10-24-2045: You Don't Know What Death Feels Like?

If you had told me even this afternoon, that I would be having drinks with my wife and her new boyfriend, just two weeks after our physical separation began, I would probably have laughed and vomited at you. Only through a series of incredible coincidences could such an ill-timed meeting take place. Those coincidences were as follows:
1) My Visa card was canceled sometime in the middle of last night when Sarah, using a third card that I'd never known about, bought herself some boots from iAmazon.com.
2) This morning at 7am I was quietly removed from my hotel room, and told that the hotel would store my things in the basement for up to four days.
3) I explained my situation to Carter over lunch and he said I could come stay in his son's old room for the week while his son was in Rome.
4) Carter's wife Carol spent the day shopping with Sarah and, delighted to hear that Sarah had met someone "interesting," despite the fact that we are still fucking married, insisted on the both of them coming over for drinks tonight at 7pm.
5) Carter neither received the warning nor was able to send warning to his wife because his wristVid was down in IT getting its firmware forever upgraded. So when Carter and I are flipping channels in the living room and Carol walks in, arm-in-arm with Sarah (and four large shopping bags), the four of us look simultaneously guilty.

Sarah and I start with the unpleasantries while Carol rushes out to the sleek CattleBox that has just pulled up to delay the boy's entrance. I can see him momentarily through the doorway: he is on wristVid with a patient, and he has a pony tail. In the foreground, Sarah is downplaying their relationship, as if I haven't already been informed by every one of our mutual friends. "We're just enjoying each other's company. We're not... I'm not ready for anything serious."
"How serious is serious, Sarah? You mean serious like I'm-taking-a-Strip-Tease-Workout-class serious... or serious like I-need-a-new-drawer-full-of-Victoria's-Secret-lingerie serious?"
Her face cycles through the color wheel. It never ceases to amaze me that she spends my money and doesn't think I can possibly figure out where it goes.
"We're leaving," she announces tersely, turning towards the door.
"GAVIN----" corrects Carter, but I'm already humbling, "I'm kidding, I kid. It's fine. I'm fine. We're fine!"
I hold her shoulders, doing my best impression of 35-year-old Gavin. She looks at me like 4-year-old Gavin,"You're not capable of---"
"Hey. HEY. I'm fine. I was kidding. I'm OK with it. Might as well start getting acquainted with reality now, you know?" I sound frightfully reasonable, even to myself. She softens the slightest bit as I post a smile where my lips used to be.

When I have verbally agreed to be civil, Carter and Carol assume the roles of prospective handlers, cautiously introducing us to each other in the neutral backyard, like dogs. They supplement the encounter with food and wine to keep things unfocused. I somehow shake his hand, imagining I can smell the sex on it. I have long since lost the ability to accurately gauge a person's age, but I can safely say that he is still breast-feeding. I wouldn't have ever guessed that he is a neurologist if he hadn't worked it into every damned sentence. He asks what I do. "I save retarded babies from burning third world countries. No big wiggle," I slight slightly, sitting down opposite everybody.
Even though they are mostly out of the nest, our children still dominate our discussions. Everyone laughs about how Carter and Carol's son Jai, who faints at the site of blood, had tried and failed to be a stuntman. That leads to Carter's story about a friend from college who'd jumped out of a moving vehicle, spread his head on the pavement, and been legally dead for seventeen minutes. When Sarah asks why he jumped out of the car, Carter expounds, "It was college." He tells us about how the friend said that death was the most calming thing he'd ever experienced.
"I can't even imagine," says Sarah to nobody for no reason, delicately sipping her red wine.
"Of course you can't," quips BrainMan, "It's impossible." He explains how one can't really know what death is like because one can't possibly comprehend the idea of not using one's brains, since even in the act of comprehending the brain is in use. He says it just like that, too, flooding his assertion with the obnoxiously correct pronoun "one." He mentions a "colleague" that has studied near-death experience ("We call it 'NDE' in the field") and its effects on brain activity. Everybody nods.

At this point I have not spoken for maybe 45 minutes, having quietly wedged my chair between two shrubberies seven feet from the table, out of the loud flood lights. All four of them collectively shiver and freeze when I announce, "I know what death feels like."

Heads are bowed, as if praying for me. Without looking up Sarah breaks the silence: "Ok, ok, Gavin," she laughs stiffly, speaking for everyone, "Take it easy." Crickets try to fill the space but it's just too wide. Nobody moves except for me, sauntering a few feet over to the diving board, and perching myself on the end of it. The ice in my gin and tonic clinks as I set it down, and still no one looks up.

"I'll bite," says BrainMan at last, "What does death feel like?"

I rest my elbows on my knees, drag my fingers down my forehead a few times, as if to pull the thoughts forward, and instruct the three hostages:
"First you gather all the rejection an ego can take:
the circle of friends pairing off or otherwise dropping out of your life,
the ex-coworkers who have stopped responding to your emails,
the boss insisting that you train someone who will suddenly replace you,
the band you spent your youth on, re-uniting for their first show in thirty years and replacing you with a Tune-A-Ton,
the volunteer coordinator at the soup kitchen insinuating that you're not qualified to hand out plastic spoons,
the property manager disqualifying you for the closet-sized apartment you wish to downgrade into,
the parent and siblings praying for you because you won't come back to their church,
the son changing his last name so that his new baby boy, whom you've never met, can "start fresh,"
the three least repulsive women on HarmonyMatch.com instantly blocking you after you finally muster the courage to write them your oh-so-witty introduction,
the wife leaving you for a child who may or may not be a neurologist...

Then you take it all and you condense it into one week,
focus it through a lens of credit card debt and Sempertonin addiction,
soundtrack it with the distorted christian station that has commandeered your sixty-thousand dollar ear implants,
sift it with a fine mesh of mid-life disillusionment,
and sprinkle in a persistent case of jock itch.

Death is the opposite of that."

04-23-2054: For Me, 76 Was Too Much

2054

For three days I've carried all my stuff down from the attic
and cut it up into two piles:
the things that hurt I threw into the bathtub and burned.
the things that made me smile I cleaned them up,
and set them up in rows around my bed
so I could see them all together,
and then address each one in turn.

The first thing I held was my mom's dissertation
she had it bound into a book for me when I was only 14.
She fought 8 years as a single mom with 4 kids for that PhD.

I never read a page of it
but I remember her crying alone at her desk
when she thought me and my sisters were asleep-
she tried so hard to keep us far away from any weakness.

Then I picked up Chris' diploma from Brown University
and I remember how he asked me not to attend the ceremony
but I hid in the back when he walked up to get it
and my heart screamed his name when they said it

I found the plaque Sarah made when I first got promoted
she'd somehow found out about it before I did
and had it mounted on the office door before I even got in...

A hologram of our first family vacation
with the rain and the mosquitos and the flu
and Sarah and I juggling two screaming kids
I don't know how we smiled for the whole thing but we did.

I smelled Zooey's baby clothes,
my first program code,
the leotards I wore when I was just four years old,
the first cartoon I drew,
Chris' first pair of shoes...

The last thing I held
was a picture with no date
I had so much hair though that I must've been 27 or 28
I must've been warming up for a show,
or maybe just getting off stage

I'm sitting on a leather couch
I'm in the back room of some club
I had my old rap hat on and there's this beautiful girl leaning down above me
and I'm showing her my soaked shirt and I'm smiling...
and it's love.

The hopeful look on that face makes me wince
I haven't seen that look, haven't seen that face since.
I take it into the bathroom - light it up and throw it in

I empty out the medicine cabinet into my shaky hands
my fingers look so new for second I wonder who I am
I quickly stow them away, back in my pants

My boss says he'll live to be 140 --- ex-boss
he's all into enhancers, and attachments, and stuff
and when I asked him why he wanted to be around that long, he got all up in a huff

Some people feel like the world wants them around, and that's fine
I decided 10 years ago that I don't want all that time...
For me 76 is enough.
For me 76 was too much.


2054

03-18-2047: Somebody That I Used to Know

Two years ago, when Sarah left, I started cutting people out of my life like they were cancer. It wasn't that I had too many friends--on the contrary, I could count my close acquaintances on one hand and one middle finger. I think I was severing these ties for a few reasons: I wanted to be history-less. I wanted that feeling that you get when you move to a new country. Another big reason was reciprocity. It was an issue for my mother, and despite consciously fighting it most of my life, it has become an issue for me too. I don't want to expect some kind of emotional collateral from friends when I do something for them under the guise of charity, but somewhere down inside the truth is I do. It's an inherent sense of justice and fairness. Maybe it comes from the disproportional reprimanding in the estrogen-flooded household of my youth. Or maybe it stems from the fear of looking like an easy mark.

