Month: June 2018

Living In Sleep

The only way I’m going to get comfortable finding my voice on virtual paper is practice. Whether or not I feel like writing, whether or not I deem what I’m writing garbage or gold, if I get it out and type it down, it will be that much more practice at finding my prose. Thus, I present to you, my first-ever short story.

PS. I looked it up, and short stories generally range between 1,500 and 30,000 words, so while mine is sitting pretty at 1,736, it is indeed a short story.

 

Living In Sleep

Martin woke up. A feeling of loneliness weighs him down, and he struggles to remember his dream. Something.. sad. Incredibly sad. He tries to shake off the discord that he feels, becoming aware of his surroundings. His left arm instinctively reaches out for his wife, Grace, but comes upon only pillows and empty bed. He looks to the left and sees the imprint her sleeping head had made on the pillowcase. Breathing deeply, he deduces the time of morning by looking at the way the sun slants through the curtains. It casts a lovely golden hue on the dresser, one that he hasn’t seen before, and he realizes it must be later than he’s used to. No surprise, he couldn’t get out of the office until 1 a.m. last night.

It’s Saturday morning, and Martin can faintly make out the chatter of his two children down the hall in the kitchen. He slides his feet off the bed and into his slippers. Uggs, a gift from Grace this past Christmas. He scoffed at the brand that Christmas morning as he unwrapped them, but by God if they aren’t little clouds for his feet. As long as they don’t leave the house, he justified. Sidling past that golden hue and briefly through it, illuminating his old Nittany Lions shirt from his years at Penn State like it was a message from the heavens, Martin walks down the hallway towards the welcoming voices and smell of waffles. Always waffles on Saturdays. He glances up at the wall to his right, where Grace had so proudly hung the children’s newest school photos. Kyle, 13 and filled to the brim with brains and braces, a shock of red hair, smiling big enough to strain his cheeks, and Louise, sweet little Louise, 11 and soft spoken, just the hint of a smile and a natural beauty noticeable even in the dim hallway. Polar opposites and yet inseparable. Martin smiles to himself and lifts a hand, thumbing a smudge off the photo of Louise as he passes it.

He enters the kitchen and sees his wife at the stove, her back to him. Kyle is showing Louise something under his new magnifying glass Martin had picked up for him last week as a result of Kyle’s report card. All A’s, and the kid wants a magnifying glass. It still bewildered him. Looking up, Kyle and Louise both half-shout, “Hi Dad!” in unison, causing Grace to turn around.

“Good morning, honey, I’m glad you slept a little longer. I hope we haven’t been too loud”, Grace says with a wry smile, her right hand pouring batter as her left gestures over to the coffee pot.

“No, not all. I was having a strange dream, I’m glad I woke up when I did,” he admitted.

He pours himself a mug of coffee and goes to put an arm around Grace. She looks up at him, and he’s in awe, as he is every day, how the years of marriage and of raising kids have only served to make her more beautiful. How each wrinkle in her opalescent face, framed by the deep red of her hair, were a message of a life well-lived. He knows the story behind each wrinkle, each freckle, each bit of grey in the red that shows up more frequently these past years. He kisses her brow and goes to sit with his kids.

“Beach today?” he asks casually, and braces himself for the burst response of, “Oh, yes please! Yes please!” Kyle is jumping up and down while Louise turns to her mother, “Mom, can we? It’s sunny like you said it has to be and it’s a weekend and I finished my homework and well it was Dad’s idea anyway and..””Okay, okay”, Grace interjected, laughing to herself, “I can’t argue if your homework’s done. We’ll finish our breakfast first and then pack our day bags.”

An hour later Martin is navigating their Subaru SUV out of the driveway, the backseat an energy of it’s own with ecstatic kids and the smell of sunscreen. They leave their street behind, Martin waving to Mr. Fowler tending to his prized roses; Mr. Fowler waves back. Driving out of their Sorrento Valley neighborhood the few miles to Black’s Beach, Martin breathes in the fresh, salty air of their San Diego suburb and is happy to be alive. The lingering feelings of the dream are still there, he can still sense the sadness, that feeling of nothing, of having nothing and being nothing, but it’s easier to dispel while being outside, while driving his wife and children to their favorite beach.

