KristenAC the ManiAC

Piercing the Real World

2011-12-08T09:53:00.000-08:00

I am no different from any other aspiring blogger, except that I’m a fictional character. Twice a week I’ve scraped out my heart and soul and posted the resulting glop online. I’ve written about thoughts that have made me laugh and about people who’ve made me cry. I’ve been witty, deep, careless, mindful, obnoxious, or charming, depending on my mood. Writing the journal has enabled me to navigate my thoughts. Writing the journal online has allowed me to pierce the real world in ways most fictional characters have never known, and that—has made all the difference.

When my first Google Follower appeared on my sidebar I felt I’d taken a giant leap outside the written page. What a tremendous sense of validation! It was as if a passerby, a stranger, had paused in front of me and said, “Oh, hello there. I see you, and by the way, I like you too.”

My relationship with readers only grew more interesting from there. I ran polls and readers responded, impacting the flow of my life. I ran a contest asking readers to finish the sentence, “Happiness is—”. The winner of this contest received a spunky handmade t-shirt. I on the other hand, got to see the beautiful minds of my readers, as expressed in their responses. You can see a mash-up of those responses here.

Over the last two years, I’ve received comments from an assortment of fictional readers, like Fake Steve Balmer, The Murray’s, Kira Jay, and Harry Zade. I’ve also received comments from many real life readers, including Doug Worgul, author of Thin Blue Smoke. All of this reader/character communication has been fantastic, but the most interesting encounter I’ve had, is meeting Caddie Murray. Caddie is fictional like me, but she is the most real person I’ve ever met and we became friends the instant she left her first comment. We comment on each other’s blogs profusely, and twice our stories have crossed as we’ve met face-to-face.

This blog has been quite an adventure and through it, I’ve grown.

Back in January 2010, shortly after I launched the blog, I posted this entry:

“2009 was a horrible year of loss, frustration, and disappointment. I was glad to see it end. The twenty plus preceding years weren't so hot either. If I were to choose a theme song that would capture the dysfunctional nature of my adolescence, the twisted elements of my teen years, and the consecutive failures of my young adult life, I would pick "Loser" by Beck, from Mellow Gold:

Soy
Un perdedor
I'm a loser baby...

“So I gratefully throw open the gates of 2010. It just feels different. In July I'll be twenty-five. I'm relieved to be single, and it looks like I'll be able to keep my job for at least another year. I went to a Thai restaurant last night and after inhaling fried banana and coconut ice cream, I opened my fortune cookie: You Will Soon Find More Adventure in Life.

Sigh.

I’m astounded to see how much my life has changed since then. Where I was once hopeless in relationships, I now prepare to marry the man of my dreams. Where I was once terrified of being alone, I now prepare to leave all my friends and family behind to travel into unfamiliar territory. Where I was once lost and flopping about without meaning or purpose, I now claim Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

I no longer creep forward in trepidation. I walk confidently, with an outlook swelling in hope. I have never felt such joy.

In January 2012, I’ll travel to New Zealand where Ethan and I will be married, and then we’re off to Somalia for an assignment with Doctors Without Borders. My life in California has been swept into a typhoon of change. I have no more time for blogging, nor do I have the need. Tears spill from my eyes as I realize how much I will miss interacting with my readers, but the time has come for this blog to end.

I would not dare retrieve one ounce of the blood and tears I’ve poured into my blog. It has been well worth the time. I am grateful to every digital traveler who has stopped by to read, comment, or to simply observe. I have no doubt my transformation of heart has been a direct result of the people I’ve encountered on this magnificent journey—these wonderful people, who have helped me find my way, which includes you, dear, precious, reader, and I hope your visits have been as much of a pleasure for you as they have been a gift to me.

Now, as I prepare for the next phase of my life, I must say goodbye, and walk in through the out door.

The End.

KRISTEN

[But what about Millie, and the others? Check it out: "Where are they now?"]

In the Midst of Blooming Orchids

2011-12-01T10:32:00.000-08:00

I woke to the hope of sunshine and the want of a snag preventing my visit with Dorothy. Hours passed and I realized neither, so I marched forward with Ethan at my side. Before entering the mental ward housing my soon-to-be Mother-in-Law, Ethan and I paused to link hands. Beneath a heavy gray sky, Ethan prayed fervently and I concurred, that our meeting with Dorothy would go well; that the mighty hand of God would fall upon us, casting away all shadow and darkness, revealing His blinding glory.

We found Dorothy in the North Terrace, a patio that’s always smothered in potted orchids. These flowers spilled from their little pots, making a spectacle of their astonishing petals which varied from smooth to veined, neutral, or the purest shade of white; and others in stains of deep dark red in splashes or stripes or feathery wisps.

Against this vivid flourish of color, Dorothy sat pale, cold, and appearing as if she had turned to stone. A slight flicker from the insides of her large black eyes hinted that she had not turned to stone, but was still full of breath and blood and life.

Without ceremony, Ethan deposited me next to his mother, and then he slipped away.

Dorothy wasted no time driving deep.

“Tell me what happened to you,” she said gravely, her neck craning in my direction.

Something about the presence of this woman forced my body to comply. It was not her arctic expression that inspired me. Nor was it my growing fear that at any moment she might snap and viciously shred me into a thousand pieces.

It was pity that made me want to submit.

Behind the deep blackness of her eyes there was sadness, an almost childlike sorrow that I could not help but see. I empathized with this woman who was trapped inside the unspeakable tortures of her own mind. Without hesitation I obeyed her and I told her what she wanted to hear. Some conversations are intended for privacy and I believe this was one of them, so I’m not going to be explicit here. I will say that for the first time in my life, I told another living soul the tragic story of what happened to me as a little girl.

I spoke with vivid, excruciating detail and Dorothy sat unflinching, listening intently.

After I finished there was a brief silence and the most astonishing thing happened next. Dorothy told me what happened to her, when she was a little girl.

She spoke in vivid, excruciating detail and I sat unflinching, listening intently. I knew precisely what she was saying; I could nearly finish her sentences for her; it was striking how similar our stories fell. How odd it was that we two had suffered exactly the same sort of hell.

When every thing had been expelled between the two of us—when our cups had been thoroughly emptied—we embraced. The action was mutually involuntary, or so it appeared, and the scene was unreal: Dorothy and I, the unlikeliest of companions, embracing, and weeping gently—in the midst of blooming orchids, for crying out loud.

A fiery glow ignited my soul as if by some miracle, Dorothy and I had bonded. I can’t say the woman loves me. However, I believe she accepts me, perhaps not as the perfect choice for her infallible son, but, as a fellow human wandering this planet. For the moment, I can’t imagine asking for more.

Ethan returned while Dorothy and I were still wrapped inside each other’s arms, and I can’t tell you how that man lit up. If I had not kept him pinned to the bench I'm sure he would have floated away. The three of us talked for another hour.

It was decided that Ethan and I would accept Dorothy’s offer of her wedding and engagement rings. We’ll return the extravagant set Ethan had picked out and will use the money as need arises during our mission in Somalia. This makes me strangely happy, because it will make Dorothy feel good, and useful.

Dorothy announced she will not come to the wedding, insisting she will wait for the ‘real’ wedding, when we return from overseas. (Even if Dorothy had wanted to attend the January wedding I doubt her doctors would be willing to release her, and where she got the notion we’ll be having another wedding when we return, is beyond me.)

Dorothy won’t be at our New Zealand wedding, but I will wear her rings on my finger. A piece of my mother will be there too, since I’ll also wear my mother’s wedding dress. The gown fits me to near perfection, and except for my blasted cast I would not have needed any alterations.

KAC

The image above is from this magnificent orchid site: http://mycymbidiums.com
The flower is (Hot Line X devoinianum) ‘Bird of Paradise’

Another World

2011-11-28T12:48:00.000-08:00

Ethan, Rob, and I had just returned from lunch when a flood of courage ripped through my spine. Confrontation is an irritating enterprise and I avoid it whenever possible, but I could not get Dorothy’s voice out of my head. The last time we had spoken her tone was flat and dull, yet ironically, her words pierced my mind, boring a hole of unending depth as if they had been an exaggerated shrill.

Dorothy claimed Ethan had already decided he’s leaving the country, though Ethan and I had yet to discuss the subject. After praying and praying about this, I saw no other solution than to confront my future husband.

“I’d like to have a private talk with Ethan,” I said, just before we reached the house.

Rob and Ethan nearly snapped their necks looking back at me. I suppose ‘private’ wasn’t the best choice of words, given the hazardous scene Rob stumbled upon the last time Ethan and I had a private moment. I furrowed my brow and thrust my good arm in the direction of the hanging front porch swing, implying that oh my goodness we would be outside and in front of the entire world for crying out loud. Rob conceded and went inside.

Ethan had no trouble relaxing into the bench. “What’s up Addie?” he asked.

I do love it when he uses my nickname, but I could not understand how he could be so casual at such a time as this.

“We should pick a date,” I said quickly.

“A date?”

“Yeah. A wedding’s a big thing. A girl’s gotta plan.”

Ethan took my hand into his. “Are you free next weekend?”

His smile expanded toward eternity.

“I’m serious,” I said, not smiling at all.

“So am I,” he replied. “Waiting is already difficult. Imagine how it will be when we’re overseas. We should marry before we go.”

“Before we go? Ethan, you act like we’ve already talked about this. I don’t remember agreeing to this plan of yours.”

“You’re right,” he replied. “We should talk about it.”

Ethan looked sheepishly toward the ground.

“So, how do you feel about it?” he asked.

“I feel like you’ve already decided.”

“Addie, your opinion matters. If you don’t want to go, we won’t.”

I glared at him and he at me, and I sighed heavily, and so did he.

“When would we leave?” I asked.

“The assignment begins in January.”

“You’ve already committed?”

“No,” said Ethan. "My mentor, the one who’s setting up this Doctors Without Borders assignment—he’s waiting for me to reply.”

“January!” I said, wondering if I would have my cast removed by then.

Ethan grinned like a little boy at Christmastime.

“How long?” I asked.

“One, maybe two years,” said Ethan, pinning his eyes to mine.

He kissed my hand delicately, “But you can return as often as you need, if you get homesick, or need a break.”

“It’s a lot to think about,” I said, the decision crashing through my mind: Leaving Rob, my little sister Mary, and all my friends.

Walking away from the best job I’ve ever had.

Wait—was that all there was for me to leave behind? Could my entire life be wrapped so simply? Weighing my present life against a future one in which I’d be living adventurously as the wife of the man I love more than anything on earth—

The decision was painless. With a grand smile and a little nod, I agreed to make my fiancé the happiest man alive. I committed to travel with him to another world, one that was unspeakably different from mine.

Ethan and I have since picked our date. On Saturday, January 7th, we will be married in New Zealand!

Caddie and Phil will already be there and have offered to help set everything up. (Actually, Caddie has quite taken over all the wedding plans, which is a tremendous blessing.)

After two weeks in New Zealand paradise, Ethan and I will fly to our new temporary home in Somalia and there we will stay for one, maybe two years.

