garage has a lot of potential. It is filled with space and high triangular ceilings (I am six foot five in height and it is nice being in a space where there is room between the top of my head and the ceiling). The inside of my garage is lined with old red wood that acts as roof and wall beams. The floor is made of cement and covered in car detritus but this can be easily fixed. I have often thought that hardwood floors would look wonderful in the garage but my wife often raises a good question, “where would we get the money in this terrible American economy?” True. So for now my garage is what it is- storage room and doghouse. But I tried to turn it into something more. So far I have tried to turn it into a writing room and a meditation room. Since it is in the back of the house it is a quiet space- free from car and people sounds. This is what draws me to the garage. It is a place where I can feel as if I exist in solitude even if I am living in the middle of a city. Even if my house is located just a mile or so from a major highway. In my garage I am able to feel alone while knowing that I am not alone. As far as I am concerned- this is the best kind of solitude. Urban solitude.

As a writing room my garage was not a success. I loved listening to the birds that spent the mornings and afternoons singing songs in the oak tree, but after an hour of writing in the garage I would begin to feel dizzy. I did not know if this was a result of all of the dust or the toxic fumes that emanated from the paint cans that sat just behind my back. I tried to tolerate the dizziness because I loved where my writing desk was located. In the garage there is a small little window that looks out into my backyard. I put the desk just under the window so that I could look out into the garden. Green grass, pomegranate and lemon trees filled in the small square space of the window. I could also see the blue sky above. Problem is that I spent more time staring out the window than I did actually writing. You see to be honest, as much as I want to write, as much as I feel compelled to write- I do not like to write. Writing is often a painful process for me. I almost always want to get up and go do something else. As I write I have to force myself to stay put in my seat. “Lets go! Lets go!” my mind yells but I have to force it to stay. Maybe this is why I gave up the writing room and turned it into a meditation space instead. I realized I needed to get control over my own mind.

Let me just specify by saying that my garage is a rather large space. When I say that I turned my garage into a writing and meditation room, what I mean is that I only set up this kind of space in a small corner of the garage. My desk was facing the window and away from all the boxes and junk that filled up the majority of the garage.  It was like a small corner oasis amidst chaos. I don’t want to give the idea that I was able to turn the garage into any kind of organized space because this would be misleading. I only turned a very small section of the garage into an organized space. Is this not what all of us do? We take whatever space we can get and turn it into something that we can feel comfortable in while living in this very uncomfortable world? I think so.

You might be wondering about how I was able to get light in my garage. There are overhead florescent light fixtures hanging from the wood beams. Whenever the florescent lights are on there is this sludgy, bright, reddish, orange, rust color that seems to be oozing out from them. I have always thought that this cannot be a good thing so I don’t use the florescent overhead lights if I do not have to. Instead I plug lamps in to the few electrical sockets that are in the garage and those seem to work fine. As I get older my own eyes require more light to see, so on my writing desk I needed to have two or three lights for night writing. During the days the light from the window was sufficient (I should add that I never did get around to writing in my garage at night. In the evenings I am lazy and do not want to do anything that resembles work. Instead, I want to drink beer, watch movies, read, eat, have sex and/or just lounge around the house. After 5pm my worldly ambitions dwindle away into nothing.)

Once I converted the small section of my garage into a meditation room I began spending smaller amounts of time in the garage. The dizziness that I experienced while writing in my garage would dissipate once I went out and got some fresh air. I decided that if I did only twenty-minute meditation sessions there would be no problems in my head. I found a rug and laid it out. I then put my meditation cushion on top of that. I then found a table upon which I put an incense holder, a pack of incense and matches in front of a rather calming painting of Avalokiteshvara- the Buddha of compassion. My idea was that if I focused on this painting enough it would somehow help me to be more compassionate and forgiving in my life. Currently I carry grudges and can be rather judgmental so obviously the few weeks that I spent meditating in front of Avalokiteshvara did not do what I was hoping it would. But building compassion and forgiveness inside oneself is a process. It takes some longer than others and I am really in no hurry. The meditation space that I created in the garage was a step along a never ending path.