There hadn't been reciprocity in my marriage for years, and, illuminated by my sudden alone-ness in the wake of our divorce, it occurred to me that my friendships were void of it as well. Yes, it sounds like the Atlas complex, and maybe it was/is. But these friends… I listened to them when they needed to talk. I worried about them when they were alone. I made them laugh when Shannon died, and when Selkirk was thrown out of the country I organized the trip to see him and bring him his son. I helped them whenever there was something I could do. I recoded their tablets to stop waking them up at odd hours, I advised them about relationships... And now I needed more help than I could find in this bottle and they were all out to lunch, systematically shirking their duties as "close" friends. How did I amass a whole stable of Brutuses?
Maybe part of me did it because I wanted to see who would care. Juvenile, yes. Morbid, yes. I needed to know who exactly would make an appearance at my funeral. Everyone wants to know that.

None of these "friends" seemed bothered by the amputation, either. It was easy; I just stopped contacting them. No one fought, no one confronted, no one mourned, no one apologized. I was such a dark cloud of a man at that point, I think they were relieved to be rid of me. They didn't really have a use for me in this state, inoperable as I was. When you're as low as you can get, people can tolerate it for about a week. They'll listen to you too, so long as they can wallpaper their own tale of grief over yours. And after one week of pseudo-empathizing looks and back patting, they will just avoid your flight path altogether.

Torrey came to my hotel room once. Bless him for that, Torrey was the only one. He said he'd go to the house and get some of my clothes, but I told him I didn't want any of them. Sarah had bought most of them and aside from my two pairs of Blowy Clothes, they were mostly broken. He helped me shave and even cut some of my remaining hair (my Growadome subscription had run out, so my scalp was boasting a much more “honest” appearance). He advised me to stay away from the house because I "wouldn't like the changes." When I told him (tritely) that I didn't know how I'd continue to live, he said, "We just keep living. That's what we do." It was the best Morgan Freeman performance he could muster, and when I said so, he looked at me like I was an old DVD Player. Nobody remembers artistry any more. I wanted to talk more about craftsmanship and where it had disappeared to, but he said he had a cab waiting outside. I lent him the $600 and thanked him for cleaning me up. He said, "Stay straight" and was off. I know that I'm straightest when I'm tamped down, so I swallowed two Sempertonin and waited. Nobody came.

2-24-2047: American Paralysis

I want to talk about what didn't happened. Not just with me and music, but to us, as a species.

I remember in my thirties when "Singularity" became a household term, and the world divided itself over this notion of eternal life through technology. In those days the world was always dividing itself up into twos; we had a two party political system (The Rich and The Poor), two computer manufacturers (that shared Intel as a chip manufacturer), two cell phone companies (AT&T 1 and AT&;T 2), etc.. 95% of the world's population had "evolved" to the point where greed was our main motivation for things rather than survival, so there just wasn't much to divide ourselves over outside of material things. We tried and tried. We invented so many divisive issues---sexuality, death penalty, deities, dolphin killing, football ---but nothing stuck. Without the threat of death everything was just... really... boring. So this was the perfect time to argue over the advent of Singularity, both because we needed something massive to polarize us and because the idea of extending this boring existence indefinitely was truly horrifying to many of those old enough to remember life before social networking.

It was also at this time, the 20teens, that the human brain was maturing so rapidly that we could finally identify and verbalize our collective ailment while still young enough to procure a receptive audience, one willing to entertain the notion of being proactive, even if doing so seemed unrealistic and costly. That cancer we blogged and Tweeted about --- this was before I.N.F. (Intelligent Nonsense Filtering) was implemented, mind you --- the great sickness of our species that had chewed away at our existence since we first crawled onto dry land some 4+ million years ago, was Acceleration itself.

Suddenly there was massive debate about all things accelerated: technology, bio-engineering, environmental negligence, etc., most of which was more sensationalism than actual intellectual output on the matter. Every Hollywood director worked overtime to Green-wash any children's fable with an over-simplified good vs. evil theme (again, dividing into twos), wrap it in an ever-improving CGI candy coating, and market it to the largest movie-going demographic. Cross-industry conventions and high profile think tanks were sprouting up all over the country to aid in the advancement of science and technology. We were unified in the belief that we were marching towards something biblical, we just couldn't agree on if it was an End or a Beginning.

Now it's 2047, two years past the date when Kurzweil predicted Singularity would be achieved, and we have no such thing. I'm seventy years old, and I cannot upload my brain's data anywhere. A giant asteroid has not hit the earth and I'm not being chased by Terminators (there was that one serial killer that got caught and put down by a Terminator, but that was an isolated incident).

So what happened? Or better put, why didn't anything happen?

First I want to tell you why I divorced music. At first it may seem a bit unrelated, but my struggle with a career in music is the perfect microcosm for our universal struggle with acceleration, so it seems a proper vehicle for the story:

In 2010, at the height of my career (which looked frighteningly similar to the beginning of it), the definition of a musician had quietly transformed. This shouldn't be surprising; at the time, social networking had pushed us to define and redefine ourselves on a daily basis. As artists we were enabled to abandon our composition, musicianship, bravery and pitch in favor of much more applicable skills such as graphic design, web development, video editing, and of course, marketing. The Sony Song Structure (intro/verse1/chorus/verse2/prechorus/chorus/bridge/chorus/fadout) had been scientifically proven to be the stickiest format; deviating from it seemed illogical. The only experimentation we allowed ourselves was in regards to aesthetics and textures - in this way our music became more like graphic design and less like art. And thus our impact lessened, and our workload doubled. Understand me: we never made a conscious decision to leave art in favor of fashion --- we were coerced by the iPod culture, the download culture, the reign of Autotune, Pro-tools, and the submergence of American youth into personality-marketing.

Those of us that could not adapt to this new paradigm floundered in a stubborn fog; suddenly obsolete, instantly elderly. We met at bars and had long talks about the state of things, wondering where things were going and how we would eat. We borrowed money. We grew jealous of our friends that had gotten out early. In hushed tones some of us suggested that things had been better when the major labels were running everything... at least under that system there was due process and a clear path to financial success (however regulated). Our days were rife with depression and the American paralysis that accompanies one's transition from idealist to realist.

At first, my survival instinct took charge... for a few years I excelled at online marketing. Back then we had this network called "Facebook" that occupied most of our time. These were the early days of syndication, mind you, so we actually had to manually post things and create content from scratch (Regenerative Content and Recyclops Technology wouldn't be pioneered for several years). I made some headway, asking my listeners to vote for me here, add me as a friend there, subscribe to this, download that and repost everything. I was checking my page views, tracking my song plays, pouring over analytics and insight statistics to figure out and exploit the best sources of traffic. I made the mistake of reading reviews and comments of my work, inflating and deflating several times a day. I was so busy frantically supplying "content" and gathering feedback that I hadn't the time to produce anything meaningful, resonant, or cathartic. I went weeks without writing. It was a terrifying metamorphosis, but the alternative, falling out of sync with the industry I grew up in, was just as terrifying.

I tried to book a small west coast tour to get out of my bedroom and back into hands-on music making, but the resistance I was met with made all those months of online activity seem pointless. As a last ditch effort, I recorded some demos for a new album and submitted them to my label in hopes of garnering a small advance to pay my rent for a few months. Expecting a Coffeelocks 2.0 and 3.0, they were not impressed with these tiny stripped down songs about disillusionment and personal revelation. They asked for more, promised less.

A few days later, my only companion, a 13 year-old doberman/shephard, walked face first into a door. He was diagnosed with mature cataracts, resulting in near blindness. I could not afford his surgery. That night I did what all white people do when faced with uncertainty: I went back to school.

A few years later, when I was well on my way to corporate stardom and sporting a lovely new bride, the audio-destroying virus known forever as "Noah15" ripped through every tablet and pod like acid. You may find it odd that it took Google two years to beat it, but you have to remember that this was the very first truly I.A. computer virus, so the technology to remedy it hadn't even been comprehended yet. At first it was devastating. In those two years, the music industry changed drastically once again: the number of "musicians" in the country fell from millions to thousands. Since streamed performances were now out of the question, live shows were again heavily attended and well paid for. Laptop/Pod artists disappeared, acoustic instrumentalists were revered again. Everyone that still had their old vinyl collection held special listening sessions and charged admission. My friends were getting their bands back together and touring. I considered it, but only for a few minutes at the end of each day. Chris was on his way and Sarah frowned heavily on any time away from the nest.

So you see that the panic of those times was perhaps not warranted. And clearly we didn't accelerate into extinction, either. Why?
Because time has never been a straight line and it's never been a circle. It's always been a sine wave. There is long-term balance to all things - eventual equalization. Eastern thought wins again. In regards to Singularity and technology acceleration, no one predicted the great reactionary Habitat Flush of the 20's (in which 68% of the population returned to cave-dwelling... albeit with Ikea furniture and proper plumbing), the neutralizing effects of vegetarianism (and its subsequent cattle reduction) on our atmosphere, or the impact of diabetes-related fetal gigantism and its sudden reversal of the overpopulation issue.
Likewise, no one in the music industry could have predicted the swift and total domination of live performance revival bands like Black Flag 2.0 (or "Blog Flack" as they were affectionately known). Yes, you'll be quick to point out that Black Flag 2.0 and many other bands in the forefront of the digi-punk movement (and, much later, the Noah15 virus itself) were eventually exposed as highly-strategized products of Warner Sony, but you'd be missing the point:

If I could go back and talk to 31-year-old me --- the debt-ridden, apocalyptic guy filling out college applications --- I would grab him by his allergic face and say to him only this: have faith in the balancing act of nature. Above all things, believe in that.