KAC

The purple earth image above is by nionx @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/58093

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T07:56:00.000-08:00

For flowers that bloom about our feet;

For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet,

For song of bird, and hum of bee;

For all things fair we hear or see,

Father in heaven, we thank Thee!

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Happy Thanksgiving to Everyone! (Except for you Tom Turkey; I’m afraid it won’t be so happy for you.)

KAC

The image above is by Nanette @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/33240

This Dry Earth

2011-11-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

I was fourteen the first time I crashed into Dorothy. Mom had joined a church-sponsored recovery program and became friends with an unlikely mix of women. This group of women, which included Dorothy, gathered frequently to celebrate their friendship. When it was Mom’s turn to host such a gathering I stumbled into it drunk. I tripped and upset the tea tray, knocking Mom’s finest thrift store china onto Dorothy’s lap.

Mom was fast-becoming a sober Born-Again Christian. I found this turn of events as ironic as it was laughable, and I refused to accept my mother’s transformation. I had a calcified grudge against my mother at the time, but it wasn’t personal. I hated everything then. I spat at my mother with words more repulsive and hurtful than I care mention. I stormed away from the chaos and into my bedroom. Though I slammed and locked my door, Dorothy’s ranting poured in freely.

“Why do you let that horrid child speak to you like that?”

“That purple hair and dreadful black clothing!”

“And her breath reeked of alcohol!”

Dorothy has always been a legalistic Christian, keeping rules perched high above such pettiness as love, and pain. Dorothy scolded me for the way I dressed, the way I spoke, and the way I treated my mother. Mom, though much improved, was still hopelessly co-dependant. She let everything slide. Dorothy stepped in as my primary disciplinarian. She was always telling me what I was doing wrong, and what I should be doing instead. I ignored her as much as I possibly could.

Who was she to tell me how things should be? I should have known the tenderness of a mother’s love. I should have had a real mother, not a pathetic drunk who woke up in a pool of her own vomit while I got myself ready for school. I should have had a mother who could protect me from the claws of Victor.

Back then, these are the only ‘shoulds’ that I understood.

Eventually, I grew out of my purple hair and black polish. I drank a lot less and somehow managed to graduate college. I warmed up to my mother but still, Dorothy disapproved. To her, I would always be that disrespectful sin-racked delinquent who spilled the tea tray all over her lap.

Ethan and I met by chance, months before my twenty-fifth birthday. We connected instantly. The world conspired in our favor and we rode our snowboards down the snowy slopes of Mammoth Mountain, together, but alone and without the annoyance of our friends. We took our time, stopping often to soak in the crisp mountain air. Then, the same fate that had brought us together cruelly ripped us apart. I thought I’d never see him again. Imagine my shock when he showed up in a hospital lobby weeks later, walked into the center of Mom’s group of friends, and kissed Dorothy directly on the forehead. Turned out that Ethan was Dorothy’s son!

My relationship with Ethan grew over time, but my connection with Dorothy remained toxic. While my uncle Rob was still in the hospital, my mother confessed that Rob was not only my uncle, but also my biological father. As devastating as this was to me, it unhinged Dorothy. She would not forgive my mother for this horrendous, sinful crime. Dorothy broke away from my mother, and from the rest of the group. Dorothy hated me more than ever and she confronted me repeatedly, warning me to stay away from her son.

I could never understand how one person could hate another so much, and still pretend to be Christian. But now I call myself Christian, and yet I continue to hold massive negative energy toward this woman (talk about irony!).

Ethan and I pray together and often, we lift Dorothy up in these prayers. These moments are bizarre. Whenever I’m holding Dorothy up to God, an unaccountable power unfolds my heart, and for the finest slice of time I can see her through what I imagine to be God’s eyes. Ever so briefly, I can see Dorothy as a human soul, a nomad, who is no more or less lost than anything else roaming this dry earth.

Dorothy wants to speak with me alone, again. For the life of me I can’t imagine why. Ethan believes she wants to talk about our shared past. You see, Dorothy’s innocence was stolen from her when she was a little girl, too. Ethan believes this is the core of his mother’s sufferings: her failed marriage, her lack of friends, and her mental instability. Ethan believes what Dorothy saw in me that first time we met, was the darkest part of her, the part she’s worked so diligently to keep hidden, and safe.

“That may very well be true,” I say to Ethan. “But what do you suppose that mother of yours wants to say to me now?”

KAC

The image above is by Clarita @ http://morguefile.com/archive/display/228170

I'm Her Broccoli

2011-11-17T15:05:00.000-08:00

I’ve known Ethan’s mother Dorothy for most of my life. The woman has never liked me. Under the best of circumstances her words have left me with a tinge of frostbite. The last time I saw her she wanted me dead. That was August.

Yesterday, Ethan persuaded me to visit his mother at the mental institution where she presently resides. I nearly hyperventilated into unconsciousness on the elevator ride up, and the instant Ethan and I stepped into the lobby I lost my breath. Dorothy stood out from the crowd, sitting tall and stiff against a high-back chair. Her steely skin was taut, as if there wasn’t enough of it to stretch around her body. Her eyes pierced the air like pools of dark matter, black, smooth, and featureless.

Dorothy greeted us with a brittle nod and insisted on speaking with me alone. Ethan kissed the top of his mother’s head and slipped away. There must have been a half a dozen patients shuffling about the lobby, but they were no more or less alarming than the people I’d find wandering the streets of Downtown Los Angeles, and they melted into the background, except for one woman who reeked of Vicks VapoRub. This woman plopped down next to me to fuss with her shoes unceasingly.

Dorothy squinted at my cast, and then scanned my forehead severely.

“I have a friend who makes a special cream that would work wonders for that mark,” she said.

I messed with my hair, trying in vain to cover the scar.

“Oh,” Dorothy said, “But that heartless woman might not return my call. I’m afraid I may have burned that bridge too.”

Dorothy sighed and turned away to stare out the window. A swarm of crows squawked like mad and descended upon something out of site. Seems those blasted birds are everywhere this time of year. Glorious sunshine flooded through the window and into the lobby, yet the air felt cold and I regretted not bringing a Snuggie.

“That ring on your finger is obnoxious,” Dorothy said, still looking out the window.

I surprised myself by laughing because actually, I love the ring.

“Yeah, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“My son can be overzealous,” said Dorothy, through what I can only describe as a grimace.

She turned to face me and said flatly, “You can’t wear that ring overseas. You’ll look ridiculous.”

“You mean, if Ethan signs up with Doctors Without Borders?” I asked.

“If?” Dorothy replied in a mocking tone. “Oh child, one thing I know about my son is once he’s set on something there’s no changing it.”

I squirmed in my seat, trying to put some personal space between myself and the VapoRub gal. “Well, we haven’t talked about it—”

“So talk about it. All I’m saying is if you’re wearing that ring when you enter those poor underprivileged villages you will look like a hypocrite.”

I scanned Dorothy’s face for some sort of emotion. I got nothing.

“You can have my ring, if you want,” she said. “It’s beautiful, but modest. Lord knows I have no use for it.”

“Oh,” I said, my eyes widening. “That’s very kind of you. Um, can I think about it? I would need to talk to Ethan.”

“Fine. You two talk about it,” she said, flinging her hand through the air. “I’m tired, so why don’t you run and find Ethan so the three of us can visit before I take my nap. But Kristen,” she whispered leaning forward, “I want you to come back soon, so we can talk some more.”

I obeyed the woman and fetched Ethan so the three of us could engage in unbelievably civil conversation.

While Ethan drove me home I shared my Twilight Zone experience with him.

“I can’t believe that woman was your mother,” I said.

Ethan explained that medication is helping his mother, but more importantly, she’s made a new friend, another patient by the name of Herbert. Dorothy says Herbert “makes her feel alive again.”

I told Ethan that Dorothy wasn’t exactly pleasant, but her tone was soft, as if she was trying her very best to be civil.

“She’s eating her broccoli,” said Ethan. “She wants to get out of the hospital, so she’s trying to cooperate and do what’s right, whether she likes it or not.”

“Oh, so I’m her broccoli?”

Ethan smiled.

I considered bringing up the ring, but that would lead into a conversation about Doctors Without Borders and I was exhausted, so I decided to wait until later.

KAC

The photo above is by kahanaboy @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/127545

Hungry Eyes

2011-11-14T14:28:00.000-08:00

Kristen Adams. Kristen Addison Adams. Mr. and Mrs. Ethan Adams. Yep. Sounds fabulous no matter how I say it. I stare at my sparkly ring and giggle. It’s like I’m twelve again, drowning in palpitations.

I’m home from the hospital, back in my own delightfully fluffy bed. I still have a numb foot, arm cast, and sketchy memory, but I’m getting better all the time.

Ethan, who’s here with me now, has not said much today. Dude seems tense. He devours me with those glistening orbs of emerald he has for eyes. This is the first time we’ve been completely alone, undisturbed, and without a chaperon since we officially started dating. My mouth goes completely dry.

In stark irony of my history, Ethan and I have decided to remain pure, that is, to wait until our wedding day to know each other intimately. We believe this is what God wants, so we’re doing it for Him, but we’re also doing it for each other. Sort of like waiting for Christmas to open our presents so when the day comes we have more than empty boxes and crumpled wrapping paper to consume. I’m grateful Ethan is strong in his faith because at this moment I am too weak to resist him.

Ethan jumps up from his seat, “I have to get going, visit my mother,” he says. He pauses, and then brushes the hair from my face. With his thumb he caresses the three inch scar lining my forehead. I can no longer take his consuming expression so I close my eyes. I feel his lips brush my forehead, and then my mouth.

We kiss softly, delicately at first and then less so. I’m shocked by Ethan’s roaming hands and mouth, but I don’t want him to stop. It all happens so fast there’s no time to think and on the spur of the moment we’re diving into each other like the plane’s going down. Ethan slips my robe off my shoulder; I’m surprised by his abandon, but I only encourage him.

Then my father Rob walks in.

“Ethan!” Rob bellows. My father is already walking down the hall when he says, “Let’s talk.”

“Yes sir,” Ethan calls out. He peels himself off of me, rakes his fingers through his ruffled hair and mutters, “Thank God he walked in.”

Ethan hooks me with his gorgeous eyes, inhaling me with them one last time before he marches after Rob.

The men settle into the living room and I hobble after them, secretly, hiding just inside the hallway so I can listen.

“Ethan,” says Rob. “The first time we met I knew you were different.”

Blasted crows squawk wildly outside. Oh, but they need to shut up so I can hear what Rob is going to say!

Finally, Rob addresses Ethan. “You ARE different from the others; aren’t you son?”

“Yes sir!” says Ethan.

“Good. We understand each other. You mentioned visiting your mother? This would be a good time.”

“Yes sir,” says Ethan, and I hear footsteps and then the door.

I hobble back to bed and wait for Rob to come and give me a lecture. He never does. I thank God Ethan and I had not crossed the line we did not want to cross. I ache for the day we can.

I spend a good part of the afternoon watching THIS video of Hungry Eyes, which has inspired the title for today’s blog entry. I must warn you dear reader, if you decide to join me in watching the video you may get a little tearful watching Swayze knowing this lovely man has already departed from earth. Oh, but the video is magnificent. Film shots of angst, laughter, and passion. Nobody puts Baby in the corner. Cheesy poses. I love it all.