Did I mention the black, furry spiders that live in the garage? These critters can make meditation challenging. I would continually worry about a spider climbing on me or spindling its way down from the over head wood beams and onto my head or shoulders. No spiders that I know about ever did climb on me but I was continually concerned. Every morning I would wake up around ten am, put a blanket over my tired body and head out to the garage for my morning meditation session. I would light incense and sit in the lotus position on top of my meditation cushion. There is a small side door that leads into the garage and I would leave this open as I meditated. I would often look out this door as I sat on my meditation cushion. The garage would be freezing cold but I would tell myself to just let the cold be there without needing to react to it. Let it be, let it be. Slowly I would close my eyes and focus on my breath. Like leaves flowing down a river I would watch my thoughts go by. I would feel my feet falling asleep. I would feel cold. I could hear the birds singing in the trees providing a soundtrack to the plethora of thoughts that dragged around in my tired mind. Just before I was able to get myself into a blissed out state- I would think that I felt a spider.

After two weeks I dissembled the meditation space in the garage. It was getting too much. Every time I would sit to meditate, I would get close to a state of what Zen Buddhists call no self and then instantly think that I felt a spider crawling around on me. It was getting ridiculous. No matter how hard I tried I could not escape from myself and the spiders were there to remind me of this. So I closed up shop and let the garage turn into a space that I would not utilize. Instead my dog and all the junk I own would take over. I now meditate in another, more comfortable room of my house but we will get to this part of the tour later.

 

Interview #5: Difficult Parents, Anger Towards a Father, Economic Woe and the American Dream.

I am seated at my kitchen table. It is a round vintage table from the 1950’s. I spent a lot of money on this table and every time I see it I think about that. It is 9:49am and I am dressed in a t-shirt, sweat pants, slippers and I have a blanket draped over my shoulders. My hair is a mess, my eyes are swollen, I feel lethargic and bleak and I did not even drink alcohol last night (I did have a pint in the afternoon). My wife just walked into the kitchen and asked me if I was “filled with the love of the universe.” I replied, “No I am filled with the dread and worry of the American dream.” Not so sure where that answer came from. I am about to eat a muffin and drink some green tea as this interview begins.

Interviewer: Good morning Randall.

Randall: Good morning.

Interviewer: Good morning.

Randall: Good morning.

Interviewer: Look I just want to apologize if you feel that the last few interviews have not gone so smoothly.

Randall: I appreciate your apology. I’m not feeling hung up about it at the moment. It is in the past.

Interviewer: Good I am glad to hear that. I will do what I can to make sure that this and following interviews are much more pleasant for the both of us.

Randall: Sounds good to me.

Interviewer: How are you feeling this morning?

Randall: I am ok but I suppose a bit grumpy. I did my thirty minute morning meditation and my mind was racing with all kinds of thoughts.

Interviewer: What kind of thoughts?

Randall: Well thoughts about my anger towards my parents, thoughts about my childhood and how much I have aged, thoughts about all the bills and economic worries I have, thoughts about my difficulty breathing in the mornings- all kinds of thoughts.

Interviewer: Do you mind if I delve a little deeper about some of these thoughts that you speak of.

Randall: Sure.

[Randall eats his muffin and sips his green tea]

Interviewer: Do you still feel like you have a lot of anger towards your parents?

Randall: I do not know if it is a lot but it is in there and it comes up at various times. The anger that comes up seems to be more directed at my father.

Interviewer: And what are you angry with your father about?

Randall: It is hard for me to fully understand but I think I am angry at the way he has treated me all of my life. For me he was a monster while I was growing up and still to this day he gives me the creeps. I do not trust him and I never know if he is really trying hard to be nice to me or if it is an act. I am often very uncomfortable with my relationship with my father. I have all these past resentments that I feel never get resolved and I have current resentments towards how he shows up in my life even though I really don’t want him to show up anymore.

Interviewer: How does he show up in your life?

Randall: To be honest he plays a small roll. If I really need it he will throw money my way, I get a phone call once or twice every two weeks from him, which I admit I try and avoid. When we talk it is very superficial, uncomfortable and we both try and pretend like everything is ok. I know he is making an effort to be nicer, to be a better father but the problem is that I don’t feel like he takes much responsibility for what he has done to me nor does he acknowledge the pain that I live with that is a direct result of our relationship.

Interviewer: I also know that you are angry at him about money issues. Is this still true?

Randall: It is, as much as I would like to admit that it is not. I do feel that he is very greedy and selfish with his money and am resentful that he does not help me out more economically. You and I both know that I have a lot of worry about money. A lot of my self-worth issues revolve around money (I can thank my parents for this). I currently have a lot of economic worries and wish that he would help me out more instead of build his mansions in Idaho and take long vacations in China. I feel that some of that money can be put to better use (his children’s well-being) but this is not my parents priority. They feel that we should make it on our own, work hard and that economic struggle is a good thing. I think deep down they believe that if you do not work hard enough you are going to struggle economically. In their mind it all boils down to- I have earned my economic struggle because I don’t work hard enough. I don’t slave away at a job, so I have earned my economic struggle. My dad is a republican- what did expect?