11-10-2045: Sarah With the Papers to Sign

2045

I heard the door
but I felt like it was upside down
so I stayed on the floor
and soon enough they let her in
Sarah
Sarah with the papers to sign
Sarah
Sarah wanting her piece of mine/mind
she makes the plans and she wears the pants that I -
I can't seem to find

I keep dropping the pen
she just wants it to end
we write my name together

It's pathetic but everything came down to whether or not I was rich
she tells me it wasn't the money but I find it funny that losing my job is what toggled the switch
she says it's painful to be in the house with me
but never complained when she had half my salary
she says that I have a problem with pills
the real problem is all the credit card bills.
You take the house.. the kids... the money...

I took the pills because they were there
and they even me out... make me act right

No I took the pills because I don't dare
to be thinking about the mistake of my life

She stone froze
when I touched her face
I said, "How can they expect us to raise our own replacements? It's insane!"
Nothing sounded right when it left my mouth
she didn't say a word to try to pull me out
she left me on a hotel floor to rot,
alone with my lonely thoughts

It's pathetic but everything came down to whether or not I was rich
she tells me it wasn't the money but I find it funny that losing my job is what toggled the switch
she says it's painful to be in the house with me
but never complained when she had half my salary
she says that I have a problem with pills
the real problem is all the credit card bills.

She tells the kids that I ruined her life
what kind of wife - what kind of human tells that to her children?
About their father!
Even if I did want to get better, why bother?
you screw up just once - for one second -
ONE TIME! and they won't let you ever forget it
happiness will ruin your life if you let it...
you can bet on it.

2045

09-15-2044: Truth Exercise

I arrive at our joint session late - not due to any chemical influence, as I'm sure Sarah has inferred in my absence, but because I couldn't remember the ignition code to the new CattleBox. After 25 minutes of searching I'd given up and called for a ROE lift.

"We're doing truths," Sarah says to me in a tone that hides none of her annoyance; a 3rd grade teacher tone. She says it like we've discussed this before, so I respond agreeably, "Truths, cool. Sorry I'm late Catherine---"
"It's your dime, Mr. Castleton [she uses my last name to reprimand me, not unlike a 3rd grade teacher] - the one you should apologize to is your [she pauses to remember what the status is] ... your wife, Sarah here."
"Sorry Sarah."
Her mouth says, "It's nothing" while her body says, "It's everything"; she hasn't heard me apologize in so long that her parts can't decide what to do with it. The two 3rd grade teachers share a look that I catch in the wall mirror as I turn to hang my coat. There is so much collusion in this room it's stifling.
"Now, where were we?" Sarah resets.
"Sarah, I want you to take this pad and write out 25 things that you are too afraid to share with... [did she just forget my name?!] share with Gavin."
"Ok."
"And Gavin, take this one and do the same," she hands me a pad and pen.
"What kind of stuff am I writing here? Truths that she can't share with me?" I stall, feigning befuddlement.
"Truths. These are things that you feel strongly about but are too afraid to tell Sarah because... you're afraid to admit them... or you think you'll hurt her feelings... or she'll judge you---"
"We tell each other everything! There isn't one thing---"
she settles a hand on Sarah's knee, "It's just an exercise. Even in a very intimate relationship there are still things we keep hidden from one another---"
"Ok, here I go. Truths. Truths," I begin to play along. This is $400/hr, so I do my best to limit the amount of time we spend listening to Sarah pontificate. I am annoyed at how textbook an exercise this is, but if I'm going to get things back to normal - if I'm going to GET A KEY TO MY OWN HOUSE AGAIN(!) I have to jump through these stupid hoops and at least give off the appearance of cooperation.

My first few truths are, admittedly, sarcastic, but, to my surprise, somewhere after the first few the whole thing becomes a bit cathartic. When Catherine calls "Time!" I've only laid out 24 truths. I spent the last five minutes of the session trying to figure out which of eight remaining truths should be my number 25. I did not have time to notice if Sarah had struggled to complete the task. We gather our things and stand to leave, shaking Catherine's hand. I feel lighter, relieved even. I tell myself I will do this exercise on my own, regularly. "Good session guys, we are making progress. You have to believe that. Now next week we'll exchange lists and discuss." The blood drops out of my face and I lunge for the pad but she anticipates my reaction and pulls back, "Uh, uh Mr. Castleton! You have to TRUST here! This is all about PROGRESS!" It is at this distinct moment that I realize she and my wife have every intention of ending our marriage, and they've managed to get me to pay for the rope I will hang myself with.

05-15-2038: Take a Year Off

2038

It must've seemed strange when I came into the office
on the next day like as if nothing had changed
and I got my morning coffee and my yogurt from the fridge
my appearance made the secretary cringe
I was sitting at my desk, wondering why my tablet
won't unlock doing my best to look busy
now I've started sweating 'cause the drawer I keep my pills in
has been emptied out broke a pencil in my mouth
Victor's walking towards me with his tendons poppin' out
this is what he looks like when we lose a big account and
Victor doesn't like me 'cause I've worked here twice as long
I never made much of an effort to get along

I say "Good morning Victor"
he doesn't even answer
He just barges in and closes the door
he says

Take a year off, maybe you can come back
you've done some good work, it hasn't always been bad
you've written good code, taught me most of what I know
but you've been distracted and we have to let you go

Take a year off, maybe you can come back
you've done some good work, it hasn't always been bad
you've written good code, taught me most of what I know
but you've been distracted and we have to let you go

Suddenly I knew I'd heard him say these things before
Victor fired me yesterday - somehow I'd ignored him!

I was shocked, and furious, and mostly just embarrassed
even though the door was shut I knew that they were staring
Victor started telling me how I had shoved this girl
yesterday when she told me the coffee wasn't made

Victor said I had to leave but I was pleading with him
you should be embarrassed for firing a family man
I've been with this company for twenty four years
he said it was appreciated, but said it with a sneer

Hey I know that I haven't been that fun to be around
but even the interns have a way of talking down to me
Victor loosened up his tie and asked me not to shout
then Jim and Barry came along to escort me out

Take a year off, maybe you can come back
you've done some good work, it hasn't always been bad
you've written good code, taught me most of what I know
but you've been distracted and we have to let you go

Please Gavin

take a year off, maybe you can come back
try to get some help, get yourself on track
you don't understand how you look from where I am
you're not a stable man but you can be
you don't understand how you look from where I am
you're not a stable man but you can be

2038

03-05-2037: My Karma Speech

My mother used to say that my dad, for all his absentmindedness, would once in a while have sparks of clarity and objectivity during which he could suddenly explain and justify his actions. I know I got that trait from him. It used to happen all the time: after the murkiest of arguments I could suddenly tell a girlfriend exactly what line of logic I was following to arrive at the stupid things I did or said. Throughout my thirties this happened less and less and eventually disappeared. I hadn't looked on from that view in maybe twenty years. Until today, that is.
It's almost an out-of-body thing: I'm walking to the restaurant, nervous to see my son on neutral ground, and then poof! I'm a specimen. I'm watching myself shuffle down the sidewalk: my lined face, my squinted eyes that never focus on anything, my rhythm-less gate, my twitchy wrists, my chapped and permanently pursed lips. The explanation of what I am and why I am becomes so clear to me suddenly and I struggle to hold on to the revelation so that I can tell him, warn him. I can explain everything now and he'll be much better off than I was at twenty-three if I can just say this stuff right.

The concept I want to convey to him, the thing I never understood (or at least wasn't able to articulate) until this moment, is the concept of consequence.

It's the little things. Stupid things really.
Like back in two thousand-whatever when my glasses broke, I didn't stop to think about all the squinting I was doing as a direct result. I went without glasses for like three years because it seemed like an expensive hassle to get new ones. But just a few years later I had crow's feet and chronic migraines. Imagine that? Crow's feet at the age of thirty (most of my friends haven't seen a single wrinkle yet). And my stupid brain didn't really put two and two together, didn't establish causation. I just looked in the mirror one morning, saw the tiny tributaries running to my eye sockets, and thought, "Oh. This is happening."

I suffered through allergies for my entire childhood. One day, at twenty-eight, I stopped ingesting dairy and promptly the blowy nose and gooeytoothed mornings evaporated. Why did it not occur to me that what was going into my body was affecting what was coming out of it? Why was I unable to relate the two until I was almost thirty?