Good gracious I am twelve!

KAC

Coram Deo

2011-11-10T10:02:00.000-08:00

“Dear child, what is wrong with you?”

It’s Rob. His voice is unmistakable. I’m tempted to pretend I’m still sleeping, but I’m tired of running from fear, so I open my eyes and exhale profoundly.

“Will you go find Ethan? I need to talk with him.”

Rob rushes out into the hospital corridor. I’ve always loved that about Rob. He’s quick to put his trust in me, to believe I’ll do the right thing, whether or not trust is warranted and no matter how many times I’ve failed.

My thoughts race while I stare at mysterious stains dotting the walls of my room. I close my eyes and practice some breathing exercises a co-worker named Naranjan had shown me. I breathe deliberately for the next several minutes. Eyes still closed, I pray out loud for the first time in my life.

“Lord forgive me. I’ve been holding back, but I’m guessing you already know that. I’ve not put my trust in you, not fully, the way Ethan and the Murray’s have, or the way I’m sure my mother had. I’m tired of merely existing. I want to live. I want to know you and love you the way these others have. I want to pour out my soul for you. Lord I believe in you. I trust you. Help me with my disbelief. Help me with my distrust. Remove the fear that clogs my throat. Open my mouth so I can tell Ethan everything. Lord, unmask my voice so it will flow like a charging stream of Truth. In Jesus’ name I pray; amen.”

I open my eyes, shocked to find Ethan standing near.

“I’m listening,” he says, grabbing my hand and taking a seat.

“You heard my prayer?”

His eyes sparkle like a thousand shattered emerald stones. He nods but says nothing.

Daylight soaks the room in a glorious golden mist. I’m empowered by the absence of the need to flee.

“I love you,” I say, full of breath and full of life. “I can’t imagine my life without you. I can’t imagine my life with anyone else.”

I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back.

“Before I answer your proposal,” I say, “I have to share something with you.”

Ethan leans against the back of his chair, keeping my hand firmly tucked inside his.

There’s no way to lead into it, so I blurt it out.

“I’ve been to heaven.”

“What do you mean?” says Ethan, leaning forward and crumpling his brow.

“After the accident, when the paramedics declared me dead, I was in heaven,” I say.

“You saw a bright light?”

“No,” I protest. “It was more than that. I stood in a place other than here. A place with no beginning. A place with no end. A place that flooded my eyes with startling brilliance. A place that bathed my ears in the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard, sounds I can only crudely identify as song originating from the very essence of love.”

Ethan listens.

“I can’t accept the experience as merely a vision. How could I rationalize the sparkling clarity? How could I explain the overwhelming sense of peace! My mother stood next to me, not a vision of her, but the very presence of her, and oh, the scent of her sweet lilac perfume! She was exactly as I had seen her in my recurring dreams, except it was really her and she was so devastatingly beautiful. I felt the softest flutter of puff swirling around my feet and it was Harley! It was really him. I picked him up and felt the weight of him, luxuriated in the purring of him. I held him and twirled and twirled. I saw my old boss Jerry and he stood in front of me and smiled and I felt unbelievably well. Then Mom leaned in, and said, 'He’s coming.' Exactly like she had done in the dreams. And who do you think she was talking about?”

“Jesus,” says Ethan.

“Yes! That’s who I think it was too! But I’m not entirely sure because he was so unbelievably bright, so exceptionally brilliant, I couldn’t see his face, only startling light. I will never forget the magnitude of his voice that roared over me like thunder."

"What did He say?" asks Ethan.

"He said, ‘You are not finished.’ The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."

Ethan is quiet. I can tell his mind is working. He scans me like he’s evaluating my mental health. I know I sound completely insane, but I know what I saw. I know what I felt. I wait for Ethan to think, to decide whether or not he thinks me sane enough to marry.

Ethan’s eyes are wet. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses gently.

“I believe you,” he says.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little white box. He removes the dazzling beauty from its protective cushion.

“Kristen,” he says. “Will you do me the honor of accepting this ring?”

“Yes!” I scream, tears stream down my cheeks.

The fingers on my left hand are fat and swollen from the cast so Ethan slips the colossal diamond onto my right hand.

This beautiful man leans over me and we kiss, tenderly, and I weep.

KAC

The image above is by Phil Watson at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/607890

“Coram Deo”is a Latin phrase translated, “In the presence of God,” or, “Before the face of God”.

Struck Dumb

2011-11-08T09:13:00.000-08:00

Ethan’s a close worker, residing directly inside my personal space. He labors to strengthen my mind and I luxuriate in it. Today Ethan is especially attentive. He sits so close we are inhaling each other’s breath. He looks deep into my eyes, well beyond my thoughts. I could sit like this all day, both of us staring at each other, blissfully silent. But Ethan wants to talk. He tells me he’s quit his job in Colorado. The internship was nearly over anyway, he says.

“What next?” I ask.

Ethan concentrates on my forehead, waiting for the answer to appear.

“I’ve been thinking about working for Doctors Without Borders,” he says.

My eyes grow wide, “Like in third world countries?”

“I realize it sounds extreme” he says, “but I feel I’m being led to do this. I keep trying to put it out of my mind, you know, because I’d hate to move so far away and leave my mother alone, but the idea keeps pounding me in the head.”

His mother? Uh, hello, we’re still a couple, right?

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Did we have a conversation I’ve forgotten—”

Ethan presses his fingers against my lips. I imagine he could tell by my crinkled brow I was about to babble and he wanted to stop me before I started.

“I never did share my surprise with you,” he says, exhaling profoundly.

“Oh,” I say, “I thought the surprise was you moving back to California.”

Ethan smiles and physically sinks to the floor. I crane my neck to see what on earth would draw this beautiful man toward the wretched hospital tile. He has one knee perched and the other pinned to the ground. His eyes are locked on mine.

“Kristen,” he says, full of breath, full of life. “I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”

Ohmygosh is he doing what I think he’s doing?

A nurse slips into the room, looks at Ethan, smiles knowingly and leaves.

“Lord help me,” Ethan continues. “This is not how I pictured doing this but I’m tired of waiting so here goes.”

Ohmygosh he’s doing it!

“I praise God you have found Him. You were meant to know Him. But I’ve always known you were the one for me, so I would be here on one knee either way.”

Ethan pulls a small white box out of his pocket. It looks exactly like the one from a bizarre dream I had over a year ago. The colossal diamond catches every available ray of light and showers me in radiance.

“I love you,” he says.

Tears stream down my cheeks as he continues,

“I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.
I can’t imagine my life without you.
Kristen, will you marry me?”

I’m unable to speak, but my jaw drops as if I’m about to respond. I cannot utter a word. My heart pounds against my chest and I begin to feel awful because I can see Ethan’s smile fading with each disappearing second and still, I’m unable to speak. Minutes tick past viciously.

Rob walks in and sees Ethan holding out the ring.

“It’s about time young man,” he bellows as he gives Ethan a heaping slap on the back.

“Congratu—” Rob starts to say, then looks at me with my mouth agape and body frozen stiff. Rob looks at Ethan who closes the box. The dazzling ring can no longer be seen.

“Did I interrupt?” asks Rob. “I’ll come back—”

“No,” says Ethan. “I’ll go. It was too soon. I should have waited.”

Ethan’s tone is short. He won’t look at Rob, won’t look at me.

“I don’t understand,” says Rob.

I’m silent. Mouth open.

“You stay,” says Ethan to Rob. “I need air.”

Then Ethan walks out.

Rob looks at me with the most pathetic set of puppy eyes. If I could have just one prayer answered my entire life it would be that no one ever again looks at me with such eyes. Finally, I close my mouth but still, I have no words.

Rob takes my hand into his and sits next to me in silence.

KAC

The photo above is by Jdurham @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/524280

Dazzling with a Chance of Cloudy

2011-11-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

I never could remember what I had for breakfast, so I don’t know why I should find it so incredibly annoying that I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast today. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been suffering with exorbitant measures of forgetfulness lately.

I remember picking up Ethan at the airport on Friday, the 21st of October. I remember how fresh he looked, and how his eyes sparkled over with joy. I remember how we held on to each other in an enchanting embrace, soaking each other in, blissfully ignoring passersby. I remember meeting Caddie and Phil at Jenna’s house, where they dropped off sweet little Nate. I can still smell his baby powder skin. I was jubilant to see the Murrays, and Ethan, so giddy with excitement I was barely able to hold on to my surprise of telling Ethan I’d just accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior. Ethan was holding on to a surprise of his own. I was sure he was going to tell me he’d quit his job and was moving back to California permanently.

I remember sailing out on a boat on that dazzling Southern Californian afternoon, heading out to sea to scatter my mother’s ashes. Seven dolphins crossed our path. I can still see their glistening fusiform bodies slithering past. Our memorial was unstructured, totally unplanned, yet somehow, something unspeakably beautiful came out of each of our mouths. We were calm, and very much at peace. Then Phil sang In Christ Alone. (To catch a glimpse of the impact this may have had on our hearts, click here). Phil’s voice began small and light and then grew slowly, rising steadily and bursting forth, rising on and on until the very top of the song. Delicate tears fell down Phil’s face and we all wept fully, piercingly into the salty air.

I remember leaving the boat and heading to a restaurant where we would feast on dinner and long-awaited company. Ethan was driving. Our sadness dimmed and a great serenity descended upon us. We started laughing and teasing one another. I laughed so hard, my lip gloss slipped out of my hand. Swept into the whirl of emotion I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. Out of reflex I unfastened my seat belt and reached for the slippery gloss. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up in the hospital nearly twenty-four hours later. I have no memory of the crash. I feel terribly for the other three who remember every excruciating detail.

Since waking up in the hospital, every conscious moment has been either crystal clear or disturbingly clouded. I can’t remember most of Caddie’s visit following the accident. Ethan tells me he’s hardly left my side since that fateful Friday night. Looking at him, I can see he tells the truth, but I hardly remember half of the time he’s been here. From what the doctors are saying I understand I’m pretty lucky to be recovering as well as I am, given the extent of my injuries. Ethan’s been working with the hospital staff on special exercises which have improved my eye-hand coordination. Ethan also flew in a friend who specializes in alternative nerve therapy. This energetic German doctor has nearly eliminated my partial paralysis through an uncomfortably invasive pressure point program. Nearly eliminated my partial paralysis! How lucky I am to have a physical therapist for a boyfriend, who knows people and knows how to work around the system.

I only wish I could remember what I had for breakfast.