Interviewer: But you also know that it is not a good idea for you to take money from your father. That taking his money in the long run can make your life much more stressful, unhealthy and it is not good for both of your relationship.

Randall: Yes, I am aware of this. I suppose I am resentful that my parents have allowed for money to become such a big issue between us. It just should not be that way. Money is there to make life easier not more difficult.

Interviewer: It seems to me that you are a bit confused by exactly why you are resentful or angry towards your father.

Randall: Hmmm. I suppose so. I suppose there is so much water under the bridge that it is challenging to sort it all out. Fundamentally I am resentful about the fact that he does not love me the way that I need to be loved, he does not meet my needs for trust, authenticity, safety, care. Ultimately he has made my life much more difficult than it has needed to be and I am resentful towards him for this. But I am an adult now and I am trying hard to let all of this go. To become independent of him and all the emotional garbage I carry around. I feel this will be a lifelong process.

Interviewer: Yes it will.

Randall: Yes.

Interviewer: Well this brings me to wanting to know more about your economic worries. Can you tell me a bit about this?

Randall: Well this is complicated also. One thing that I have learned about myself is that when I have more money I feel much more confident and good about myself. When I sink below the economic worry line and start to feel like I do not have enough money and then feel like I need to rely on others for financial help I no longer feel so good about myself.

Interviewer: What do you feel like when you are in this economic red zone?

Randall: I feel like a failure. I feel embarrassed. I feel stuck. I feel like a loss of independence.

Interviewer: I see. This loss of independence must feel terrible.

Randall: It does. I also feel like others judge me because I am 41 and not in a position in life where I am making a lot of money.

Interviewer: Hmmm. I understand this.

Randall: Yeah.

Interviewer: But you have a nice life. You have your own house filled with beautiful furniture and a remarkable backyard. You have a wife who has a good amount of money and is willing to help you out. You have a beautiful dog, a nice car, a painting studio, computers, a refrigerator filled with delicious food- you really have it all.

Randall: Yeah in a sense I do and I appreciate you focusing my attention on these things but I suppose I am someone who looks at the glass as half empty. All these things that I own I can barely afford. I have never had more bills than I have at the moment. I also have financial aid loans that are over $80,000. My employment is not bringing in any money at the moment and I really have no idea how the hell I am going to afford my current lifestyle. All the good things that I have in my life just do not feel like enough to assuage my economic worry. What if I have car trouble or my dog gets ill? I have no idea how I am going to afford these things and that worries me. How am I going to pay my bills and have enough money to live? It is thoughts like these that run through my mind and yeah I am resentful that my parents are traveling around China in luxury when they could be doing more to help me out of this financial worry.

Interviewer: Yeah but you understand that you are trying to become independent from your parents, to separate yourself emotionally from them and if you take money from them it is damaging to you on so many levels.

Randall: I know. I know but why do they have to be so fucked up around money?

Interviewer: The American dream does this to the best of us.

Randall: (silence)

Interviewer: Look, it is just the way it is. It is not that they are bad people- it is just what they have learned from their parents and it is who they are. You need to accept that they are not going to change. They have their karma to live out and you have yours. Don’t allow their karma to mess up your karma more than it already has.

Randall: I am working on this. Do you know that when I got married my wife’s parents spent way over 40 grand on the wedding and my parents gave no more than a thousand dollars towards our wedding?

Interviewer: Be happy they gave anything at all.

Randall: I know but it just does not sit well with me. If they had no money it would not bother me but because they have so much and give so little it just feels selfish.

Interviewer: I understand but don’t let their negative karma become yours. You need to find ways to let go of your anger and resentment towards your parents before it corrupts any more of your life.

Randall: Yeah I know. I am working on it. I have been working on it for years. I try to be kind to my parents, be there for them and be a good son- but it is tough when I have all this rage towards them. I know I need to let it all go and trust that if I do let go- things will work out. It helps talking with you about all of this.

Interviewer: Good I am glad it helps. I am glad that you trust me enough to be so honest and open with me. It always amazes me just how much power a parent has over the life of their children. Unfortunately most parents are not aware of how their behavior affects their children and as a result generation after generation passes down these emotional wounds. You can look at it as a kind of inheritance.

Randall: That is a bleak thought.