Or take my long and sordid affair with bad credit - it ruined my thirties, thank you very much. I'd always thought that those financial hiccups of my late teens would work themselves out when the music took off, so I took the collection notices and lease-less squalor I constantly found myself living in as harmless. Four years later, watch my face when I try to get my first car loan. The monthly interest was higher than the monthly payment itself.

Life just never seemed that real for me, I guess. I wasn't IN it - my life. It was as if I was always waiting for the "living" part to start, and once I realized it was indeed heavily underway, I'd missed most of it, or screwed it up.

And so I think this is what aging actually is: the realization that you are indeed deciding the route your life takes, and you are doing so on a moment-to-moment basis. Every minute action or decision you make has very tangible consequences, both long term and short. I know it's so incredibly common sense when spoken, but that doesn't mean that you or I really grasp the validity of it so easily. And this realization of causation is what adulthood is, I think. Why is mine happening so late? I'm going to be sixty in a few months, and I'm just now learning this. I have been a late bloomer all my life, I suppose.

"Every cause has an effect." That's what I need to tell him---but worded cooler, somehow. Kids don't take well to the word "Karma," you have to put it in their terms... relate it to Hoverboards or something. Most of them doubt its very existence, but I happen to know there's such a thing as Karma. I'm living proof of it.
Or "life is something that happens when you're making other plans." That's what I have to say to him, but more profound sounding, so he respects me as a thoughtful person. Something poetic too, like, "Life hits you where you least expect it - in the 'life.' "
I don't know.
That doesn't feel right. Feels stupid.
"Life is the realest thing since death." Ug. everything I say comes out sounding like a tagline from an old M. Night Shyamalan movie [Whatever happened to that guy? I never read another thing about him after he got sued out of existence by the Rod Sterling estate].

I'm heading into the restaurant now, and I haven't quite finalized the wording, but I feel good about it. This is the best wisdom I could pass on to him.

When I sit down across from him, I want to be upright and alert so that I can deliver this message with all the authority needed to drive it home. But his disapproving gaze slumps me over and I'm altogether dismissed by the waiter, an angular boy who never looks at me (even as he takes my drink order). The only features of my son's face that were inherited from mine are his contrary brow and the overriding contempt for his father, the softening of which seems an insurmountable task now that I'm two feet across from it. I clear my throat and tell him, "You look good, Chris." He does not return the compliment, but then, we both know I look like Baghdad right now.
"What's the deal, Gavin?" [Is there a less subtle method of castrating one's own father than using his first name?]
I cough and look for a drink to animate this sandpaper tongue in my mouth. The waiter has not brought me my drink.
Chris is going to walk out on me again very soon. I can see his shoulders turning towards the door. if I don't impart some of this wisdom I've accrued on him soon, I know there will never be another window for us. Just getting him to meet me here was a two-month effort. No, no. I have to be truthful---it was not so much my effort as it was Talbot's (my sponsor).

"you should. you should NOT squint at stuff as much... as...
I. did.
you have. you have to live with stuff. Hoverboards are like Karma, you have to keep your.
balance.
if you---"

"Gavin.

'Dad.'

Get help," He said, shedding $40 onto the table as he put his coat on and stood up in one fluid motion. I tried to stand up but my legs were in their own time zone and he was gone before I could put his drink down.

06-24-2033: Zoey's 18th Birthday

Ok, I don't really know what to call Steve's behavior right now. I don't believe it's sexual harassment, because it's not designed to get me to do anything with him really. Truthfully, I don't know what it's designed for, but I'm sure that he derives pleasure from it.
Every morning while I'm trying to digest my bar he initiates what appears to be a wholesome conversation. He has this uncanny gift to steer the most flowery of subjects into a complete mud puddle of perversion. And every single day I fall for it; I take the bait, and end up subjecting myself to the vivid and detail-heavy depictions of his infidelity.
Take this morning: he opened up with, "G, you like music! Have you ever heard Brahms? I mean, really heard him?"
Now, I should've taken pause there because this is a man whose only allusion to the enjoyment of music is singing "Rock You Like A Hurricane" under his breath every time Nancy walks by his desk. But instead of proceeding with caution, I jumped headlong into what I thought would be a cultural conversation, "Of course! I really like---"
As is the case every day, all day, there is no time for my thoughts on the matter, because the air must be cleared for this:
"Do you have any idea how easy it is to get laid to one of his Variations For Whatever pieces? Jessa [his wife] left it in my car and I threw it on when I was giving Tina [in Copy] a ride home yesterday. I just wanted to throw her off, you know? Make her think I was that sensitive guy and she ate that shit up! G, I'm talking bloje in zero to sixty..." he continued to pantomime the sexual deeds dealt to him on the highway yesterday while I turned back to my screens. I was of course red and annoyed at this point, and trying to get my day started and embarrassed for being taken in again and trying to picture Tina doing those things.

When I first saw Steve The Greek verbally molest one of the office girls, I asked him outright, "Aren't you married?" and he told me that yes, technically he was, but that they were separated. When I pointed out that she was always calling him to see if she should make dinner and that he was wearing a wedding ring, he skipped the first observation and addressed the second in a whisper: "It makes them crazy. They want it more. The untouchable, man. The forbidden fruit, G."
I told him not to call me "G" anymore but the abbreviation stuck.

I don't know how to get moved to a different floor without switching my entire toolset. Hell, I can't even move out of this row because if I ask Athan to move me, he'll tell Steve I had a problem with him. Because they're both Greek, and Athan, like 90% of the women on our floor, has a crush on Steve.

Zoey has her eighteenth birthday in three weeks. She's employed her agent Sarah to "grease the wheels" in regards to the acquisition of funds for this Mexico trip with her friends. I'm not sure which is more insulting: that they think I'm not aware that they are constantly working in collusion to get our little princess whatever her spoiled rotten heart desires, or that my wife's version of "greasing the wheels" is to offer to cut back on her own personal spending (of my money). My beautiful bride actually tries to sell me the postponement of a single spa appointment (rest assured, it is not a cancellation she had in mind) as a personal sacrifice. Unbelievable. I'm serious; she climbed into bed, put her hand on my chest (which she hasn't touched since she bought Zoey that wretched Honda) and says, "Listen, we should really help Zo out with this Mexico thing. I do think this could be a growth experience for her [my wife uses the term "growth experience" for anything with a cost exceeding $3000]. We both do, but we don't want her going alone. So I think the right thing to do is to make sure we send Shannon and Tella with her. I know it's a lot, but she's turning eighteen... and if you can take care of getting those tickets booked, I'll make sure she has the right accommodations. Hell, I'll use my spa funds to make sure she has a good time on this one."
I guess I should point out that my wife's "spa funds" are a euphemism for the portion of my paycheck that she rations out for her weekly spa visit. And yes, yes, I DO want her to live comfortably, obviously, that means everything to me. But I don't like the fact that she thinks I can't connect the dots. And that she's acting like we're working together, when it's very obvious which team she plays for.
Anyway, the reason I bring up my little Zo is because in just three weeks she will become the legal prey of guys like Steve The Greek. And I've started having nightmares again. Sarah upped my medication just so I could sleep through the night. She says my anxieties have nothing to do with Zo's safety and everything to do with my own guilt for having once "swooped" on an 18 year old (I can only imagine how often that would come up if I'd told her that Keta was actually 17 when we first started dating... *shudder*). I don't understand why she is not afraid of setting her daughter loose in this world; not a day goes by that she doesn't make reference to the "seedy minds of men," but she seems fully confident that Zo will navigate the hormone tornado and emerge unscathed. As if she didn't have any of my DNA...
Steve just spoke loudly with his wife on the Vid, told her he would be home "a little late." Then he winked at me.

02-19-2031: If My Hands Can Forget

2031

Sarah bought Chris a guitar for his birthday
it kind of pissed me off because he's 17 and he doesn't even have his own Tablet yet,
and his Dad works for Ebay
I said that and she was like, "well, whose birthday is it? Yours or his?"
I said, "Whose wallet is it? yours or mine?"
but she gave me that look so I resigned

Never argue with a smiling teen -
it's like seeing an eclipse or something.
You just stare and take pictures
thank your lucky stars that you were there to bear witness

At first it was nice, to see him practicing - actually using the gift
he'd bring it to the table, choke down the bare minimum, then sit and play a bit
but I got kind of tired of hearing him play those same three funk and blues riffs
and when he got himself an amp there was nowhere in the house to get away from it.