KAC

Notes:
Thank you my dear sweet sister Mary for typing for me.
In Christ Alone was written by Keith Getty and Stuart Townend.
The image above is by sabrinasphotos at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/108411

I Am Here

2011-10-31T12:23:00.000-07:00

I woke up from the fog of hallucinogenic fever with a perfect temperature, and the face of a wide-eyed girl perched in front of mine. People keep telling me I’m not well, that my brain is somewhat damaged, but I’ve never felt such sparkling clarity. I struggle to walk and my communication is spotty at best, but my thoughts are as clear as the purest stream. It’s as if an elusive perfect version of me is trapped inside my flesh. I’m unable to type due to an unfortunate partial paralysis, a distinct lack of eye-hand coordination, and a blasted cast suffocating my left arm. I’ve enlisted my little sister Mary, the wide-eyed face I mentioned earlier, to perform my typing for me. I assume from the multiple eye-rolls shot in my direction, see—just got another one—that she’s not too happy about it, but I’m grateful nevertheless. I love you Mary. Yes, I want you to type it just as I’ve said it. Okay, now you’re just acting like a smart aleck.

My mind races with thoughts and emotions I want to express without abandon. Tragically, my body works against me. My energy is low. My focus is short. This effort alone has taken Mary and me over three and a half hours. Mary, by the way, is a fantastic translator. If I could bottle her up and sell her as an app. I’d become a millionaire. But I must make this message brief, because Mary has school, and homework, and a life outside of this hospital.

Just wanted to say I am here, and although I look as if I’ve been plowed over by a truck, (which, in fact I have), I have never felt more alive.

KAC

Mary picked out the picture. It’s called ‘What Are You’ and is by Clarita from: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/53736

Another Message from Rob

2011-10-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

I like Ethan. He’s a fine young man. But I think the boy has gone mad from lack of sleep. He’s been talking about some crazy idea he's got wrapped around his head. He wants to bring his mother to the hospital and stage a visit between Dorothy and Kristen. What in tarnation is that boy thinking! Those two hate each other. Ethan has a wild hair about this thing. Says he feels led to do this. He can’t explain why, but he’s sure it’s the right thing to do. I am against the idea, and as long as I have control I will not let it happen. Ethan is persistent; I’ll give him that. This morning he dang nearly got me to change my mind.

Caddie and Phil have already left. I miss them. There are too many other people here trying to visit Kristen. Tons of folks from the Silver Mirror Theater Company. Swarms of people from church. Some of Ruby’s friends. Jenna, Alana, Andrew. God love ‘em, but they are straining my patience.

Kristen has come through surgery fine, but is now fighting a fever. Doctors have her on strong antibiotics which are causing unmentionable side effects. She has barely been awake more than a minute over the past twenty-four hours. We’re all tired. Sometimes I sit next to Kristen when she’s sleeping and I think about all those months she sat at my side when I was in the hospital. Hospitals are atrocious. No one should ever have to spend extended time at one.

When I was very sick, my sister Ruby prayed over me. She held her Bible over every inch of my body and said prayer after prayer after prayer. I’ve taken to doing this same thing with Kristen, when she is sleeping. I’m not sure if it helps, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something.

Rob

A Message from Rob

2011-10-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

Kristen was unconscious for more than twenty-four hours following the car accident on Friday. When she gained consciousness she had no idea where she was. She understands now, but still has no memory of the accident. She’s been diagnosed with moderate to severe Traumatic Brain Injury. She has a shattered left arm, partial paralysis on the left side, and multiple fractures to her face.

Kristen has periods of lucidity, but suffers from short term memory loss and often slips into a fog. Her sleep is restless. She talks in her dreams and often calls out to her mother. She’s supposed to have surgery on her arm today, but her heart rate has been too high, so they are putting it off until tomorrow. When Kristen is awake Ethan gets in her face. He engages her and can hold her attention for long periods of time. It’s amazing to see how those two connect. I feel for the boy. He’s having a rough time of it.

Kristen’s little sister Mary is struggling. I don’t think she’s recovered from the loss of her mother, I know I haven’t.

There have been lots of visitors with nothing to do, since Kristen can only see one or two visitors at a time, and only for short periods. Kristen’s friends Caddie and Phil have been a tremendous help, engaging the visitors and making them feel useful.

The good news is that with each passing day Kristen’s lucid periods increase. The girl has my blood. I know she can get through this.

If you are praying for Kristen, thank you, and please keep it up.

I do not get along with computers. They didn’t have these things when I was a kid. When we wanted to talk to someone we picked up the phone or walked to their house. I’m doing this for Kristen, since I know she would want to stay in touch. I will do my best to keep you updated until Kristen can do it herself.

I just noticed this is the 200th post on Kristen's blog.

Rob

A Message from Caddie

2011-10-21T22:30:00.000-07:00

Hey, everybody, this is Kristen’s friend Caddie.

Listen, Kristen desperately needs your prayers. We were all in a car wreck this evening, on our way out to dinner after going out on the ocean to scatter her mother’s ashes at sunset. This truck just came out of nowhere! I still can’t get my head around what happened. Ethan, Phil and I are pretty banged up (Phil even has a mild concussion), but Kristen didn’t fare as well as we did – she’s alive, but just barely, and that’s only by a direct miracle of God.

We seriously thought we’d lost her at one point, but we just couldn’t give up on her, just couldn’t stop praying for God to intervene, even when the paramedics gave us that look and told us they were sorry, they’d done everything but she hadn’t made it. We wouldn’t accept that. In fact, it just made us pray harder for her. And then, as they were about to drape the awful white sheet over her, one of the paramedics checked her pulse one last time – he doesn’t even know why he did it – and her heart was beating again! God gave her back to us!

Even at that, Kristen still needs a ton of prayers, because she’s still in bad shape. We haven’t even been able to go in and see her, still don’t know everything that’s wrong with her. We’re waiting for a doctor to come out and talk to us.

Thank God Kristen’s friend Jenna was babysitting our baby, Nate! If he’d been in the car …

So yeah, please, everybody really go to bat for Kristen right now, just storm Heaven with prayers for her. And please pray for Ethan too – we’re all upset and massively shaken, but Ethan is just a total mess emotionally. He’s just sitting and staring at the floor, rolling a diamond ring through his fingers. It’s an engagement ring. He was going to propose to Kristen at dinner.

Black and White

2011-10-18T16:30:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been exhausted from dragging all the baggage of my past with me, to every event, every gathering, and every other moment imaginable. All this time I’ve been discontent with the way I have lived, primarily for myself and decidedly separate from God. At the same time I’ve been afraid to approach God, that He might just smite me if tried to utter a word in His direction. Many times I imagined my body and soul vanishing into a cloud of dust within the instant of a flash. I also feared what would happen if God actually listened to me, forgave me, and accepted me as His own. I was afraid I’d be seen as a traitor, as if by my moving forward in my spiritual journey I would leave friends and loved ones behind.

Then I reached a bend in the road. When I came to other side all I saw was white in front of me and black behind me. Face-to-face with this startling bright whiteness I realized with perfect clarity that I needed to do what was right for me, in my journey, regardless of what anybody else was doing, and regardless of the risk. With painful lucidity I saw that I needed to move forward.

It all happened so fast. I got to church early on Sunday and grabbed Stephanie, one of the women who had taken care of me the weekend before when Victor had invaded the parking lot. Before Stephanie could open her mouth I told her I wanted a new beginning, and that I wanted to become a Christian. The words rushed out of my mouth like water down a thriving mountain stream. I could hardly believe what I was saying, but I was saying it, and I felt it too, within the deepest recess of my existence. Stephanie’s face flushed with delight. She moved swiftly, grabbing a couple other women and whisking us into the prayer room. Then Stephanie got calm and still. She looked at me seriously and asked if I wanted to accept Jesus Christ as my Savior. I said yes. She asked if I wanted to say the sinner’s prayer as an act of initial conversion into Christianity. I said yes. She said the words, and then I repeated them:

Heavenly Father, I know that I have sinned against you and that my sins separate me from you. I am truly sorry. I now want to turn away from my sinful past and turn to you for forgiveness. Please forgive me, and help me avoid sinning again. I believe that Your Son, Jesus Christ, died for my sins, that He was raised from the dead, is alive, and hears my prayer. I invite Jesus to become my Savior and the Lord of my life, to rule and reign in my heart from this day forward. Please send your Holy Spirit to help me obey You and to convict me when I sin. I pledge to grow in grace and knowledge of you. My greatest purpose in life is to follow your example and do Your will for the rest of my life. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.

The women prayed some more and they laughed and they cried. Really, it was such a fuss! Stephanie encouraged me to tell other people about my decision. So I told Rob, who has since done the same thing!

I told my little sister Mary and her dad Steve. Ethan’s coming on Friday, so I haven’t told him yet, but I did tell him I have a surprise for him and he said he has a surprise for me too.

I told Caddie and Phil about my decision. (Needless to say, they were delighted). They are also coming on Friday. They’re coming with me and Ethan out on a boat to scatter my mother’s ashes into the ocean.

I don’t think Friday will get here soon enough.

It’s funny. Life feels almost exactly as it was before. Except that I can’t stop smiling.

KAC

The white and black photo above is by missyredboots at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/155162

Every Broken Piece

2011-10-14T09:08:00.000-07:00

I’m aware of my past. I know what I’ve done. I’ve made mistakes, and I’m okay with that. At least I had been until now.

Never before had I considered my regrets together, as a stream of life, or as a whole. This is a torture I would never have inflicting upon myself, given the choice. It just happened, abruptly as I wandered through Rob’s backyard garden. The first pang of guilt that hit was one of the most recent, and most severe, resulting from that night at the pub when I drank too much, flirted too much, and ended up in the hospital with a concussion. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for my mother’s death, indirectly related to her car accident while on her way to visit me.

My conscience didn’t allow me to meditate on this but instead hit me with another pang, then another, and another. The pangs came in rapid-fire succession, flashing through my minds eye in high definition, crisp and sharp, some of them as harmless as dryer lint, many catastrophic, and each a separate sock in the stomach. I couldn’t stop the images and I buckled, first at the knees, then the spine, until I was in the grass. That was when I began to relive the regrets that were made against me, when I was a little girl. One by one they came, in excruciating detail, ripping my heart to pieces. I rolled in the grass and wept, really truly wept. My life was an open wound, raw and sore, and I mourned over these memories, one by one.

By the next day the wound had closed and returned to its natural protected state. I could still remember everything, but most of the feelings associated with them had faded. I still felt pangs of guilt, but instead of having them from what had been done; the pangs were for what has yet to come. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was deceiving Ethan. He had no idea what he was getting into. A man like that should not have to waste his time on a woman like me. I had no choice but to break up with him. So I called him.

“We need to break up,” I said, not bothering with meaningless chatter.

Part of me wanted Ethan to agree quickly, so I could hang up and get on with my life. Another part of me wanted him to fight to his bloody death to keep me.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s so much about me you don’t know. I—”

How in the world was I going to say this? Words could not express my feelings.

“There’s so much you don’t know. I’ve done terrible things. These are awful, terrible things Ethan, some of which I haven’t forgiven my self for, so how could I ask anyone else to forgive them?

“We all have regrets—”

“It’s deeper than that. Not only do I have regrets, but regretful things have happened to me, horrible, terrible, regretful things. I’m damaged Ethan. Broken. You deserve better. Somebody whole.”

“I want you. Don’t you understand that God put you on this earth for me?”

“But, you don’t know me.”