Interviewer: I know but the only way to disown your negative emotional and psychological inheritance is to distance yourself emotionally and financially as much as you can from your parents and also to continue to work on yourself and cultivate the qualities you needed from your father and mother but never got. Be generous, be honest, be loving, be kind, be grateful.

Randall: Yes. Thank you for the reminder.

Interviewer: Not a problem. I think that pretty much wraps up our interview for now. I know it was a rather serious interview but I hope it was helpful.

Randall: It was. I enjoyed this interview much more than the last two.

Interviewer: Good I am glad. Well have a pleasant, worry free day and go get dressed. You look terrible.

Randall: (giggling) I will.

At The End Of A Rainbow

 

Ever wonder if there is really a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?

It had been raining for a week straight. Streets had become shallow rivers and plants were drowning in excess water. A dusty shade of gray had colored in the sky until yesterday, when the clouds decided to break. I was sitting at my desk trying to keep my mind off the dismal weather outside. A pen drawing of a nude woman sat unfinished on my desk for hours because I was having difficulty staying interested in it. I had the radio on and repeatedly looked up from the drawing and stared out the window. I watched the rainfall and my spirit took delight in the birds that I saw sliding across the wet sky. Then it happened. The sun began cracking through the gray colored sky like an eye that was struggling to perceive the divine when off to my right I noticed something that I was not used to seeing through my window. What was taking shape right before my tired eyes- was the birth of the most resplendent rainbow I had ever seen.

The colors of the rainbow began to form gradually and then grew into bright vibrating hues of red, yellow, blue, green and violet. I sat mesmerized at my desk watching this creation of nature unfold in front of me. For a moment I was reminded of the rainbow flag that was used in the German Peasants war in the 16th century as a sign of a new era, of hope and change. So much awe overcame me that I had to go outside and watch the birth of this rainbow without the obstruction of a window. I noticed other residents of my neighborhood coming outside their homes and observing the same thing that was mesmerizing me. Bicyclists, dog walkers and joggers all stopped to watch the uncanny sight. The luminous rainbow covered the entire length of the city in which I live and owned the sky like a majestic doorway into some unknown place.

After ten minutes or so of staring at the rainbow, I slowly lost interest and decided to come back inside and finish the nude drawing. Even though what I should have been doing was spending my day looking for a job, I am a master procrastinator who will find the most obscure ways to distract myself from what really needs to get done. As I worked on the women’s hips the idea that there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, popped into my mind. As a child my mother, my grandmother, a baby sitter and several of my teachers had often told me this but as I grew older other adults told me this idea was just a myth or a superstition. I believed these adults without ever really checking for myself to see if they were right or wrong. Now, however, I was in a different predicament. I was a thirty-eight-year-old man, a victim of the great recession who was out of work and unable to pay next months rent if I did not find some money fast. When the thought occurred to me that I should go check and see if there really was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow– I said to myself “what the hell- I got nothing to lose.”

I am an average, lower middle-class man. I am a dull man with very few friends, who would rather not work be left alone so I can read books. When I found myself putting on warm clothes to go on a long journey in the cold and emptying out my backpack to take with me (just in case I did find gold) the thought did occur to me that maybe I had lost my mind. “Maybe I already lost my sanity months ago and this is the real reason why I am broke and having a hard time finding a job,” I thought to myself. I tried not to listen to this judgmental voice of mine and just focused my attention on what I remember my grandmother saying to me many years ago when she showed me my first rainbow. “The end of the rainbow is further way than you think, but if you keep on walking really far you will be rewarded by finding the most beautiful pot of gold right where all those brilliant colors touch the ground,” she said to me.

It must have been below fifty degrees outside when I began my “end of the rainbow” search. I threw away the naked drawing I had been working on and fed the cat before I left. I had an empty backpack on my back, thick gloves on my hands, a wool hat covering my ears and the anticipation of an excited child inside my rapidly beating heart. As I walked I imagined to myself what my life could really be like if I found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I would be able to not only pay my rent next month but also never again have to spend sleepless nights terrified by what I was going to do if I ran out of money. I would not have to eat beans out of a can anymore or tell my wife that I cannot afford to meet her for lunch or dinner. No more frozen food. No more ripped socks and old underwear. No more jobs and bosses I cannot stand. No more suffocating anxiety every time I spend more than a dollar. If there is a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, I told myself, I will be free.