When I came back upstairs one night, after forcing him to turn it off and go to bed
Sarah leaned up on one elbow and asked why I didn't get the keyboard down instead
I laughed too quick and told her I wasn't about to encourage this assault on our senses
but the truth is I couldn't play a song if my pension depended on it

In the attic
in the corner
under sheets
I found my keyboard
put my fingers
on the right keys
but couldn't find
a single chord
and
if my hands can forget all the songs that they wrote and the parts that they played in the albums they made
who's to say that they won't just forget everything
one day
can't cook
can't code
can't feel
my job, my skills demand
my hands
all wrong
paycheck
all gone.

it was quarter to eleven, we were already in bed on a Monday night
I must've heard him play Kashmir fifty times but never once got it right
maybe I came into his room 'cause I was looking for a fight
or 'cause I couldn't bear to sit by while he wasted away the education paid for with my own life

he stopped calling me "Dad" - started calling me "Gavin" when I raised my voice
I asked him to PLEASE put the guitar down for one damn minute
I don't know if the noodling was a conscious thing or if his fingers just did it
but he wouldn't get the message 'til I yanked it away from him, and put my foot in it

Finally for once - EVER - Chris looked scared
he bolted out the door and downstairs.
Sarah came up to see what all the fuss was about
when she saw the guitar she started freaking out,
telling me how I'm taking my own life out on my kids.
She was calm when she said,
"You won't be happy until nobody is."

In the attic
in the corner
under sheets
I found my keyboard
put my fingers
on the right keys
but couldn't find
a single chord
and
if my hands can forget all the songs that they wrote and the parts that they played in the albums they made
who's to say that they won't just forget everything
one day
can't cook
can't code
can't feel
my job, my skills demand
my hands
all wrong
paycheck
all gone.

2031

06-27-2026: Protest In These Modern Times

I've been sitting here trying to figure out exactly when weddings started to feel like funerals to me. Some of my fondest memories happened at weddings: Dave's wedding (when the surprise rain finally let up and he said to his pensive entourage "LET'S DO THIS BITCH"), Rich's wedding (at which Brendan slammed his own face in the cake for no understandable reason), and more recently, Jay's wedding (which featured a nine-piece cocktail band that allowed me to sit in for Burt Bacharach's smash hit "Close to You," to a frenzied albeit heavily-inebriated audience). Now that I think of it, I guess my biggest indicator should be that I didn't list my own wedding in there... Is that when it switched?
It wasn't like it was a bad experience or something; in fact it went exactly as Sarah planned it. We didn't go with my ice cream cake-shaped-like-a-Beluga whale idea, I remember being put off by that. But it was a tacky idea, I know. Come to think of it, I do remember being disappointed about how quickly she dismissed my original concept/theme, Sidelined Superhero. In that scenario, our wedding would be held at a beach, everything breezy and gentle. Most of the food would be shrimp-based. All of my family members who were allowed to attend my sisters' weddings in the temple (while I waited outside, as I am not a practicing Mormon) would be given superhero costumes and led to a roped off area on the beach about fifty yards from the actual ceremony. Most of the vows would be inaudible, I know, but if they couldn't join in the joyous celebration directly, at least they could take turns saving the world (within the confines of the velvet rope). I know it sounds bitter. I'm not bitter. Really, I'm not.
We danced, and danced and stuffed ourselves with Empanadas (my idea). But there was a nearly insurmountable inertia to it that I thought would end with the words "I do." And here I am, sitting at my sister-in-law's wedding and I have that same knot in my lungs that pinched me in 2013. Maybe not so much a knot as a boulder.

Perhaps I've had too much to drink. Sarah told me as much when she told me to "sit down for a while." The daggerlooks from my father-in-law would certainly support that theory, but then Papa August has been wearing the screwface ever since he was diagnosed with brain cancer four months ago. Hell, maybe it's the look of collusion; he seems as unconvinced of his daughter's holy matrimony as I am. I don't know why I'm so pessimistic about them - I've never even met the groom. I'm probably drunk.

I was content before, with our little dance party in the other room: Chris, Zo and I. Both of my kids have surprisingly adult rhythm for their ages, and I guess I'm a little proud of that, since I consider it my major contribution to their genetic makeup. Zo was doing some sort of neck thing that she must have learned from school when Sarah came in and told me I should sit down for a while. I should have known - I probably looked more happy than I've looked in years and you know she can't abide that! I went for broke, asking her to join us but she said that people were staring and that this was the kids' room. I went to the bathroom instead (this is what protest looks like, at this point... I takes m' time sitting down when she tells me to sit!) and wiped down my face in the mirror. I haven't seen my face in years, I think. All my features seem to be fleeing from my nose. My hair has been cowering back by my ears for years, but now I can see the explosive expressions I used to wear cutting a deeply-grooved retreat to the back of my head. I look older than my father, maybe. I must be drunk.
Sarah bangs on the door, tells me there's a strange man dancing "inappropriately" with our kids. At first I think she is being facetious, and I don't respond (so rebellious!). But then she insists that I come "do something about it." I'm annoyed. I ask her what exactly is so inappropriate about dancing with kids, but she doesn't acknowledge the defensiveness in my voice, she instead tells me that he had his hands "all over Zoey!"
I towel off my face, and just before I turn to go back to her world, I see a trace of anger work it's way back towards the front of me.

Grace Land (2006) - The Rooster And the Matador

05-02-2022: The Perfect Day

I had a perfect day on Friday. Perfect Days are quite rare - the last I remember having one was November 15th, 2013, two days into our honeymoon in Phuket (I'd spent the morning feeding monkeys, the afternoon eating Pad Thai, and the evening making olympic love).
Friday morning I wake up too early... my body does that when it's worried about missing an appointment; I will wake up 3 or 4 times, an hour or so before my alarm goes off, each time with the sinking feeling that you get when your alarm has failed. This doesn't sound like a Perfect Day, but it is... due to the Cymbalta I have not felt any anxiety for years and years, so this anticipation is like a warm gush of something to a cold a place. By 8:30 I cannot go back to sleep and we are not scheduled to leave until 9:30, so I sit up, turn on my tablet and do some email. When no one is awake by 9:30, I start to panic a little, and wander into the kitchen to make loud pancakes.
Zoey sneaks up behind me in her red dress with white trim (she calls it her "Christmas dress" even though it was given to her for Easter) and announces, "Good morning, Gavin Caaasselltaaan!"
[This has been going on for two weeks. Sarah thinks it is because she likes the way our last name feels phonetically, but I insist that it is a phase she's going through in which she calls me by my full name in order to assert herself as an equal individual and undermine my authority.] On this Friday morning, with my face full of Pancake Surprise, I am simply too smitten with her to take issue with it.
Zoey has packed a tiny towel, the tiny bikini (yes, Sarah and I fought for an hour over that purchase), several plastic shovels and buckets, and the always necessary Nameless Pink Pony into her Monchichi bag. She is determined to leave for the beach without eating breakfast. We do our Robot Negotiation:
"Robot, " I say, "have you charged your cells?"
"YES," says Zoey in a very mono tone, "ROBOT HAS BEEN CHARGING ALL NIGHT."
"But Robot, your room only provides Lithium charging... what about your potassium, calcium, iron, carbohydrate, and sodium cells? Have they been charged?"
[This is my favorite part - I've taught her that computers can never lie or miscalculate, that any error in technology is human-bourne. So, rather than lie, she feigns malfunction.]
"DOES NOT COMPUTE. DOES NOT COMPUTE."
"Rooooobot [in a patronizing tone]... you will need an ample supply of Carbohydrate fuel if you want to maintain equilibrium at the beach today."
A long hesitation, and then she marches stiffly to the table.
"QUICKLY. QUICKLY THEN."
She has prodigy wit, myZo.

One hour later at the pier she tip-toes out onto the sand as if it is the surface of Mars. I stare until Sarah looks at me crooked. Every time I see her do something new, I fall in love with her all over again. It is the most exasperating part of child-rearing. I worry that her tiny feet will burn but thankfully the sun is not too large yet and the sand is still somewhat cool. I race her to the water. I take a huge dramatic fall just before I get there so that she can win and also so that she will put her concerned face close to mine and call me "Daddy" again.

For the next hour we play Blast Off, a game we invented in which she counts down the seconds until a big wave crashes into us and I swing her by her bird-bone wrists up and over it and then around and around until the wave has subsided. Then I beg her to put her feet down and stand up (which she subsequently refuses to do over and over, assuming the lotus position mid-air until I dip her little butt in the surf). I tell her that we are approaching reentry and she has to land in order to prep for the next launch, but truthfully I just want to rest my aching shoulders before the next wave hits. I wonder what they look like from where Sarah is sitting. Does she see the youth in them, flexed and dependable for our flying daughter? Does she realize how strong I am? Is she even watching or is she just worried about how the sunblock is interacting with her mascara?

Thankfully Zoey decides to chase seagulls for a while and I'm able to lay down near Sarah's feet. I try to ignore what the sand is doing in my shorts. Zoey is always in my peripheral.

"We made that," I say, pointing to the monster.
"Yes," she answers sun-dazed.
"She is her own planet," I say, shading my eyes.
"She is her own galaxy," she corrects.

I try to build a sand castle for Zoey, but she pours so much water on it that instead of fortifying my towers, she just melts them. I am somewhat relieved because I don't believe I've ever made one and the exotic and massive palace I saw in my head was not manifesting itself through my soft hands.

She buries Sarah's feet, then mine. Then we both bury her up to her neck, and make her into a mermaid.