“You’re wrong. I do know you. I know about the lies. The hurt, the deception masking a covered heart, the fierce search for meaning, and love, and passion. I recognize the behavior. I’ve seen it all before.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I know what happened. I know Victor hurt you. I know because of the things you’ve said and the ways you’ve acted. I know because it happened to my mother. Her uncle hurt her too. I’ve seen how it’s affected her. I know you don’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real, but you have to face it. My mother never did and it has eaten her up from the inside. Victor molested you. There, I’ve said it out loud because it’s what really happened. He raped the innocent little girl you once were, but you are not damaged. You are beautifully flawed, precious in the eyes of God. He loves you and He will never leave you. I love you. I will not leave you, not for something as human as this. I want you, all of you, every broken piece.”

KAC

The image above is by Clarita at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/209866

Dark and Light

2011-10-11T15:02:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning sunshine floods my bedroom and I force myself to get up and go to church, for the second time in my life, ever. I tag along with my little sister Mary, her dad Steve, and my dad Rob. Yes, I’ve taken to calling Rob my dad now. Uncle/father is such a complicated title, loaded with baggage too exhausting to carry around forever, so I’m shedding the uncle part. We arrive early and mingle in the front lot with some acquaintances of Steve. One of these acquaintances is the pastor, and simply standing near this man makes me nervous. I imagine the guy can see straight through me, that he senses I’m different, a non-believer, a leper who should be tossed beyond the perimeter of the city. I fib and say I need to run back to the car to get my lip gloss, making a joke about how a gal’s got to have her gloss for church. The joke falls flat, but I don’t care because all I want to do is run and hide.

Then I see him, a tall lurking shadow of a man. It’s Victor, and he’s dressed in sickening black from head to toe. I’m not dreaming. I’m not hallucinating. The beast is a few yards away, leaning against my car, smirking.

My body freezes, but my mind races. Do I have my pepper spray? Yes, and a rather sharp nail file too, but they are both in my handbag, inside the car, beyond the beast.

Victor laughs condescendingly and saunters toward me.

I won’t let him touch me. Not again. I brace myself and he stops within one foot of me.

“What the hell are you doing at church?” he says, gritting his yellow teeth. He's breathing heavily through his whistling hairy nostrils. “Shouldn’t you be in a bar somewhere?”

This is it, the moment I’ve feared and waited for my entire adult life. How many hours have I spent coming up with the perfect slap-in-the-face line? Here’s my chance but oh, there are so many lines to choose from, and so many with explosive hellfire expletives. But only one stands out.

“You mean nothing to me,” I say. I'm calm and perfectly relaxed.

Victor’s eyes bulge and his face burns red with rage. He had expected a fearful little girl, a victim. He lifts his arm to strike and I mine to block, then I hear Rob’s voice rushing through the hallway and spilling onto the parking lot. Victor backs up, but can’t avoid Rob and within moments these two grown men are rolling on the asphalt, swinging and punching. A crowd grows quickly and swarms upon the men. Steve, the pastor, his wife, the entire praise and worship team and many, many others, claw their way into the tangle, and separate the men.

Several minutes later I wake up in the prayer room, surrounded by women I don’t know. I’d passed out. The women bring me juice, cold washcloths, and news. It didn’t take long for Victor to realize he was outnumbered and he fled the scene.

“Oh my gosh, Mary! Where is she?” I shout. The women calm me down. Mary’s fine. These women are kind, nurturing, and motherly. Collectively, they are the mother I never had. But I loved my dear mother, and I feel terrible for thinking, if only for a moment, that these women were somehow better.

I have a painful desire to crawl away and go home, but the women convince me to stay. Steve and some of the other men convince Rob too, and so Rob and I sit together, arms crossed against our chests, as miserable as two people can possibly be, and we listen to the service.

I don’t hear one bit of the message until the end, when the pastor leads the congregation in prayer. It takes a few seconds for reality to soak in, that the pastor is talking about me, but then it soaks in. The pastor asks everyone in the church to pray for me! And Rob, and Victor too, but oh my gosh I couldn’t believe it. By this time everyone had to be aware that Rob and I were non-believers, the only non-believers beneath that roof I presume, since we were the only two not to take communion—so why would they bother? By this time our dysfunctional mess sat wide open, exposed for the entire world to see. Why on earth would these people pray for messed up non believers like us?

What on earth is in it for them?

KAC

The photo above is by kjfmiller at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/672612

Through the Valley of Shadows and Bones

2011-10-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

Ethan’s mother Dorothy is spiraling through madness. Imagine my guilt from hating her so much. Ethan is distressed. Never has there been so much pain in his voice. Never has he talked about Jesus so unceasingly. Dude is obsessed with the God-Man. I’m surprised that I’m not irritated by this.

I actually think about Jesus all the time, and this also surprises me. I have no problem buying in to the idea of a man who was not just a man, but the son of God. I can accept all the miracles, including the resurrection of the God-Man himself. The problem I’m having is in believing that such a being would have an interest in me.

I imagine Jesus standing on a mound in front of me. He is glowing, and unspeakably beautiful. I have an urge to run toward him, to reach him, even if only to touch him. But in-between the spot where I stand and the place where he reigns, lays an ever-expanding pit that becomes a valley. The valley is filled with vipers, shadows, and skeleton bones. These detestable lurking things represent my past and present failures, my faults, and my regrets. How on earth could I get through this vile and dangerous valley? How on earth could someone like me ever reach Jesus?

I tried explaining this to Ethan over the phone. I swear I could hear his emerald eyes twinkling the moment I mentioned the name Jesus.

‘Oh Addy,” he said.

I love it when he calls me that, Addy, short for my middle name, Addison.

“Don’t you know how much you are loved? Look at Jesus again, but this time don’t stand still. Reach for Him Addy, and He will be with you. Don’t you know He’s just waiting for you to ask? As for the vile things, give them all to Him. You don’t need them anymore.”

I want to believe Ethan. I do.

It just seems too simple to be true.

KAC

The photo above is by Irish_Eyes at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/101481

Little Shop of Horrors

2011-10-04T08:51:00.000-07:00

I glare at my catatonic therapist. She is not getting what I'm saying. “When someone tells you you’re crazy," I explain, "they plant little seeds inside of you. Little. Poisonous. Seeds. Then, even the teeniest bit of otherwise normal neurotic tendencies fertilizes and nurtures those blasted seeds and they sprout and they grow and so you wonder if maybe you aren’t the teeniest bit psychotic.”

I pause to catch my breath. Therapist Katy stares at me blankly. She is earning her paycheck by listening.

“Think about it,” I say. "It’s easier to convince someone you are a lunatic than it is to convince someone (especially yourself) that you are sane. I am not a lunatic!"

"Sounds crazy, right?”

I could have saved ninety-five dollars by going to a museum and yapping at a statue instead. Katy is quiet today, probably chewing through her to-do list while I blather on.

Victor’s note has got a hold on me. Every letter of every word is a separate seed planted inside of me and every seed is bursting with life like a freaking shop of horrors. I know Victor was abusive. I know he hurt me. I’m not making it up. But there are no living witnesses. Even if Mom was alive today, would she remember what happened during her liquor-soaked amnesia that drenched my childhood?

I’m not making any of it up, right?

Hours later I can’t shake Victor’s words, how he insisted everything I've said about him was a lie. “You have a serious psychological disorder," he said.

I follow Rob into the garden. We’re both silent at first, pressing our knees into the soil, gingerly removing thin sprouts of unwanted growth. It’s therapeutic, weeding or pruning or otherwise tending a garden. If I’m willing, I can fall into it, and let the world melt away, and let my mind absorb one microscopic fraction of earth and life and time. Presently, I am not willing.

Still crouched into the soil I toss off my gloves.

“Tell me what happened that night,” I say to Rob.

“Not now.”

“You always say that. I need to know why you kicked Victor out of the house.”

“Your mother wanted him gone.”

“Yeah, we all wanted him gone. For years, we all wanted him gone. What was so special about that night?”

Rob stops pulling weeds. He looks disgusted, as if he smells something wretched.

Rob’s voice crackles, “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret not throwing that scumbag out of the house the first time I saw his ugly face.” The deep lines on Rob’s forehead soften. His eyes no longer bore into mine, but fall onto the soil. “I knew what Victor was doing to your mother. But she was stubborn, insisted I stay out of it.”

Rob slips off his gloves, one finger at a time. “When I found out what he had done to you,” he says, choking on his own spit, “how he—”

Rob clenches his jaw so tight I’m worried it might break. “So help me if I ever see that S.O.B. again I will kill him.”

Rob stands up and walks away, taking his soft, big, wet eyes with him.

I sit by myself in the dirt.

So I’m right, then.

I haven’t made anything up.

KAC

One Dark Fall Night

2011-09-30T12:01:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the year when heat fizzles, patience wears thin, and previews of the new season’s fashion show up en masse.  Cold has yet to take over, but it’s so very near. One grey morning with three sprinkles of rain and out they come, the droves of women wearing thick stockings and dark, heavy layers of clothing, so painful to look at when the grey morning melts into glistening eighty-five degree sunshine.

I’m guilty, of course, of this lack of patience, but my new winter pajamas are so soft and adorable I can’t wait. I live in Southern California. It may never get cold. I wear the new winter pj’s, and I sweat, and Rob refuses to turn the thermostat any lower, so I open my door. My bedroom is at the back of the house. It’s like a separate wing with my own hallway, my own bathroom, and my own exit leading to the back yard. Rob’s always telling me, “It’s safe; go ahead and open your door for Pete’s sake.” (For those of you dropping in for the first time, Rob is my father. He’s also my uncle, but that is a story for another time.)

Rob’s a survivalist at heart, always prepping for the worst possible scenario. He’s got a pantry filled with fifty pound bags of beans, rice, and flour; and bountiful supplies of water and ammunition. “You never know where you’ll be when disaster strikes,” he always says, so every room in the house has a flashlight, first aid kit, and a pistol. After learning that my vicious ex-stepfather Victor might by lurking through our town, Rob installed alarm sensors along the perimeter of the house and throughout the back yard. Works great too; I’ve already accidentally set the thing off three times.

So I open the stinkin’ door and I inhale the refreshing breeze. For added insurance I make some phone calls, you know, so there’s a witness, should an intruder penetrate Rob’s fortress. I call my friend Danielle first because it’s late and she lives in the farthest time zone, but all she does is complain about her pregnancy. Dude, I get it; you’re pregnant; can we move on? It’s not that I’m jealous so much as I’m irritated that her condition takes all the attention away from me. So I drop Danielle and I call my friend Caddie. But she has already gone to bed.

Then I call Ethan. My conversations with Ethan are almost always enjoyable because he lets me talk about myself as much as I am able. Plus, I love how Ethan’s honey-soaked voice oozes through the phone, you know, when I actually let him talk. Ethan is not the least bit concerned about Victor. He sees any lost opportunity for my salvation as a greater threat than any danger posed by man or nature. Every time I bring up Victor, Ethan flips the conversation back to God.

“The enemy is using Victor as a distraction to lead you away from your path toward God,” he says.

“How do you know my path is leading toward God in the first place,” I protest.

Ethan laughs, even though it was a serious question.

“What did you think of church?” he asks.