These thoughts caused me to walk faster. I could feel anticipation in my feet. As I walked I noticed more people stopped in the streets, watching the rainbow in a state of awe. I however did not bother to look up. I had both my eyes set on one place, and one place only- where the colors of the rainbow touched the ground. My grandmother was not wrong when she told me that I would have to walk really far. The closer I thought I was getting to the end of the rainbow the further away that it seemed to be. When I finally felt as if I had reached the end- the rainbow moved a little further from me. After an hour or so of walking frantically I was exhausted but determined not to give up. The thought did not occur to me that the end of the rainbow could be an optical illusion, like a pool of water in the middle of a hot desert. Had that thought come into my mind- I may have given up.

One belief that I have never let go of is that all perseverance is rewarded in the end. It must be! With this belief buried deep in my heart I kept on walking towards the end of the rainbow no matter how many times it seemed to shift. I walked off road and went through horse stables, ravines, cornfields and forest areas with thick overgrown shrubbery. I felt like a warrior on a mission that I would never surrender when in reality I was just a man who really needed money.

As I walked out from a claustrophobic cornfield that threatened to burry me alive, I finally came upon the end of the rainbow. There it was before me touching down in the middle of a dirt field in the middle of nowhere. All around was nothing but miles and miles of wide-open farmland. The end of the rainbow was not more than half a mile away from me and without a moments hesitation I began to run across the field with the slow speed and tight muscles of someone who has not exercised in months. I was willing to die for what could be at the end of that rainbow. I felt terribly out of breath as I ran but I forced myself to run faster because I was afraid that the end of the rainbow would get away. But all my determination paid off, because right when I could run no more I stood directly in front of the radiant colors of refracted light. I had made it to the place where “the brilliant colors touch the ground.” But my grandmother failed to tell me about what would happen next.

It was not until I was finally able to catch my breath that I was able to see what was in front of me. A young woman, no older the twenty-five, was rainbow bathing in the nude in the center of the rainbow. It took me a moment to see whether or not what I was seeing was real or just the result of an exhausted mind. Sure enough, when she sat up and looked at me with a bright smile I could see that what I was seeing was not an illusion. She was lying on a red towel that had the word “Hawaii” all over it. She watched me as I watched her until I finally got the courage to say to her, “excuse me. Ah….I do not mean to bother you…. but did you by chance…. find a pot of gold in there?” I knew that what I was saying must have sounded ridiculous, a little insane but she did not laugh or seem in the slightest bit surprised by my question. She just stood up and said to me “why don’t you get undressed and come in here and see.”

I felt my throat tighten up. I was shocked. The young woman was too beautiful, so perfect in every way that I felt like something had to be wrong. Things like this just do not happen to me. I was much older than her and could not understand why she would want to see me naked. I was slightly embarrassed but again I reminded myself that I had nothing to lose. The young lady stood there in all her nudity, patiently waiting for me to make up my confused mind. I was still thinking about the pot of gold. I so badly wanted the money. “Maybe it is hidden someplace in there, maybe she is hiding it,” I thought to myself. So like any desperate person would do- I said what the hell, got undressed and walked into a rainbow. She reached out her hand for me and I walked in just as naked as the day I was born- except for my wedding ring and the backpack in my hand (just in case I was going to find the pot of gold).

I remember reading someplace that the ultraviolet light put off by rainbows was beneficial for skin cells and blood. The light was filled with vitamins D, K, E, C and numerous antioxidants. I was comforted by the thoughts of these health benefits (since I have been struggling with some health challenges) as the young woman held my hand and escorted me towards her red towel. One of the only things she said to me during our time together was “there is no need to talk. Just feel and allow yourself to let go.” When we sat down side by side on the towel I tried not to stare at her naked body. I could not tell what mesmerized me more- being besides an exquisite naked young lady or being inside a rainbow. I also could not tell if it was the warm rays of a rainbow heating up my body or if it was my nervousness that was making me warm. The young woman started to rub my back with the palm of her warm hand and then whispered into my ear “lay back, let go and feel.” It was at this moment that the thought- “maybe she is an angel,” ran through my mind.

I followed her directions since I was in no condition to argue. I was a little concerned about getting an erection but I took my mind of off any sexual thoughts by visualizing a pound of ground beef. She lay down besides me- so close that I could feel her skin breathing. Together we lied there, not saying anything to one another, just feeling the warmth of the rainbow. Slowly I felt my eyes close and my heart slow. For the first time in months I felt my mind become still and my body felt at ease. I was hovering someplace between bliss and relaxation, feeling the individual colors and mist of the rainbow nurturing my skin. I was not cold and there were no thoughts about needing money frantically swimming around in my mind. I could swear the sun was shinning and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. I did not worry about anything. For the first time in months- I did not think about how I was going to find a job or what I was going to do. Everything seemed to become silent except the exquisite sounds of the vibrating rainbow. The last thing I remember saying was “wow!” before I finally let go, let go, let go, let go.