As I drag the sand over her she giggles, cackles and eventually her heaving buddha-belly upsets the smooth scaly surface that we've sculpted. We take pictures and then watch while she breaks out of it with a roar.
By three she is near collapse; everything sets her off. She develops an exaggerated fear of seaweed. The sun is too bright. The water is too cold. The sand is too sandy. Sarah strips her completely naked and sticks her under the public shower.
She wails like the puppy we won't let her have. The way she's standing, a pitiful pile of a child clinging to her naked ribs as if the water were below freezing, makes me think of the Holocaust. I turn away. I turn away and try to shield her with my growing gut so that child molesters won't see her private parts. I turn away so that no one will think I'm a child molester. Sarah's response to the fit is a well-honed verbal marriage of scolding, down-playing, humoring, and coddling. I am in love with her again because of the spell she has cast over our daughter.
The episode ends with my little Zoey swaddled in a towel
whimpering into my neck while I rattle her bird bones
turning her legato into vibrato,
and whispering,
to the tune of The Eagles' Desperado,
always whispering,
"Tiny Robot, why don't you come to your senses?
You've been out building castles
but your hard drive has crashed"

02-04-2020: I Tell the Children That I'm Sorry

2020

I promised to keep the kids busy at the park for at least two hours
so that Sarah could get the house in order and all the laundry sorted out.
I told her that the party was her idea so she could damn well clean it up herself.
I didn't mean to snap but since mom died last week I haven't felt like myself
I only just turned forty two and all I think about now is my health.
I know I've gained some weight but Sarah's so nice, she claims she can't even tell.
Two nights this week I dreamed that my teeth crumbled when I tried to eat.
When I wake up my gums feel weak - I make the kids brush their teeth til their mouths bleed.
I feel ambushed by my body or at least a little misled
as if the blood that moves my parts can't keep up with commands coming from my head.
Sitting on a park bench, watching Zooey climb to the top of the slide
where she'll cry until I come up and get her
Sarah says she does it for attention but I think she knows better.
There's a girl with these legs running laps on the track
I watch the muscles sing in her thighs
when I turn back to Zooey I'm confronted by the eyes of a young mother helping her down
she greets my approach with a full body frown
"Maybe you should keep your eyes on your own child," she sniffs.
I pretend not to hear while I oversearch for Chris.
I get him and bolt down the street to the pharmacy,
Chris screamin bloody murder 'cause we had to leave.
I get my pills refilled so I'll be good for the party
pop one on the walk home 'cause I feel the panic starting...
I keep saying that I'm sorry...
I tell the children I'm sorry...

2020

02-03-2020: My Ears Still Work

It was a stupid thing to get worked up about maybe... it wasn't part of some long standing battle we had, not a conscious one anyway, it was just a quick unfinished response to something Merril said. She asking me if I was always into programming and I answered, "No, I used to play music and perform in a band"
and "Oh? Would I have heard of you?"
"No, probably not..."
"So, you used to have actual CDs of music?! Did you ever make, um.... alllllll... 'albums'?"
"Yes, I made a few albums back then." "Well why don't you play one of your songs for us?"

And then there it was --- reflexive and presumptuous and all-encompassing, Sarah's interjection:
"Well, he's not really...."
and then a look towards me
somehow both an apology
and a "You're welcome"
at the same time
And of course I fell in line, wrapping my trunk around the tail of the elephant in front of me,
"Ya, I wouldn't know what to play, my keyboards are all..."
pointing way yonder, to anywhere really
anywhere not immediate
and like a good publicist Sarah swept the conversation under the rug of our children
our one success story
and when the conversation arrived at Chris' recital I excused myself for the bathroom.

Sometime in there
while I was trying to figure out what looks so unfamiliar about me in that big mirror
I got it in my head to sneak out the window. I was in the downstairs bathroom so it really wasn't much of a drop.
I locked the door and shut the light off and then tried to open the window but
I'm so stupid
Sarah just had $32,000 E-Sills installed last week and the remote is on my keychain on the hook in the hall
so I sneak out and grab them and sneak back
almost undetected --- Carter is watching me from the couch, but not suspiciously
No, he watches me in a way that says, "I've been there. I also have executed back-to-back pee sessions"
and I nod and point at my groin to affirm our collusion.
I lock the door again, leave the light on though, this time,
zap! the window's open
the toilet seems taller, my knee caps salute
one leg on the toilet, my knee on the sill
there's knocking now
Carter's voice, "Ay, Gavin. Hello?" whispering, like it's us against them
"Gavin, you need anything?"
I'm not sure if that's concern or a proposition of some sort
I will just squeeze out---
"Honey?"
The voice of 1000 lbs!
with a love so heavy it ages me
Now she knocks too
I know because her rhythm is somehow accusatory
The window begins clamping down on my back, even as I work my left thigh through
is this the boasted "Anti-theft technology"
that blue-suit bastard was touting
in MY living room smiling at MY wife?!

In my head I'm already down the street
smashing bus stop shelters with a hammer
in serial fashion, walking straight to downtown
Glass cases populated with beautiful people
Smiling, nuzzling, drinking wine coolers together with big jewelry
the way things never were
and I swing the hammer into them and walk on while their guts sparked and hissed at the new air
(nothing beautiful or classy about that)
nothing's so pristine when you get the scalpel out and really look at it

but here in this bathroom,
caught in transit by our stupid stupid new hi-tech E-sills
My wife
who has keys to even the bathroom door somehow
is looking at me like I'm a rabid skunk
while four or five of her friends have clustered around me
overtly sympathetic
but I hear you snickering, fuckers
in my house
I may be drunk but my ears still work

09-13-2020: Kitemaster

Today is Cravin Day. Zoey named it that of course [Sarah is concerned that Zo's vocabulary is comprised of more improvised words than Webster words. I furrow my brow and exhale loudly in congruence when she brings it up, but to be honest I couldn't be more thrilled about it]. Cravin Day is when Chris and I join forces to further the Male Agenda. We enter the Testosterzone. We manage the MANage. No matter what our original trajectory, we always end up tossing a ball back and forth at Shelby Park and picking at the carcass of a Happy Meal. From the day the doctor told us that we were having a boy, I swore to myself that growing up as my son would be a non-stop Disney ride. I had so many plans. Then came the floods: Sarah's surgery, Sarah's mom's surgery, an Astralvan, my back, Zoey...

Being a new parent is like getting carjacked by a wild-eyed man brandishing a gun and screaming about The Voices: you must be forever on your toes if you want to get out alive. You are looking for any pattern that you can rest in, any behavior that you can maintain to keep him from pointing the barrel at your face. Your rate of fatigue is accelerated dramatically by the sporadic volatility of everything. You just want to be left alone. You want sleep. You will trade every facet of your dignity for a few hours of sleep.

By the time Chris turned four my fantasy fatherhood was tucked away somewhere next to my old keyboard in the attic. Surprisingly, Sarah was the one who suggested that we take one day a week to do boy things. I was so pleasantly surprised at her selflessness, trust, and encouragement (truth be told she never really left me alone with Chris for the first four years of his life...) that it did not occur to me to ask what she'd be doing on Cravin Day. One evening a month later, while brandishing the Visa bill in my face and insisting that I justify a $341 night out with my sisters I caught sight of the real reason for her enthusiasm: every Thursday night while Chris and I were at a movie, a baseball game, or wherever, my lovely bride and tiny Zo were having their own private shopping spree. Six purses in two months - I'd never seen anything like it.

Today we drove an hour to Colt State Park to launch the kite I gave him for his sixth birthday. Of course he says that flying a kite is "straight" (it's frightening how early kids are picking up heterophobia these days) but I tell him if he wants something gayer he can just stay on the blanket with the snacks while I fly it myself. He couldn't understand why we had to drive an hour to fly a stupid kite, and the nostalgia for this park exists only in me, so I didn't bother explaining. He'd never met Lumas. He was not even a twinkly thought of a sperm's thought when Lumas, at full tilt, bowled through the wobbly legs of a 78 year-old woman being escorted to the seaside by her much younger children. Geez, that was thirteen years ago. Nor was Chris present when we gathered her distant shoes and beat a quick retreat while other park-goers tried to describe us to park officials. I guess this park holds a lot of weight for me because of those days. I'd flown so many kites here in my youth that in my head it was the only place with wind. Sure enough it is still the windiest place in New England, When I notice that we are the only ones not flying something wireless, the lack of synchronism between me and the world feels palpable.

After I get the thing a hundred feet up, Chris slowly makes his way to me, and within minutes he insists on flying it alone. This is fine by me - I get dizzy when looking at all that open space. My medication is doing strange things with my inner gyroscope. It's a fair trade though - I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing since mom died. When I think about her, think about that funny, music-heavy service we had, I see it all on a screen with red velvet currents and I'm way in the back of a heavily populated theater. I could nod off and it would continue on without me. It's practically subtitled I'm so apart from it.