A short time later, Martin is laying on a beach towel, arms behind his head and propped up, watching Louise shyly dip her toes in a wave, while Kyle was bent over studiously observing something under his magnifying glass. He hears Grace flipping a page in her book, probably a new romance novel judging by the man and woman exaggeratedly embraced on the cover. He knows she’s smarter than that silly literature, but he can’t deny her her small pleasures. She sees him looking at her and puts the book down.

“You going to tell me about your dream now?” She asks quizzically, raising her eyebrows one after another.

“There’s not much to tell,” Martin confesses, “I can’t remember exactly. I know I was alone. But, like, really alone. There was no one around, and no one I could call out and talk to. I remember that. I remember knowing for a fact that even if I shouted, there would be no one to respond. I had nothing, and I couldn’t remember my name. It’s like my identity was wiped.” He shivers, the feeling coming back to him all at once. Grace frowns at him, considering.

“How unnerving. Maybe they’re putting too much on your workload at the office? I mean gosh, Martin, past midnight on a Friday!”

“I know, I know, but I really don’t mind the project, and they didn’t even ask me to stay, I stayed because I got caught up. I’m sorry”, Martin says sheepishly. She knows he loves his work, all that research and data, but he also knows he needs to call it quits and wrap up at a reasonable hour, lest missing Friday night dinners with his family. He smiles at Grace and she smiles back, picking up her book and finding her place.

Laying his head back on his folded arms, Martin closes his eyes and allows the warmth of the summer sun to lull him to a half-conscious state. He drifts then, and thinks about his life. About his job, that he does very well in, enjoys supremely, and has so much room for advancement. About his wife, who understands him better than anyone, a purely benevolent soul who’s gentle nature and tenderness permeate all aspects of her life. And about his children, such inventive minds; Never disobedient and always so quick to learn. His legacies. Martin falls asleep thinking of all he has in his life, of how full and complete and content this world has made him. Of how he must be the luckiest man alive.

Martin woke up. A feeling of loneliness weighs him down, and he knows it to be his permanent state. He grasps desperately at the last remnants of that dream, that beautiful dream, the life he wished he had. He lays motionless a moment longer, eyes closed, trying to relive that moment on the beach with his family. Opening his eyes, he takes in the way the morning sunlight plays off his dresser. The golden hue is unchanged, and yet his perception is, making the rays seem somehow sinister in their brightness.

It’s Saturday morning, and Martin can hear the overwhelming loudness of an empty house. Of a silence so large that it makes his ears ring. His slides his feet off the bed and onto the cold hard of his faux-wood floors. The bottom of his Uggs had given out last year and he didn’t have the heart to replace them. Cringing past the sunlight, Martin makes his way down his empty hallway, noting in his slack-jawed disinterest the lack of pictures or decoration he has on his walls, only marks of pictures he’s long since taken down.

Heading into the kitchen and inwardly sighing at the pile of dishes he keeps meaning to get to, Martin opens the fridge and grabs the OJ. Mostly empty and a few days past the expiration, he drains it straight from the jug and tosses it in the recycling. He goes outside to grab the newspaper from the driveway, and sees Mr. Fowler tending to his prized roses. Mr. Fowler glances up and back down, no acknowledgement, as Martin had stopped waving to him over 5 years ago.

Sitting on the couch with the paper in his lap shortly afterward, Martin allows the business section to become blurred as he thinks back on his dream. It’s been 7 years since the accident, and yet they still come to him occasionally in his sleep. Twice a week maybe, and each day after leaves him numb to life, which isn’t a far cry from his normal state. Little Louise would have gone off to college this year. Kyle would’ve been on his way to being a Nobel prize winner, he is sure of that. Him and Grace would have been looking at vacation homes in Big Bear. That was the plan. That was always the plan, and the plan was thrown out by a man three times over the legal limit behind the wheel of a Ford F350. His plan now was to finish the paper, leave the dishes for tomorrow, and go back to bed. His plan now was to be alone for the rest of his life, because he couldn’t muster up the energy to build or maintain a relationship with anyone but his sister and dad who call once a week, expecting to get the voicemail. His friends and family were there for him in the beginning, but it’s been 7 years, and they’d moved on. He couldn’t move on. Refused to. And so, Martin shakes out the newspaper and continues where he left off, counting down the hours until he sleeps again, and silently praying to catch a small glimpse of his past life in his dreams.