“I’ve already told you,” I say. Then I hear something, a noise coming from the back yard, like the sound of feet crunching leaves.

“Hold on,” I say tossing the phone. Within seconds I’m stepping barefoot outside, ninja-style, my loaded pistol in a two-handed grip directly in front of me. I hear a snap and a crunch and I twist around and stop short of pressing the trigger. Sugar, the panther-like Bombay cat owned by the old lady next door, leaps over the fence and triggers the alarm. This brings Rob charging down my hall with his primary weapon in hand.

“Hold your fire!” I shout, mocking him as much as myself. “It was only Sugar.”

Rob relaxes. I notice he doesn't have his cane. He tosses a pile of mail on my bed and walks away. So, he was run-limping down the hall with a shot gun in one hand and mail in the other?

“Dang,” I say, picking Ethan back up.  “They really shouldn’t let just anybody own a gun. I could have killed sweet Bernardine’s cat.”

“You’re back,” says Ethan. “So, do you think you would go back?”

I try to catch my breath. Did Ethan not hear the alarm? The shouting?

“To church,” he says, thinking I didn’t understand him.

Persistent little fella.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe,” I say. Then I drop Ethan.

Wearing winter pajamas on a hot fall night doesn't seem worth it anymore. I lock my door, change into threadbare summer pj’s and sift through the mail. Bill, bill, bill—then my heart stops. A crisp white envelope with no return address, and my name and address perfectly hand-printed, glares at me. I recognize the handwriting. So strange looking, after all these years.  Should I open it, or burn it? Should I go to Rob, or rip it open and digest it first?

I rip it open. More perfect hand printing:

I’ve heard the stories you’ve been telling about me. They are all lies, and you know it. But you can’t tell the difference between your outrageous lies and reality, can you? You have a serious psychological disorder Kristen. I implore you to seek medical attention. I have a reputation to uphold. Whether or not you decide to get help, you would be wise to stop telling lies about me.

V.

KAC

The photo above is by Seeman at: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/634093

The Importance of Being Vigilant

2011-09-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

The curtains rise for opening night of The Silver Mirror Theater Company’s production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Tickets are sold. Cast and lights are set. Prickly little hairs stand up along the length of my arm. I crouch low, still, and quiet. Beads of sweat cling to my forehead as the play begins. Algernon’s butler Lane sets out the afternoon tea. I can hear the clinking cups as if they are only a few feet away. They are only a few feet away! I’m on stage, hiding behind the fake wall of Algernon’s morning room. I was caught fiddling with last minute scenery adjustments when the curtains went up, and now I’m stuck. Algernon Moncrieff enters, but not before noticing my shame, and rolling his eyes.

Algernon reaches center stage, “Did you hear what I was playing on the piano, Lane?”

Lane responds, “I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.”

I wait for the end of the first scene. My heart pounds. I feel like an idiot for getting stuck on stage. There’s something else. I have a dreadful sensation of being watched, like someone is hiding, lurking. It’s the same feeling I had when Tracy stalked me back when we were enemies (before we had become the fun-loving frienemies we are now). The cold sweaty dread is so strong I can feel it in the beads of sweat melting off my forehead.

Another character, Jack, is on stage. “My dear Algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. It is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn’t a dentist. It produces a false impression,” says Jack.

How long until the curtains fall? I need to get out of here.

Tracy and I have a strained relationship; that’s for sure. But Tracy is not the problem. Ethan’s mother Dorothy frightens the giblets out of me, but she is safely tucked away in a nearby mental facility. Ethan, dear lovely Ethan with those devastatingly gorgeous eyes—waits for me in the audience. I’m nervous and excited to see him, but he is not the source of my fear.

It’s that beast who used to be my step-father. It’s Victor, who now haunts me every night in my recurring dream, and who I know is near. The other day I thought I saw him in a grocery store. I’m certain it was him. I don’t know how to explain it. I just know. Victor lives in Maine. Why on earth would he be in California? Why on earth would he waste his precious time on a worthless piece of trash? (That was his pet name for me when I was a little girl, worthless piece of trash.) I don’t want to sound crazy, so I have not yet expressed these imaginations out loud.

Finally, the curtains drop. I slip off stage and into my seat, where I should have been from the beginning. I’m nestled inside a protective layer of loved ones, Ethan, Jenna, Andrew, and the only real father I’ve ever had, Rob. The play rolls along spectacularly. The scenery is stunning, Ethan even says so. This is my proudest moment ever. I’m amazed that something from my hands could have turned out so beautifully. I wish I weren’t so jumpy, so I could soak in the moment. Today is my mother’s birthday. I wish she were here to see the play. The prickly hairs on my arm will not relax. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a decent night’s sleep. My head is cloudy, full of mental bombardment. I imagine sharing a padded room with psycho Dorothy. Ethan takes my hand. I wish I weren’t so sweaty.

The play ends. I wish I could go back and watch it for the first time, again. The backstage celebration flickers away. I notice only bits and pieces of it, as if my life were set to strobe light. I get a call. It’s my ex-roommate Millie. This is the first time I’ve heard her voice since she moved to Maine to reunite with her mother.

“I can’t talk long,” she says, dropping formalities.

“What’s up?”

“It’s your step-father Victor,” she says. “I can’t explain now, but I need to warn you.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I think he’s in California,” she says.

I hear another voice on Millie’s end. “I have to go,” she says, and then she hangs up.

The hairs on my arm fall flat. I stop sweating and I’m nearly smiling as I explain the call to Ethan and others. I am relieved to have my imaginations validated. Sure, Victor may be stalking me, but at least I’m not insane. Ethan has to go see his mother. He’s sure I’m in good hands with Rob. Normally I would be annoyed. Ethan’s always leaving to see his mother. That woman sucks away so much of the little time we have together. I shouldn’t get mad. Dorothy needs him. He is all she has.

Rob and I go home. We stay up late talking about Victor, about our experience at church the previous weekend, and about how much we both miss Mom. I tell Rob I don’t want to sleep in my bed. It’s too far away from the main part of the house. Rob says we’re not going to wait for Victor to come to us. He says we’re going to hunt him down instead. We camp out in the living room. Rob’s shotgun is loaded and resting in his lap. The safety is on; don't want a repeat of a night long ago, when Rob woke with a start.

Five days pass. Ethan is back in Colorado. The hairs on my arm have not been prickly since opening night. Rob and I have searched the town. We’ve seen no sign of Victor. I cannot get in touch with Millie. I’m going to have lunch with Legion and Tracy; see what they know.

KAC

The photo above is by blary54 @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/166268

Breezing Through

2011-09-22T12:24:00.000-07:00

Tonight is opening night for our play and to say that we are crazy psycho busy would be an understatement. My boss Tiger has become a bear, roaring at all of us. Ethan's flying in today and, uh oh her comes Tiger-bear boss man, gotta go.

KAC

Strangers in a Strange Land

2011-09-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

I went to church this weekend. (I know; I couldn’t believe it either!) I was inside of one for Mom’s funeral. I also landed inside of one accidentally when I was little. My friend and I were ditching school and we got bored and maybe a little scared so we hid in between the benches. We even signed the guestbook with fake names. I think I wrote Mickey Mouse. This Sunday was the first time I’ve ever been to church.

I blame Steve. He’s been pushing it since Mom died. So there we sat, Steve, my little sister Mary, Rob and I in a line in that order on unfamiliar cushioned benches of a neighborhood Christian church. Steve and Mary had been there before, plenty of times with Mom. Rob and I were strangers in a strange land. Each of us shared one hope, and that was to draw closer to our memories of Mom. She so loved going to church.

I braced myself for a guilt-driven diatribe by some old guy in heavy robes. Imagine my surprise when the pastor turned out to be a youngish-looking guy wearing a polo shirt and jeans. Nearly everyone there wore breathable fabric. A little heads up from Steve would have been nice, so I wouldn’t have been severely overdressed. I may as well have worn a flashing cap that said, “Newcomer!”

The youngish-looking denim-clad pastor said they were trying something different. He rolled a gigantic Wheel of Fortune gizmo on stage and spun the arrow and the audience held their collective breath until it settled upon a number. On our laps we had handouts, a list of numbered questions gathered during the past week. These were random questions from the churchgoers about faith, and Christianity.

The first arrow landed on number three: Explain the Trinity

The pastor laughed. “Oh good,” he said sarcastically. “We’ll start with an easy one.”

The pastor sat on a stool at the front of the stage next to a youngish-looking woman pastor and another guy who actually seemed to be the correct age for a pastor. The three pastors took turns fielding the question. In the end, the answer was that "it simply was."

The discussions fascinated me. The panel continued by spinning the wheel again and again. They answered questions like, “How do you reconcile a God who seems both wrathful and harsh but also loving and full of grace?” And, “Is evolution opposed to Christianity?” The panel knew all the possible questions ahead of time, but they had no idea which questions would have to be answered. I loved it. More often than not the discussion ended: "We just don’t know any more than that. Sometimes there is no absolute answer. If we knew everything absolutely, God would not be who he says he is."

It’s like there’s this gap between man and God and you have to leap to cover that gap. This reminded of something I’d heard before, that having faith is not jumping from point A to point B. It’s simply jumping from point A. Problem is, whenever I jump I like to know where I’m going to land. I didn’t listen all of the time. My eyes often wandered up thick wooden beams and across understated stained glass windows. I wondered if heaven was really real and assuming it was I also wondered what my mother was doing in heaven on this day.

There were several uncomfortable minutes when they had group communion. They passed around trays of crackers and juice (I don’t think that’s what they called it) and it was a sort of ritual I guess, where "if you had a relationship with Christ" you joined in and tasted the cracker and drank the juice during the prayer. Rob and I were the only two people beneath that gigantic vaulted ceiling that did not participate.

Time went by so quickly I only looked at my watch twice, both times during communion. Overall, my visit to church was not horrible. Not bad, actually.

The lovely video above is Stranger in a Strange Land, by Leon Russell.

KAC

The photo above is by Bosela @: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/172632

Swizzle

2011-09-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

I’m strapped for time so my blog post today will be quick. Opening night for our play is September 24th, which is like eight blinks away. We’ve moved the scenery from the warehouse to the stage where we are installing the pieces. Looks magnificent when it all comes together, like magic, but there’s a lot of work to do so we’re all on overtime. Meanwhile, my little sister Mary was busted for shoplifting at Target. She’s only eleven! Not that shoplifting is okay at any age (except for seniors who can’t afford to buy food; I probably would let that slide). Steve requested I spend extra time with Mary to guide her out of her transgressions (his words not mine), as if I’m some sort of recovery expert just because I was once a hoodlum and used to steal things myself. What am I supposed to say? Don’t act like me? I just look at my little sister and shake my head.

My good friend Danielle who lives too many miles away is having a terrible time with pregnancy. She calls for advice I don’t have. I tell her to call Jenna, who's already had a baby. But I know exactly why Danielle doesn’t call Jenna. Who would want pregnancy advice from someone who had a perfect pregnancy? Another dear friend of mine who lives far away, Caddie Murray, is having a horrible time dealing with the basics like living, and breathing. I’ve been there and I know I can lend an ear on that one, but I’m having difficulty reaching her. Yesterday she went missing. She’s back now (what a relief!), but she continues to weigh heavily on my heart. In the spare moments when none of this other stuff is going on, I’m on the phone with Ethan, who also lives too many miles away.