When I opened my eyes I was lying naked in the middle of dirt field. I did not know if an hour or days had passed. Cold rain was falling on my body and there was no longer any an inch of sun in the sky. I looked around and all I could see was miles and miles of farmland. Besides me was my empty backpack and a few feet from me were all of my clothes neatly folded and placed in a pile The young girl was gone and so was the rainbow. I was shivering from the cold when I got up to put on my wet pants, shirt, sweater, and shoes. I looked around me to see if anyone else had witnessed what had just happened. No one. I put on my wool hat, gloves and backpack and started walking out of the dirt field. I did not feel sad, frustrated or confused. In fact I did not feel any negative emotion at all. I simply felt each step I took and listened to the raindrops as they fell all around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. When I finally made it back to the road I turned around and looked at the field that I had been lying naked in. It was at that point that I thought to myself, “so that is what they mean by a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.” I smiled, took a deep breath and began my long journey home.

The Wedding Photographer

1.

I probably should keep this to myself but it is a story I have to tell. In order to assure that I do not offend this friend of mine who is the subject of my story, I will disguise his name and refer to him as Giovanni, or Gio (I have given him this name because it sounds similar to that of his favorite artist Caravaggio). If you, Giovanni, happen to read what I have written here, I hope you will understand that I worship at the altar of literature like you worship at the altar of photography. I must feed these literary spirits with stories that need to be told, just like you must take pictures. It would be a sin for me to remain silent.


2.

Giovanni is an artist whose medium is photography. He only takes photographs of his various body parts, which others and I have always thought to be a vain preoccupation. But like I said, he is an artist and some artists have vain predispositions. Unlike a lot of artists, Giovanni’s work has been published in various art magazines and he has had a few gallery shows in which he managed to sell a few things. However, Giovanni is still yet unable to escape from the ravages of that damming stereotype that haunts most artists- he is a starving artist. He starves more than any artist I know simply because he is fully committed to his craft and refuses to do anything else for pay.

At night Giovanni wonders the city streets with his camera under his arm like a gun that he will use to keep himself safe. He sits in bucolic cafes and writes in paper journals about his philosophy of art. He writes like a man who is writing a great philosophical treatise on the nature of the artist. From what I have read of his philosophy, I gather that Gio believes that the only thing an artist should pre-occupy him/herself with is the mystery of life. No television, movies, newspapers, books, friends, lovers or theatre should ever occupy more of an artist’s mind than the mystery of life itself. Since Gio feels as if he himself is the greatest mystery of all- “he himself” is his main subject. By pointing the lens of his camera upon his body, he is interrogating the nature of his material reality. He is asking the question, “What does it mean to be me?” and trying to make sense out of something that is impermanent (subject to the ravages of time) and unexplainable. This he believes is the ultimate purpose of his art.

This may also be the reason why he is poor. I try to explain to Giovanni that we are no longer living in Caravaggio’s time where an artist could be completely dedicated to his craft and still earn a meager living. We are aging men living in an age of technology, which demands that we learn how to compromise. Not many people are interested in buying photographs of an arm, foot, face, nipple, underarm, nose, eye, strand of hair, mouth and toe- I try to explain to him. However, he refuses to listen to reason. Gio is convinced that when he is long departed from this cruel world his work will greatly increase in value. “People will want a piece of me when I have crossed over into that other realm from which no one ever comes back,” he often explains. For now, Gio believes that living for his art is more meaningful than earning a living doing something he does not really want to do. But I understand that survival in our modern world costs money- so as a concerned friend, I was able to connect Giovanni with a gig as a wedding photographer.


3.

The wedding was a good opportunity for Gio to make a few extra dollars, $375 to be exact. I knew that he desperately needed the money to pay his rent, buy some food and get a creditor off his back. I was also hopeful that this one gig as a wedding photographer could lean Giovanni towards other opportunities in the profession.

Instead, this may have been the final gig that Giovanni will ever get as a wedding photographer. Giovanni not only failed to get dressed up for the wedding (he wore a black t-shirt with a Salvador Dali print on it of three naked women dangling above a table) but he also managed to take photos of only himself during the entire wedding. He snapped photos of himself besides the bride and groom, besides various guests, in front of the Torah and with the Rabi (it was a Jewish wedding). He even took photographs of himself wearing nothing but his boxer shorts in the bathroom. At one point towards the end of the celebration, the bride’s father caught on to what Giovanni was doing. He approached Gio and pointed out that Giovanni was taking photographs of himself. The father of the bride became enraged and Gio yelled back, “I am a true artist and I do not compromise my artistic vision for anyone!”  There was a few seconds of silence between them. The father of the bride was confused and caught off guard by Giovanni’s strange response. “But you have been hired as a wedding photographer?” the father replied. “Well then, I quit!” Gio screamed and walked out.