Hey, do you know the time?

Time is the unseen ruler. Similar to the wind, we cannot see it as a physical object, but we can see the effect it has on things around us. The wind makes itself known through rustled tree branches and gentle caresses. Time is a gentler caress, slowly wrinkling our faces and withering our bodies. It sweeps through our worlds, though not hurried or lazy, ever-patient and ever-there.

I’ve been thinking about the stress in my life lately, and what I do, or don’t do, to help pile it on. I realize that my days, my weeks, and my life is ruled by deadlines. On top of the expected deadlines for taxes, health insurance, bills and work shifts, I end up giving myself deadlines on eating times, workouts, bed times, etc. My life is run by the hands of the clock. I have recently become rather obsessed with following my routine to a T, and I think this stems from two things. One, is the lack of control I feel in other aspects of my  life (like aging, my future) which causes me to implement silly deadlines and time frames to have a sense of faux control over my day. Second, is the sense of minute accomplishment when finishing something on time, or getting somewhere with time to spare. This is a double edged sword, though, because the times where I do not finish on time lead to undue stress and anger at myself and at the situation.

I wonder how we were meant to live. Truly designed and MEANT to live. Our species is gifted with an ability to plan, and I think we’ve overdone it. We are a nation of people who must know the hour. If we were truly in the moment, would we cease to care about the passing of time? The ‘moment’, in itself, is a measure of time. And each time you realize and welcome it, it has passed. There are certain aspects of time in our lives that we MUST acknowledge and prepare for, such as the death or decline of a loved one or ourselves, the inevitable season of winter each year, the growing swell of a womb in pregnancy, but I think we (at least I) need to be lighthearted about the rest.

How can you be lighthearted in a culture of deadlines?

Things that wouldn’t exist if time didn’t exist:

  • The White Rabbit
  • Certain Salvador Dali paintings
  • Big Ben
  • Daylight Savings
  • The phrase “It is only a matter of time”
  • Sun Dials
  • Rolex
  • Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Time After Time’

 

 

Ainslee

Music & Memories in Harmony

Do you think Yoko Ono and John Lennon’s kid listens to mainstream pop? Or is he innately predisposed to enjoy classic rock and mainstream indie? What about if Beethoven and Aretha Franklin had a baby? Would he/she listen to Wiz Khalifa, or have a One Direction poster on their wall?

Does our music taste depend on our environment, our influences, our path to adulthood? I think it does. I grew up listening to alternative rock and indie. The bands I listened to when I was 15, I still listen to today. I love finding new music, and holy-technology is it easy to do so now, but my favorite bands will always be my staples; I will never grow out of them. The reason for that is because it’s more than the music, it’s more than the melodies and the lyrics and the guitar rifts.. those songs define my life.

I’m 14, laying on my bed on a beautiful summer day reading The Dark Tower series, while Aqualung’s ‘Strange & Beautiful’ album plays on repeat in my little silver CD player.

I’m 17, getting ready for a date with my first real boyfriend, ‘St. Patrick’s Day’ by John Mayer playing in the background.

I’m 19, taking the subway to my waitress job in the financial district of Manhattan, Adele’s  album ’21’ on a low volume in my headphones (because it’s dangerous not to be able to hear your surroundings in that city).

I’m 21, walking around my new neighborhood in West LA, listening to Death Cab’s new (at the time) album ‘Codes and Keys’.

I’m 26, taking the bus in Portland in the dead of winter to go volunteer at the Oregon Food Bank, switching off between the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack and Local Natives.