04-23-2018: Birthday in Kent Hospital

I woke up in a very dull pink room with the sensation that there were far too many curtains about. I coughed quietly, aware of people and machines buzzing and whirring around me, maybe just outside all these curtains, and I didn't want to alert anyone until I could figure out what was going on. A wizened man with piercing falcon eyes and deep folds for cheeks slid back the curtain closest to me and leaned inward, wearing a smile that suggested we'd shared time on a sinking ship together. I nodded hello, and his smile didn't falter or respond, just hummed a tune that I'd been hearing long before I'd opened my eyes. It was How Great Thou Art, a hymn I'd grown up with in church. The dream it had soundtracked had indeed been about my childhood - something about a summer in the woods of Maine and a fort full of caught turtles.
He began shuffling about the room, sliding drawers open, checking cupboards, making notes on the back of his hand, taking stock of things, always humming.
"Excuse me - could you tell me what hospital this is?"
"Well brother, you're in Kent County Hospital right here. Yer in good hands," he winked and patted my arm. He left his hand on my arm a bit too long and I began to feel uncomfortable. His touch was grandfatherly and tender but my skin had been alone long enough that foreign skin alarmed me, I guess. He didn't seem to notice, just held it there and looked around the room as if it were made of rainbows.
"I'm gonna... I'm going to call the nurse to see about my... situation," I said in a way that I hoped didn't sound like I was telling on him or anything, just needed to get things rolling.
"You do that," he nodded dreamily but didn't move from my side. I reached down and pressed the red button by my thigh. He didn't seem to feel responsible for the heavy air between us, so I rushed to fill it, "I'm 40 today." I said this like it was some sort of explanation for the chemical they'd pulled out of me with pumps.
He took my hands and held them up between us. I looked at them, he looked at me. He squeezed my hands twice and let them fall back to the blanket.
"Your bed in God's home ain't quite made yet, brother," he said in a way that should've creeped me out much more than it did. He had my Grandfather's eyes, and I was relieved to see them on this earth again.
"I just don't... there's nothing left for me to do," I said, still trying to explain something that he seemed to already understand.
He shrugged off my total surrender, "Say that when you're my age, brother. I'm 76 years old... took me this long to realize how much I'm needed on this great earth. If y'all find yourself to be 76 years old and you still wanna say them things... well, then by all means, call it a day, brother."

I had the strangest sensation when he said that: I thought he was my dad. Somehow. My dad had died at 76 himself, but I don't think that coincidence is what made me feel that way. And it wasn't his eyes - they were the eyes of my mother's father. What was it? Before I could place it, a thick woman with thick-rimmed glasses entered the room and quickly moved to start everything in motion again.
"Ok, Mr. D, let's let our patient rest now," she said in her brick and mortar voice, severing the space between us to adjust my pillow. He closed his eyes and mouthed some calming words that I could not discern, then shuffled out with his cart in tow.

Two days later, when everything had cleared out of my guts, they let me venture outside (supervised) to get some Vitamin D. I saw the old man who'd touched my arm sitting out under an apple tree at the far end of the back parking lot. He was eating something, and appeared to be talking to himself. I asked the short nurse pushing my wheelchair, "who is that guy?"
"That's Abe, he works in the stock room."
I walked to within fifty yards of him, I could hear he was singing breezily, conversationally even, with his head tilted skyward and his fierce eyes examining the crawling clouds. This is what I heard him sing:
Hymn 6: Lunch Break in D Flat Major

08-05-2016: The Birth and the Psychic

I don't believe it. I watched it--filmed it even--but I still don't believe it. Every day for thirty-five weeks and two days I mentally rehearsed it, all the ins and outs (pun intended). But I guess the truth is I never really believed it would come to pass. All my life I've created things, many times with the intent of making them beautiful. But I'm suddenly embarrassed by the marks I've left to date. Those things--those songs, that book, that software, those paintings—are ugliness incarnate. I've made something, a writhing, pink and wrinkly gorgeous something, that puts them all to shame. How could God give this power to everybody?! How can I ever create anything again and think of it as beautiful? What a frightening new standard we’ve set.

psychic sampling

Some nine or ten years ago, when I was trying to deal with Life After Keta, I went to a psychic--a British woman named Lori who operated out of the basement of her daughter's house in Warwick, RI. Her body and her face were a tad overly made-up (but in the way you really want your old people to be overly made-up). I don’t know how to put it other than that her face was like a hearth to me. Her eyes were the fireplace of that face, warming me but keeping me at bay. When she began her auguring, those eyes transformed into glassy pools of still lake water, holding me, suspended. These words read like 9th grade poetry to me, but they’re the most accurate words for her. Her eyes literally sparkled. And when she said my name, it sounded like honey: "Gaahvaan." I'll never forget it. Every time she said it, I was a house cat, raising my back to meet her voice. "M'love," she called me.

She told me that she'd had five visions of Christ in her life. She told me the spirit world was all around us and that our loved ones never really leave us. She held my hands like they were made of gossamer while we said a prayer. Then she held my keys and tilted her head towards the faux-everything chandelier, narrowing her eyes into slits and letting her hands dance left and right, conducting some symphony that only she could hear. She spoke to her spirit guides, Running Water (a Native American) and Dr. John Forbes, who were consulting the spirits surrounding me in an attempt to understand my life.

Many times in the reading she said to me, "Your life is shown to me like a jigsaw puzzle. They're showing me the pieces of your life, Gavin." These words were air conditioning in my skull. I was so still.

She told me that I was going to have a second chance with Keta and that one of us would have to choose between two relationships.

She told me that a more lucrative career (back then I'd somehow gotten it into my head that I should try to be a musician!) would rise up and challenge the one I was in. She told me I would have to decide. But she warned me that God gives you talents, and if you don't use them, it's like throwing them back in his face.

She told me that I shouldn't move west until the middle of the following year.

She told me that my grandfather almost died when he was a baby and was only saved "by the grace of God."

She told me that my cousin's husband's friend would hurt his knee in a skiing accident.

She asked me about Florida, and then Boston, “What do they mean to you?”

She told me that my guides wanted me to concentrate more on money than my love life for a while.

She told me that Keta was flying to the Orient soon with a friend or sister, and that she was very nervous about flying, but that she would land safely.

She told me that my mother would "have a strong love one day. She may not want it, but she'll have the opportunity."

Then she told me that I would have a baby girl.
When she said this, there was a knotted lung deep in me somewhere that finally exhaled. I never knew it was there, but when it finally let go I realized I had been holding that breath since I was fourteen or fifteen. And I thought: "huh. ya. a girl. of course." Truthfully, it had never occurred to me somehow, but it was the answer to everything. I'd always been stressed about the relationship I would have with my son. But having a girl seemed like a completely different (and much simpler) ballgame. Daughters LOVE their dads.

When the reading was over, I wrote her a check for $50 and thanked her profusely. I bound out to my car, weightless. I remember thinking that I would've paid $400 for that feeling. It didn't matter to me if the whole thing was a farce; I didn't even care if she was truly British. It only mattered that for those fifty-six minutes, in that little house speckled with knick-knacks and New England Patriots paraphernalia, I was able to zoom out of the pit I'd been in. I was able to believe that there was this other perspective from which to view my life--one where you see the whole thing, beginning to end, and muse about the highs and lows of it. You don't get so caught up in any particular valley because you can just take note at how it climbs into a peak over yonder. Maybe it was less Slaughterhouse Five and more One by Richard Bach, but you get the idea.

I just remember thinking, "I have to hold this position for as long as I can. I have to keep this aerial view of things." It was only days later that I came crashing down from that lofty mindset...I can't remember what set me off. No, I can: that guy Keta was with at the time...Ben? Ben. Got a record deal. Haha, a "record deal." Geez. Had the psychic only said a word or two about the future of the record industry, I would've realized that I couldn't design a more fitting revenge for that guy than a record deal.

And now my little Zoey is finally here: ten potato bug toes, ten inchworm fingers, two tiny seashell ears, two eyes that refuse to let me in yet, and one nose that is clearly my fault. And for the first time in ten years I feel like I did that day I left the psychic's house--weightless.

04-14-2014: Meddling

I should have known something was amiss the way she launched the call, "Hello, darling," arcing the phrase so that the "lo" syllable was accented. My mother doesn't say those two words in sequence like that. She'll say "Gavin, darling" if she's patronizing me, and just "Gavin?!" to start off a regular phone conversation (always as if maybe someone else could be answering my cel phone). She never says, "Hello, Darling." This was notably abnormal, but I was on a deadline, so I barely noticed.
"Hey, Ma how goes it?" I plugged in, spinning towards my desk to turn the internet down. "Gav, are you doing ok, with... work and stuff?" she asked.
"What? Ya ---" trying to swallow the disgusting nutri-bar I'd pushed into my face just before the phone rang, I coughed out, "Ma, you there? What's up?"
"Gavin? You there?! Hello?"
Now this was feeling more normal; my mother somehow mistaking a coughing fit for satellite interference.
"Mom, ya. I'm here," I said in a slightly agitated tone, turning back to the laptop to continue the styling of my flyout menus.
"Are you... Gav, are things OK with you and Sarah?"
"Ya, yes. Mom, what? What are you talking about?" I was suddenly confused as to how exactly she intended to segue this into a tech question about her iPod. I leaned back in my chair, waiting to witness her mastery of the non-sequitor.
"Gav, Keta called me."