“How could you put me in such a situation?” was what I heard Giovanni drunkenly repeating on my answering machine later that evening. I knew something went terrible wrong. When I called him back he was drunk and enraged. I explained that I was only trying to help him out. “You have humiliated me not helped me! How could you? You know that I am an artist…. not a fucking wedding photographer!” Gio yelled. He repeated the word artist several times. “Okay Gio, but you need to eat, pay your rent and we live in a time that even the artist has to martyr themselves if they want to remain alive.” Giovanni then hung up on me.


4.

I have probably made the mistake of making this too personal already. If I were absolutely certain that Giovanni would never read what I have written here I would tell you more. Some things are so sacred that not even the sword of a writer’s pen should offer these pieces of information up to the altar of literature. Like my grandmother often said in response to my constant need to say too much about myself, “some things are better left unsaid, my little babushka.” I will tell you this- I have not seen Giovanni in over three months and we have not spoken since that belligerent phone call. I have heard from a mutual friend that Giovanni no longer wants to speak with me. He is locked away in his studio, taking continuous pictures of himself, which he tapes all over his brick walls. He has only been seen in public once, and at that time I am told he looked frighteningly pale and thin. Even though I have written here about one man’s private madness, there is no question in my mind that Giovanni is right about one thing. Years after Gio is dead his photos will be studied by art historians, shown in galleries around the world and collected by the rich (such is the absurd nature of the world in which we live). It is my hope, that at this future time, what I have written here will be of some help.

My 89 New Year’s Resolutions

1) eat more walnuts and pistachios

2) impregnate wife (with her consent, of course)

3) work on overcoming anxiety

4) buy new underwear

5) recycle and compost most of my waste

6) recite a daily mantra

7) build something

8. spend more time with birds

9) spend less time on-line

10) drink less booze

11) be a better lover

12) leave less facebook status updates

13) have sex more

14) cultivate a daily meditation practice

15) make a new friend

16) get rid of a few old friends

17) contemplate the real meaning of freedom

18) be free

19) work as a Teacher

20) read more poetry

21) learn to enjoy doing the dishes

22) listen to my heart more than to my head

23) row a boat at least once a month

24) read everything Richard Brautigan has written

25) read everything John Fante has written

26) get a dog

27) become financially independent

28) remain healthy

29) continue to pursue dreams and do not be discouraged by those who have given up on their dreams

30) pay off credit card

31) grow vegetables

32) consider finding a mistress (with wife’s consent, of course)

33) spend less time alone

34) write more poetry

35) self publish a novel or book of short stories

36) practice compassion and gratitude

37) eat more (organic) hot dogs

38) bring my own shopping bags to the market

39) use less plastic

40) grow hair long (n0 haircuts)

41) ride a horse

42) participate in a protest march

43) save $2,000

44) be honest even when you feel like lying

45) publish a few poems

46) figure out where all my lost socks go

47) start feeding cat more regularly

48) sleep less

49) visit a farm

50) dance more

51) smile more

52) laugh more

53) stop listening to voices in my head

54) stop talking with the voices in my head when in public

55) surrender all need for control

56) listen deeply

57) socialize more with people even though I do not enjoy socializing

58) play board games with wife

59) volunteer someplace

60) buy more socks

61) find true self

62) hug and climb trees

63) accept my life fully without needing anything to be different

64) love

65) help others when I can, but do not sacrifice myself for others who want to get out of me whatever they can (for their own gain)

66) plant a tree

67) stop eating so much cheese

68) learn how to fix bicycles

69) cultivate a relationship with someone over the age of 75

70) buy myself a gift once a month

71) drink more herbal tea

72) plant a garden that grows dollar bills

73) embrace growing older without fear

74) go on a meditation retreat

75) iron clothes more often

76) eat less white flour

77) swim

78) let go of the future and the past, simplify

79) work towards being able to bend over from waist and touch fingers to feet

80) visit a dentist

81) get a foot massage

82) be comfortable with being weird

83) build up arm muscles (preferably, the result of having more sex)

84) work on improving my marriage

85) buy a kitchen table

86) drink more water

87) spend time with a river

88) keep fresh flowers in my home at all times

89) do not get upset with myself if I do not accomplish all these resolutions, instead remember that I did the best I can

The Man With A Moving Nipple

I know this may seem strange but I am suffering from a moving nipple. It is my left nipple and it gesticulates and twitches like a firecracker. At the moment, the uncomfortable movements of my nipple have become chronic with little intermission in-between. This discomfort has become a part of my life, another bewildering ailment that I must learn to live with.

