The week had been long; he'd been despondent and silent again. Maybe it was the humid weather. When he finally emerged from the basement, he was dressed in nothing but skivvies, and he had the hunting knife. I found him in the kitchen just sitting in a folding chair and holding the knife. "Brian," I said. He whispered: "Dare me." I grabbed my cellphone and called 911 from the damp front lawn. They didn't even let him put pants on, and he looked thin and sad when they came outside. "I'm not suicidal," he called. They took him away anyway.
----
The wet grass felt good on my bare feet. The neighbors were watching, and if my hands had been free I would've waved. I told everyone that I wasn't going to kill myself. "I'm just despondent," I said to the woman who took my knife and put the handcuffs on me. "We're all despondent, sometimes," she said, but I think she was confusing despondence with despair. I've felt deep despair before, and I do know the difference. Despair is when everything--everything-- seems black and cold. This time, I just needed to be alone. The knife was only a prop.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Random Thoughts in a Not-So-Random Location
It's early in the morning, and I am in Starbucks. I am, ostensibly, working, but because the walls here are mostly windows, I am also distracted. This has been my curse for as long as I can remember. Once, in seventh grade, I was staring out a window and saw a hawk dive into the trees that lined the creek running by our school. I have not stopped looking out windows since.
The company I work for has, for the most part, been a good one to work for over the last 4 years. I have worked in worse places, and I have worked in better. I have not quite fit in here as I would have liked, but I could say that about anything, I suppose. In a month, I might not be working at all. The severance package for those who are severed will be generous, we have been told. For the good of the company (and shareholders, of course), 4,000 people, like gangrenous arms will be severed. We have been advised that, as professionals, we should "just keep doing your work as you usually do." I have convinced myself that I will be among those 4-thousand people, and I certainly don't feel like doing my work as I usually do. Of course, I am also a professional.
A man walks into this Starbucks, gets a couple of beverages, and returns to his car. He sits behind the steering wheel and drinks from one of the cups, and 10 minutes comes back inside, uses the restroom, and leaves again. A young woman with very short shorts walks in, and she has the most well-defined thighs I have seen in quite awhile. I am envious of those thighs and wish I had nice legs. Another young woman, dressed in a tank-top and yoga pants, comes in; she has a beautiful, colorful tattoo of flowers on her left shoulder. I do not wish I had that tattoo. I should have started this paragraph with something like "Two nuns walk into a bar." That would've been the start to a joke, though, and I do not tell jokes well. I am not a funny person.
The sign on the wall just outside the window I am sitting next to reads "NO Skateboarding or Rollerblading. Violators Will Be Prosecuted." We seem to be a nation in which prosecuting nearly everyone has become part of our culture. Or, maybe it's "persecuting."
Seemingly only minutes ago I could look out the window and see the full moon just above the trees in the parking lot. Now, that moon is gone, overwhelmed, perhaps, but the sun, or maybe just blocked by those same trees.
Next week, I begin teaching a night course at a local junior college. I am not prepared. I have not finished reading the texts, and my syllabus is not complete. I will also be a student again, taking an electric guitar course at the same college.
I am enjoying the guitar lessons (acoustic) that I have one night a week. The teacher is the same person who runs the electric guitar class. I will be playing a lot of guitar. I might also sign up for a guitar course at the nearby adult education center. I will never be a good guitar player, but I will be happily out of tune and clumsy. I have been playing so much, the fingers on my left hand are calloused. I often have trouble typing because I cannot feel the keyboard very well with those fingers.
And now, I have work to do, assignments to complete, analysis to perform. No longer ostensibly, I am working.
The company I work for has, for the most part, been a good one to work for over the last 4 years. I have worked in worse places, and I have worked in better. I have not quite fit in here as I would have liked, but I could say that about anything, I suppose. In a month, I might not be working at all. The severance package for those who are severed will be generous, we have been told. For the good of the company (and shareholders, of course), 4,000 people, like gangrenous arms will be severed. We have been advised that, as professionals, we should "just keep doing your work as you usually do." I have convinced myself that I will be among those 4-thousand people, and I certainly don't feel like doing my work as I usually do. Of course, I am also a professional.
A man walks into this Starbucks, gets a couple of beverages, and returns to his car. He sits behind the steering wheel and drinks from one of the cups, and 10 minutes comes back inside, uses the restroom, and leaves again. A young woman with very short shorts walks in, and she has the most well-defined thighs I have seen in quite awhile. I am envious of those thighs and wish I had nice legs. Another young woman, dressed in a tank-top and yoga pants, comes in; she has a beautiful, colorful tattoo of flowers on her left shoulder. I do not wish I had that tattoo. I should have started this paragraph with something like "Two nuns walk into a bar." That would've been the start to a joke, though, and I do not tell jokes well. I am not a funny person.
The sign on the wall just outside the window I am sitting next to reads "NO Skateboarding or Rollerblading. Violators Will Be Prosecuted." We seem to be a nation in which prosecuting nearly everyone has become part of our culture. Or, maybe it's "persecuting."
Seemingly only minutes ago I could look out the window and see the full moon just above the trees in the parking lot. Now, that moon is gone, overwhelmed, perhaps, but the sun, or maybe just blocked by those same trees.
Next week, I begin teaching a night course at a local junior college. I am not prepared. I have not finished reading the texts, and my syllabus is not complete. I will also be a student again, taking an electric guitar course at the same college.
I am enjoying the guitar lessons (acoustic) that I have one night a week. The teacher is the same person who runs the electric guitar class. I will be playing a lot of guitar. I might also sign up for a guitar course at the nearby adult education center. I will never be a good guitar player, but I will be happily out of tune and clumsy. I have been playing so much, the fingers on my left hand are calloused. I often have trouble typing because I cannot feel the keyboard very well with those fingers.
And now, I have work to do, assignments to complete, analysis to perform. No longer ostensibly, I am working.
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