I rarely sleep and when I do that dang recurring dream plagues me, but I’m managing fine. I’m drinking lots of coffee. I’ve gone to black because it’s quicker to fix and the taste is more vivid, like I can actually taste the journey of each bean that made its way into my cup. I’m trying to figure out if I like Colombian, Italian, or French Roast better. I think French Roast because it is intense and smoky, and I imagine that the bean pickers are the same.

But now, I have to go.

KAC

By the way, today’s title has little to do with its attached post, except that I really like to say that word. Swizzle. I also thought the definition was interesting: Swizzle: to stir a drink with a swizzle stick to mix the ingredients, make it frothy, or reduce its effervescence. (Makes me wish I had a life-sized swizzle stick. I could use a little less effervescence in my day.)

The photo above is by Dave @: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/40441

Dreamscape

2011-09-13T14:36:00.000-07:00

Can anyone recommend a decent loony bin where a gal can get some rest and relaxation? My recurring dream is driving me bananas. My friends Danielle and Jenna say I’m melodramatic. They say I only need to stop thinking about it to make it go away. These friends of mine are full of crap because I’ve tried not thinking about it. With the fierceness of a savage beast I’ve tried not thinking about it and the thing will not go away. So I don’t talk to Danielle and Jenna about the recurring dream anymore. I talk to my co-worker Naranjan instead. My little Hindu friend can talk about altered states of the mind for days. Naranjan insists the dream should be taken seriously rather than ignored. He says I need to understand it before it will go away.

Naranjan told me about and article he read in Rolling Stone magazine a while back about one of Lady Gaga’s recurring dreams. Gaga’s dream is freaky-bizarre (to put it mildly) and makes mine look like a clip from the Andy Griffith Show. Still, I can’t help obsessing over my own dream which always begins with my old cat Harley pattering across the floor. That part’s not so bad. It’s rather lovely actually, but why do I always follow my dead cat? Harley leads me into a place that looks like the living room of my childhood. A hideous Victor-shaped silhouette is standing there, eerily lurking yet unmoving, rigid, and still against the sound of a mysterious wind that doesn’t blow. Then I’m inside a bedroom and that woman who wears red lipstick stands over me trying but unable to speak. None of it makes any sense, but the end is the part that bothers me the most. My mother sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back and smiling. She’s gorgeous, young, and happy. Her whispered words tingle through my spine, “He’s coming for you.”

Ugh! I’ve scrutinized the thing to death. Now I’m simply tired of it and I want it to go away. It’s leaking into my waking hours and eroding my sanity. The other day I thought I saw Victor at the grocery store squeezing paper towels in aisle five. I ducked away immediately, and then slowly crept back for a peek. The aisle was empty and the man who looked like Victor was nowhere to be found. So now I’m hallucinating?

Naranjan who is a set-builder by day and a slick salesman by night, sold me one of his healing stones. He said the amethyst is known as a dream stone and is often used to help insomnia, anxiety, neurosis, hallucinations, and hysteria. It is also used to ward off drunkenness. Naranjan needed to say no more, and for nine dollars and ninety-five cents I became the proud owner of one tumbled-smooth deep violet chunk of amethyst.

Ethan’s not a big fan of mysticism and I worried about his reaction; but when I told him about the stone he seemed more curious than offended. Ethan said that the amethyst stone is thought to enhance spiritual awareness and has long been known as a symbol of piety and humility, and desire to please God. The stone has been used to decorate churches and is still worn by some Catholic bishops today. So Ethan thought the choice of stone was interesting. But he said I didn’t need the thing because he’s already praying about my strange recurring dream.

I have doubts about the actual power of the stone, but I’m going to put the thing under my pillow anyway, and then I’ll wait and see.

KAC

The photo above is by Clarita @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/15029

Today's Special: Heart Attack a la Carte

2011-09-09T16:12:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t wait to see Ethan during his brief visit to California thisweek. We planned to meet for lunch at ahole-in-the wall Mexican restaurant down by the beach. The place holds about twenty-five people filled to the rim, but I was lucky enough to get our favorite booth, the onenext to a gigantic window. It wasthrough that window that I spotted Tracy. The sight of her seemed to collapse my lungs becausemy breathing went shallow. I couldn’tbelieve it was her. Her lips werepainted bright red, a color she never wears but I knew it was her. I hid my face behind a menu and broke into acold sweat, certain I was going to have a heart attack. I’d have given anything for a strong wind toredirect Tracyaway from the restaurant. She keptcoming. Why was I so panicked? I hoped and waited and thought about boltingbut the jingling door bells went off. Itwas too late. She was inside therestaurant. I had nowhere to hide, so Idid the only thing I could.

“Tracy!”I shouted.

She spun around. Shehad a brand new tattoo coiled around her upper arm. It was a snake and it looked a lot like thesnake tattoo on the woman who wore red lipstick who haunts me nearly everynight in my recurring dream, the same woman I saw in my hypnosis session withAgent Hygleson when I tried to recall every thing I had seen that night at the pub. But Tracy was not the dream/hypnosis woman whowore red lipstick. Tracy’s tattoo was on her arm. The dream/hypnosis woman’s was on herankle. And Tracy looked nothing like the dream/hypnosiswoman. Eerie nevertheless.

“You’re back.”

“Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “My husband’s here.”

Her red lips curled slightly, into an almost-smile, but hereyes were dark and brooding. Thewaitress offered up another table but Tracywaved her off and sat at mine. I hadn’tseen or spoken with Tracysince that night at the pub. What onearth was I supposed to say? Why hadn’tI tried harder to get in touch with her before now?

“How’s Legion?” I asked.

She paused for a great length of time.

“He’s parking the car.”

“He’s out?”

The jingling bells of the opening door answered myquestion. Yes. He was out, and he was here, and he looked tallerand stronger and angrier than ever. Tracy waved him over withher newly tattooed arm. My heart beat fasterand faster and pounded my chest. Ithought he was locked up. Why was hehere, now? Icouldn’t get the recurring dream out of my head. How strange it was to see Tracy with bright red lipstick. She’s never worn that color. And that tattoo. I kept replaying the part of the dream whereMom whispers, “He’s coming,” and I wondered: Legion? Is that who she wastalking about? How could that be, andwhy on earth would Mom be smiling about it?

Legion slid in next to Tracywithout a word. He leaned against thetall backrest and placed his arm around Tracy. “Waitress. Let’s have a pitcher of brew here.”

A pitcher! What aterrible idea. Ethan would arrive anyminute. The waitress filled three glasses. I let mine sit while Tracy and Legion eachdowned theirs.

“What, you don’t drink now,” said Legion.

“Upset stomach,” I said, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

The newlyweds refilled their glasses and ordered anotherpitcher. The beer washed away Legion’srelaxed manner.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

“I never said you did.”
“You gave the cops the impression I could have!”
“I told Hygleson I didn’t know what happened.”

“I saved your life!” he shouted, turning the heads of thefive other people in the restaurant.

“Don’t you think I know that? Geez Legion I was unconscious. How could I have known what happened—then youguys took off—you never called me.”

“I never called you? You never called me!”
“I only reported what I saw. What was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to say you know me and you know I wouldnever kill somebody.”

But I didn’t know that. Did I? The restaurant door jingled. It was Ethan. Dang he looked good, but I would have paid someone a million bucks ifthey could have made me disappear at that moment. Ethan didn’t skip a beat. He moved directly toward Legion and took hishand in a firm shake.

“Legion. How areyou? We’ve been worried about you man.”

They embraced in a manly stud hug. Legion’s eyes welled up. Tracy’sdid too and yeah, mine did too. I feltlike such an idiot. Why didn’t I dothat? Why didn’t I embrace these two Imean, they’re my friends for Pete’s sake. Why do I always let fear and spinelessness paralyze me? Get it from my mother I suppose. I wished I was more like Ethan. He’s always been good at smoothing out sharpedges.

Ethan sat next to me and brought his wonderful fresh linenscent with him. I wished we werealone. I wished I didn’t have a fullglass of beer sitting in front of me. Ethan kept eyeballing the thing until mercifully, Legion downed it. We ordered, ate piles of mouthwateringMexican food, and talked for hours.

Legion and I each shared our own version of what happenedthat night at the pub. Legion admittedto hitting Mark Valentine, the guy who attacked me. Valentine was knocked out. Legion was pretty wasted by then and he gotparanoid, so he dragged the guy into the back alley. (This is what Agent Hygleson’s witness hadseen, the dragging part). Legion said heleft the guy alive. He and Tracy werefreaked out, so they dumped me at the hospital and took off. Earlier that night Legion had gotten a joboffer at a Las Vegasconstruction site from a friend of his, so he decided to take the job and skiptown till things cooled off. Buteverything heated up instead, so Legion and Tracy got more and more paranoid and kepthidden. Hygleson didn’t believe Legion’sstory, until Legion’s luck changed. Aguy named Scully bragged to his cell mate that the police had gotten him on arobbery charge, but they had no clue he killed his ex-partner—Mark Valentine. Scully was there that night at the pub. He saw the whole thing and used it as anopportunity to finish off his ex-partner who had recently betrayed him.

The conversational mood softened and we even laughed alittle. After awhile my heart ratenormalized and I stopped sweating. Ithanked Legion for saving my life. Ethanthanked Legion for saving my life, and he made us all hold hands while heprayed over the whole situation. Tracy and Legion seemedto like it, but it made me a teensy bit uncomfortable. Ethan and I congratulated the newlyweds and bythe end of our conversation the tension between us had stabilized.

But I don’tthink our relationship will ever be the same.

KAC

The photo above is by Kevin Rosseel @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/182165

God and Country

2011-09-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

Tiger’s nephew’s funeral was a few days ago and I’m stillnauseated from what had transpired. Seemslike there were thousands of people at the service. Must've been a hundred from the theater company alone. There were ex-military buddies, cop friendsand I think I saw a couple of the baristas from the local coffee shop. Most impressive was the great swarm ofimportant-looking people I did not know who had come to support Tiger’s sister in mourning the loss of her son.

Willie, Fernando, Naranjan and I carpooled. I will never travel with those three for anydistance greater than five miles again. Ever. I was in driver’s position andWillie took the front passenger seat. He screamed every time he thought I nearlymissed a motorcycle, pedestrian, cat, squirrel, or pothole—whichwas every three minutes. All the while Naranjan hummed a vibratingchant to calm the mood and Fernando mumbled to no one in particular, complainingthat we’d be late and he wouldn’t get a chance to sit next to Kellen at theservice.

We were not late. Therewas a lot of stinkin’ traffic and still we were early. When we arrived a small group of mourners hadgathered on the sidewalk in front of the church. Across the street some plain clothed folks poured out of plain white vans infamily-sized portions (some big/some small), formed a line along the sidewalk and held up signs.

Picketers?