My nipple began to move after I was in a very upsetting argument with my father. He was in a hospital bed recovering from a surgery and we managed to fight with one another about what, I cannot remember. Consumed with guilt for upsetting my father during his darkest of hours- I left the hospital in a terrible state of mind. The stress was causing my chest to constrict and I remember having difficulty breathing. It was when I turned on my car engine that I noticed my left nipple beginning to twitch. I placed my right palm upon it, as if I was trying to comfort my broken heart. I drove off into the night trying not to think about my moving nipple. Little did I know then that this was the beginning of what would become a full-blown dis- ease.

As the days passed my nipple picked up speed. The twitches would come in unpredictable spurts and I was often forced to have to sit down and try and relax when the episodes would begin. The twitches turned into strange gesticulations that would wake me up at night and force me to place an ice pack on my chest. The moments that my nipple would not be moving became like tropical vacations for my weary mind, which was being over worked by the torment of my moving nipple. The sensations were like aggravating tickles combined with what felt like pinpricks that seemed to leave me feeling like I was a man being slowly crucified from the inside out.

As the weeks passed my moving nipple became more chronic. It rested little and began to control my every waking hour. I had read some where in Greek mythology of a character that had suffered from a very similar ailment as I was. His moving nipple became so violent that it slowly began to make its way onto his forehead and announce all of his private thoughts to whomever was around. Not only did this character suffer the humiliation of having a talking nipple on the center of his forehead but also he was unable to think without the nipple revealing his every thought! Of course it is not difficult to understand why this character took his life by forcing his lover to cut off his head. Once he was decapitated the nipple did not stop talking for over an hour- it told his lover of all his previous affairs!! Ever since I have read this tale I have been terribly worried that my chronic gesticulating nipple is going to break free from its root and make its way onto my forehead!! If the world were able to hear my every thought I would certainly loose everything that I love!!!

Last week I visited a Doctor who knew not what to make of my condition. He told me that he had never seen anything like this before. He recalled reading in a medical journal many month back about someone who had suffered from a similar ailment for most of his life- but he could not remember which medical journal it was in. The Doctor wanted to put me on some medication to see if he could relax the tissue but the side effects for the medication seemed to great to take the risk. My Doctors conclusion was that I was suffering from a stress-induced ailment that was causing calcium build up around the nerves of my nipple tissue-, which is putting pressure upon my nipple. The ensuing twitching and gesticulation is the result of this pressure. If it did not go away in a month he recommends surgery.

In the mean time I still have to live in this world. I have to make a living so that I can continue to have a roof over my head. As much as I want to hide away in my closet and write poetic lamentations all day- I cannot. I have a mouth to feed.

It is not difficult for you to see my ailment, or what I have come to call my crucifixion. There is what appears to be a constant vibration and rotation under my left shirt pocket. When people notice this they immediately ask me if I am okay. I tell them that I am fine, that what they are witnessing is an annoying muscle spasm. My high school students make fun of me and refer to me as a freak. They all want to touch my nipple and when I let them there are loud uproars of “EEEEEEWWWW,” or “That’s so disgusting!!!!” Whenever I go out into public people stare at my nipple as if they had never seen anything like this before. I feel like an aberration, like all eyes are condemning me to constant judgment. Now I know what it must feel like to be a big-breasted woman.

The only thing that I can do is learn to live with my ailment. Every night before bed I put a chamomile cream upon my nipple, which seems to relax it a bit. I also wrap my chest in a towel before bed, which seems to reduce the annoying vibrations of my moving nipple, allowing me to get some sleep. There is nothing that I can really do (besides having my nipple surgically removed) other than accept my current situation. I see this condition as an opportunity for me to deal with the various causes in my life rather than the effects. If I can learn to change the stressors that have caused my moving nipple than maybe over time my nipple will stop moving. I believe it was Pascal, Socrates or Emerson or maybe Nietzsche- who said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living, so I am examining my self- trying to understand the various ways that I have caused my own dis-ease. Maybe, through this process of self-examination, I will eventually become the only man who can set myself free.