I was quiet for probably too long to support any downplay of my discomfort.

"Oh, ya? ...H-how's she doing?"
"...Gavin"
"She still with..."
"...Ben?"
"Ya, Ben. They doin' ok?" Within seconds of saying it, I knew I'd sold myself out: the most natural reaction, when your mother tells you that she's been contacted by the girlfriend who left town with another man three years ago, is not to ask how she is doing. It is to ask, "Why the hell did she call you?"

"Well. Gavin. I think you know the answer to that question." She was articulating her words now, sharpening the knife on each syllable. I made one last pathetic attempt at bewilderment, "Mom, if this is about your iPod---"

"Gavin, you need to stop breaking into her email."

I was silent for an entire minute. The embarrassment was so total that I floated above my body and outside of it, looking down at this strange blushy shell while musing at my mother's eccentricities. I thought about how my mother never seemed to think we were experiencing any satellite interference when she had me on the ropes.

"I'm... not... doing that," went the autopilot of my mouth - denial denial, even beyond any reasonable doubt.

"Gavin, listen to me. What you're doing... I don't---you have no right to be meddling with them. I know that---"
"Mom, I'm not 'meddling' it's not that sort---I wasn't 'meddling' mom. I'm. I was---"

"Honey, listen to me: I'm not telling you this because I'm worried about what you'll do to her. You know how I feel about her. I'm calling you because I'm worried about what you're doing to yourself."

"...."

"Are things ok with Sarah?"

"YES! Mom! Why are you saying that?"

"And, Gavin? [sternly] She wanted to talk to Sarah about it, but i talked her out of it. But I gotta tell you --- honey? She has every right."

"TALK TO SARAH ABOUT WHAT?!"

"...This creeps people out, Gavin."

"Mom, I KNOW. I know, I know, I know! I'm not 'meddling'! I just want to see what... I just wanted to see how she was doing."

"She said you were reading all her emails to Ben."

"Mom! How could---"

"Gavin, you're 35 years old. You can do what you want. But this doesn't look good... you've moved on, remember? We've talked about this so many times. You are happier now. You want the best for her and the best is to let her move on as well. This was YOUR idea."

"Mom, she was my best friend. I..."

One of the benefits of birthing someone is an acute detection of their breaking point. She could even hear it in the absence of a predicate. "I know, honey. I'm sorry. Gavin, I'm sorry," she said in her lowest voice, the first sound of mercy since this massacre began.
I held it like an unhatched egg.
She waited for the sound of hitching breath, but I had the mouthpiece up against my temple so it never came. She bluntly asked, "Do you love her?"

"..."

"Gavin, are you in love with her? She said you told her years ago that you'd fallen out of love with her..."

"she TOLD you that?"

"Are you?"

"No I'm not. I don't know... I lied to her. I mean, I don't I'm not in love with--- I didn't fall out of love with her. I just... forgot... I don't know."

"Don't you love Sarah?"

"Mom. Sarah is the best thing that ever happened to me. She's"

"---Gavin, you need to figure out---"

"I forgot how to love anyone.
I think.
I think.
I think when she left... everything was so

new

that I just
forgot

how to do it"

01-22-2011: You Should Just Stop Trying

2011

I thought I'd surprise Keta this afternoon -
Saturdays I usually have to work all day
but I got someone to cover the second half of my shift
and yesterday I bought us two tickets to the game

I drove home, tried to park the car in the lot
but a beat up SUV was parked in our rented space
she was definitely home, but the front door was locked
a chair squeaked when I put the key in the slot

When I came into the kitchen they were rushing to talk
awkward - like they hadn't had the time to pick out a topic
she introduced him but I knew exactly who he was
it was Ben who was always playing down at the club.

For the last month his name kept popping up here and there
he played every thursday night when Keta worked the bar
when I joked that they were dating, she would play with her hair
I found his CD tucked under the seat in the car

I shook his hand, imagined I could smell the sex on it
by the time I got my jacket on the rack he was gone
I pulled out the tickets and put them on the table
changed my shirt, grabbed my hat, and put my jacket back on

She didn't say much as we drove down to the field
I kept both hands up high on the wheel
I said, "You should be happy" but I wasn't sure how I meant it
and she answered, "don't tell me how the fuck I should feel."

It started raining harder but we didn't try to leave
the stands were stark empty but there wasn't room to breathe
I double over coughing with my shoulders on my knees
she didn't touch my back, like she would usually

"You used to hate football," she said, "you couldn't stand it"
but she wasn't saying it like "good to see your interests are expanding"
she was saying it like I was a boy pretending to do man things
a puddle formed around me while she took the rain standing.

We were far past the end of it and both of us could tell
I wanted to stand and leave her but I wasn't feeling well
I was disgusted with myself, but I pretended not to be
I asked her if we could still go out later and see a movie

"You used to say the movies were way too overpriced"
"I brought you here because I was trying to do something nice!"
"I know... I know..." she said, "you should just stop trying."
I knew it was the rain but I pretended she was crying

She left - I stayed, wet and old
trying to rewind about four years or so
what had I done to turn a warm girl so cold?
All I could think was that I'd done just as I was told.

She wanted more stability, she wanted more attention
and I just wanted to have less tension between us
I told her I could change my whole life if she'd be happy
when she said I'd never change, I called her a defeatist.

And then I did it - I put a knife in the thing I loved most
It was music that I burned at the stake,
as a toast to the girl and the world that I want to be a part of
maybe going back to school was when I started to lose

I've given up everything because everyone told me it was the right thing to do

And it's been hard on me too - very hard
being 32 years old back, in school, makes you feel like you've got a
giant scar running through the center of your face.
Any attempts to include you makes you feel out of place.

Sure, the professors love me - we always share a good laugh
but it's weird when you're the only two laughing in class...
I just didn't think the age gap would run so deep
and I thought she'd be ecstatic that I turned a new leaf

But when she mentions my school she does it through bared teeth
and when I ask her if she's happy, she says she's happy for me
but I DID THIS FOR HER so why are WE falling apart?
what more could I sacrifice to Keta than my art?

Even if the gift I tried to give her is refused, I'm gonna prove to her world that I can always follow through

2011

03-23-2007: Fed

2007

It's 2007,
I'm sitting in the back of Lupos 'bout to play a show... I don't know,
I'm 28 years old and it feels like a lifetime has passed -
worse than that:
it feels like I did the whole thing backwards.

The girl kept saying she got us Gatorade and crackers
but that's just a tactic meant to distract us
we'll get so juiced up on the crackers
that we won't notice the Grand Buffet she laid out for the headlining act.
Not hungry anyway,
I'm sick to my stomach from the music that the opener played.
I sneak a sandwich from the giant buffet though,
as some kind of justice for after, when we don't get paid.

There's a punk rock kid on the couch,
all sweaty cause he just finished up on stage
he keeps nodding at me like we were both thieves on a heist,
as if I couldn't see that he was half my age.

He asked me how it sounded, I told him "amazing"
too tired or bored to put the sarcasm in...
he thanked me and then spilled some beer on my shirt
everything was ruined but I told him it was nothing.

Keta says I'm down on my luck,
but when you have no luck to start with, you've nothing to part with.
And I'm not mad that I don't have it,
I'm mad that luck should have anything to do with being an artist.
And now going to a show makes me wanna quit
not because I'm not good enough but 'cause I love it too much
to watch it squirm while its bones get picked
and all that I can offer is a bit more traffic.

There was a time when I thought that I could change the country
with a few choice raps and some odd time beats
but noise plus noise equals noise,
and the only way that noise can make silence is defeat.
I'm not hard of hearing - it just all sounds heartless
I wanna leave the state but I've been 5 years car-less.
Fame is a club that I'm not a part of
so why am I obsessed with success?
Regardless, all my friends are getting back on the high horse of college
mom breathes a sigh of financial relief...
and with each new year that I stay the course
there's a new tax bracket that I fall beneath.
My sisters play along like I was dating a convict
not sold on the vision that I conned my mom with
no one wants to come out and say what they see:
a man with no plan and no college degree.

But I could still turn -
I've only wasted a third of my life, I could still do it right!
How many nights does a man need to fail
before he can say that he fought the good fight?
Tonight - naw - RIGHT NOW I'm gonna change things.
This is NOT how I wanna spend the rest of my life
'cause I got it in my head that I had to stand for something?
Once you get passed that the future actually looks bright
man, all these years that I've starved and hustled,
convinced myself that the struggle was cool
I lacked the foresight that I was oh so proud of
but not anymore, tomorrow
I'm going back to school.

2007