The instances described above are some of the strongest memories correlated to those songs. If I listen to Local Natives, it will immediately take me back to Portland. In fact, I heard a Local Natives song in my yoga class today, and it felt strange, like the reality of a wintery Portland and the reality of a SoCal yoga class were trying to mesh.

What’s crazy to me, and a little depressing, is that I have built such a one-sided relationship with all of these artists. I feel that I know them on a deeply personal level. They have gotten me through tough times in my life, were there to witness the happy ones, accompanied me on long drives and long walks and every workout at the gym (although the genre changes a bit there). These musicians have celebrated with me, mourned with me, helped me keep my sanity and hung out with me as I cooked dinner and folded laundry. They are my constant companions, but they will never know my name. I had Matt Hales of Aqualung sign a shirt once, so I know he’s at least written it (although he put too many e’s), but he probably wouldn’t remember. I made him sign my hand, too, though, so he might remember that.

My point is, these artists have helped so many people besides me go through the same monumental life changes and mundane, trivial tasks. We all feel a sense of ownership and protectiveness over our favorite bands. Have they any idea how much they’ve impacted our lives?

 

Ainslee

Hello, From the Light at the End of the Tunnel

I’ve tried to set a goal to sit down and write out an entry every other day. I have the time, that’s no issue. The issue is I have no ideas of worthy topics. I’m cultured, but understudied. All I have that’s authentic and original are my experiences. And of those, I have plenty.

The experience that comes to the surface more than others, because it weighs the heaviest on my heart, is addiction. I grew up in a suburb of Portland, Oregon, where drug addiction is inescapable. Of my graduating class (I attended two high school’s in the area), there have been over a dozen fatal overdoses. Heroin is still a mystery to me, all I can speak about is alcoholism, but I suspect it garners the same mindset necessary for abuse.

I’ve been sober 23 months. I won’t go into the details of my years of addiction, but I will share some of my understandings of why I think did what I did. Throughout my years of drinking, I was living in a fog over how I truly felt about myself; A pretend world where I was OK with myself and the only reason I drank was ‘just because’. I would’ve vehemently denied disliking myself, but during the almost 2 years of sobriety, I realized it was much worse than that. I’ve spent days and weeks reliving horrible memories, and I think I’ve done enough soul-searching to come up with this reasoning:

Abusing alcohol, or any sort of drug, stems from a variety of issues. For me, it was having such a low sense of self esteem that the hell I single-handedly brought down on myself, I deemed deserving. It is a combination of not believing you’re good enough, reveling in the feeling of pity, and kidding yourself that a life lived intoxicated is better than your sober reality.

Addiction also feeds on excuses. Excuses were the bread & butter of my life. One of my favorites was that it “runs in the family”. My father, and my father’s father (and who knows past that) are alcoholics, so it kind of let me shrug my shoulders and think it was bound to happen at some point. The fact was, perhaps the genetics played a part once I had it in my system, but I believe the real genetics that are passed down (that lead to a sober you deciding to be not sober) is that of a weak mind. The reality of me stopping off at a liquor store on a beautiful spring day when I had money in my checking account and a great job was because I was not enough to keep myself sober. I did not view myself as worthy enough of stopping for. I needed something greater than myself, some ultimate ultimatum, before I was going to have the willpower to stop.

The question I keep coming back to is.. Did I not like myself because of the drinking? Or did I drink because I did not like myself?

Either way, it was a spiral. I drank, liked myself less and less, and drank more because of it. And so the hate continued.

I’ve been living in a safety bubble for going on 2 years now, so I actually have little experience of the real world in relation to my sobriety, but I’d like to think that I’ve made progress on what I deem to be the real issue: my self worth. How I view myself has changed. My health and success are now big enough reasons for me to stay sober. I’m in the best shape of my life (had to trade one addiction for another, am I right), and my mindset is close to matching. I still have so much to work on, but at least I can see clearly. Literally. When I’m stressed or angry, I tend to have dreams where I’m drinking, and I have that feeling of guilt and shame in my dream every time. I have a feeling those will always be my nightmares. But my reality is no longer a nightmare.

 

Ainslee