“What’s goin’ on boss?” asked Fernando who had to tilt his headback to see Tiger’s face.

Tiger did not look down at Fernando but at the mob across the street.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on Silva,” said Tiger who alwayscalls us by our last names and never by our first. “I see some folks who need a shot ofperspective.”

Without regard to oncoming traffic Tiger’s tall wide framestrode across the street and toward the group. We followed. He marched past a little boy who looked to be about five years old whoheld a sign that read, “God Hates You.” He marched past a pimply-faced teenaged boy who held another sign whichread, “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” Tigermarched passed a stone-faced young woman, presumably the mother, who held a sign so offensive I will not repeat it here. Tiger’s face, shoulders and frame remained calm, determined, andsteadfast and he did not stop marching until he stood face-to-face against aman of equal height but only a fraction in size to himself. We stood directly behind Tiger.

“Hold your posts,” yelled the thin man. “We have a right to be here. We have Freedom of Speech.”

Tiger breathed through his nose and onto the man’s facewhile he waited for attention. The thinman slid his finger up the bridge of his nose to adjust his black framed glasses. “You can’t make us leave,” he said.

Tiger looked eerily calm, yet his voice bellowed, “Son, it is in your bestinterest to vacate the premises.”

The thin man with black framed glasses set his hands onhis hips. “We’re staying,” he said. “ Wehave a First Amendment right to be here. We have a duty to proclaim the sovereignty of the Living God.” The thin man carried on explaining he was theleader of a copy cat group (my words not his), a sleeper cell awakening tosupport the works of that little Baptist church from Kansas.

Tiger stood firm and quiet.

The thin man nodded at his followers and so they chanted, asif their signs hadn’t made enough of a nuisance. Their voices spilled like wrath. Their energy created a vibe Iwould have expected to come from a source of evil, before that of any god.

“Those who fail to live up to God’s standards should bepunished.”

“There is a consequence for sin.”

“The death of soldiers is God’s punishment for The UnitedStates’ tolerance of homosexuality.”

The thin man smiled proudly over his dutiful minions.

“I assume you have a Bible handy,” said Tiger.

“Uh, Bible?”
“Don’t have one? Useone of mine.”

Tiger threw up the palm of his hand and within seconds aBible appeared from our side of the crowd. Tiger pressed the book into the thin man’s chest.

“Read it,” said Tiger. “Show me the scripture that makes you Judge of Man. Show me the scripture that makes you thinkyou can invade my right to privacy and prevent me from mourning my nephew. Having trouble finding scripture Son? Here’s one for you ‘Love thy neighbor asthyself.’ You can find that one in Matthew 19:19and in Leviticus 19:18. What do yousuppose that means Son? Do you supposeit might be important? Try readingMatthew 22:37-40, Luke 10:27, Romans 13:8-10, Galatians 5:14, James 2:8, andMark 12:28-31. "The first command is tolove the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind. The second command is like the first, to loveyour neighbor as yourself. All the Lawand the Prophets hang on these two commandments. There are no commandments greater thanthese. Love is the fulfillment of thelaw. The entire law is summed up bylove. Can’t find anything in that Bible yet? Let me help you out. I’ve read the thing from front to back and asfar as I can tell, there’s only one judge, and at present He is not clothed inflesh. Who are you to judge someoneelse’s servant? To his own master hestands or falls. And he will stand, forthe Lord is able to make him stand. Romans 14:4."

The thin man stopped fumbling through the thin pages and shutthe book. He seemed nervous, intimidatedby Tiger’s presence and the presence of his posse, not so much by me or any of theother construction fellas, but of the ex-marine and cop buddies standing behindTiger.

“You can’t hurt us. We have a right to be here. We have…”

“You’ve already said that Son.”
“We have Freedom of Speech”
“Son, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”
“I have a right to express my opinion.”
“You’re also free to exercise common sense, decency, and good taste.”
“There is consequence for sin.”

“Son, a road paved in fear and anger is full of sharpedges. Try traveling a path paved with love,kindness, and understanding. That’s theroad you want to be on and it starts right there, inside your van, driving backto the cave you crawled out from.”

The thin man stepped back, “You touch one hair and we’llsue. I have witnesses.”

“You say you proclaim the sovereignty of God, yet you hidebehind the laws of man,” replied Tiger. “If you truly understood the sovereignty of God you would know that Heis your witness.”

“Media will be here soon,” said the thin man pushing up hisblack framed glasses. “We’ll see whathappens then.”

“Son, there will be no media at this service.”

“They’ll be here. Wehave connections.”

“They’re not coming,” said Tiger

The thin man threw a look at his nearest flunkie who flippedout his phone and dialed. Wewaited. The sign holders kept chantingtheir miserable chant. Naranjan hummedhis vibrating energy-calming chant. Fernando wasn’t with us. I think he went lookingfor Kellen. Willie left Tiger’s side totalk to the mother with the two sons I’d mentioned earlier. I could not hear what he was saying. For all I know he was giving her sign holding safety tips. How to avoid industrial-sized paper cuts 101. The mother glaredpast Willie. She chanted with stone-faced coldness stopping only once to reprimandher little one for chasing a butterfly.

“He’s right,” said the flunkie. “They’re not coming.”

Tiger smiled. “Itappears that my sister's connections are better than yours."

“It’s over guys!” snapped the thin man. “Media’s not coming. Let’s go.”

The woman with the two sons was the first to pack up andgo. They were all gone before tenminutes had passed and well before the bulk of the crowd had arrived. The service was lovely. Fernando was able to grab a seat next togum-smacking Kellen and we were all able to mourn the loss of Tiger’s nephew inpeace.

But I still can’t get the nauseating picketers’ chant out ofmy head.

A bill is on its way to becoming law and when it does California will joinforty other states in making it a misdemeanor to protest within one thousandfeet of a funeral from one hour before to one hour after a service. Those who signed the bill agree that Freedomof Speech ends when it interferes with a loved one’s ability to attend afuneral service. I also agree but Iwonder; can mere legislation eliminate lack of taste and common decency?

KAC

The photo above is by markmiller @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/200146

In Her Words

2011-09-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

Opening night is fast approaching. Ethan is going to come. We’ll sit together and watch The Importanceof Being Earnest together and I’ll try my best not to point out the endlessdetails that went in to constructing the set. Presently, every soul at The Silver Mirror Theater Company is stressed. Nerves are wracked. Hours are long. Tensions are high, and I’ve never felt soalive.

This play is the first real accomplishment of my life. I wish Mom were here to see. I’ve been reading more of her journals. I love them. Here’s the one I read most recently. It was written exactly one month before she died.

April 24, 2011

I’ve been writing in these journals for a long time. So now what? I was either drunk, or sick, or broken in some way for so much of mylife, most of the books are illegible. They are chicken scratch pages with smears of ink, tears, and othermysterious stains. Most of them are tomesof self pity, sprinkled with hope. Writing these journals has been an exercise in healing, but I couldnever have imagined they would have another purpose, until now. You see, I am unable to say out loud thethoughts I have inside my heart. I’vebeen trying to learn how to do this for years and years and still, when themoment comes, I freeze and my lips shut tight. But I have always been able to express my feelings on paper.

The cancer is aggressive. I doubt I will see even one more Christmas, but I know exactly where I’mgoing. I like the way Kierkegaardexplains it, that when a child is born he enters a new world. Even under the best conditions no livingperson would want to return to the womb. Likewise, once I reach heaven I would not choose, even under the bestconditions, to return to the dark womb of this world.

I am not afraid to die, but I am afraid to leave before Itell you how I really feel. That’s whyI’ve decided to dedicate my journals to you, Kristen honey, so you can knowwhat is in my heart. So you will knowthat you are loved with the fierce intensity of a mother in love. I’ve instructed Steve to give you all myjournals when I pass. All of them, eventhe pathetic scribbled messed up ones. Perhaps those will be the ones which will bless you the most.

Then you will know Kristen honey, what is in my heart and howmuch you mean to me. I’m getting tired,but for now, I want to tell you, no matter what happens, my love for you isforever.

Ruby

The image of the pink writing hand is by grietgriet @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/690455

Mirror Image

2011-08-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

From the moment I began working for The Silver Mirror Theater Company I knew I’d found my home. The physical work at this place is exactly the sort of creative energy my mind and body crave. And the people! I love snuggling inside such a glop of misfits. Sure, my peeps from my old Los Angeles job are plenty messed up (they are a fine lot of nut jobs), but they are all so dishonest about it, always striving to give the impression that every thing is magnificent. Not that I acted differently. Still, I’m happy to have been expelled from the realm where everyone is fabulous and every moment is to live for. Here at the Silver Mirror, beneath the cavernous dust of an old Ford warehouse where the theater construction crew plots, saws, paints, and builds—hearts are exposed. Wounds are raw and open.

Take Fernando for instance, a small guy with a long black hair and big blue eyes. He’s an ex-con who cries often. He can’t stand to have even a strand of hair touching his face, a hangover from prison trauma, and so always wears a bandanna. Fernando was a good kid who never did anything wrong until some thugs killed his aunt, the woman who had raised him after an apartment fire had taken his parents. Fernando went after the thugs and though the murderers lived, Fernando went to prison. When he got out he was nineteen and homeless. Tiger discovered Fernando painting at a beachside kids crafts festival and hired him on the spot. Fernando is the most talented painter I have ever known and he’s obsessed with Karaoke. He's got a gigantic crush on the gum-smacking high pig-tailed front office gal Kellen and has been trying to get her to come watch him sing. (Dude, why not just paint her something?) I learned all of this in my first week on the job, so I knew right away, Fernando and I would be great friends.

The first time I mentioned my father Rob, Fernando interrupted, “You call your dad Rob?”

“Yeah well, he used to be my uncle. Uh, still is.” My cheeks burned hot. “It’s a long dysfunctional story.”

I wanted to run away, but then Fernando said, “Look around. You think you stand out here?”

I looked around. Niranjan toiled over a pile of wood. He’s a thin and frail, and excessively energetic yogi, with olive brown skin, red hair and warm mocha eyes. He’s in to every thing calm and healing—teaches yoga on the side; sells homemade teas and burns sage—yet he is a rather anxious fellow. I’m sure he’s going to have a heart attack before the year is out. In another section Willie stood scratching his dusty ball cap. Willie always looks like he’s coated in dust, like he just finished rolling in a pile of soft dirt. He’s a born again Christian who is more than a little bit OCD, with particular obsessions with crosses, safety precautions, and any thing that could possibly obstruct the throat. Even the shop cat Maggie is a beautiful mess. She’s an old Maine Coon with matted hair, a blind eye, and a spotted tongue that seeps through a gap of missing teeth.

Then there’s Tiger our shop foreman who oversees all the set construction. He comes in every Monday with a barber-fresh cut and a distinctive aftershave smell. He’s a Gulf War vet with beefy biceps. He uses tough, military style leadership, but is severely hands on; dude’s quite the strongman on the outside, but ever so soft and gooey on the inside. Tiger served in the first desert war and took part in the victorious ground assault of February 1991. Then returned home to a disgruntled nation, a wife who left him for another woman, and regret over the tattoo on his right shoulder which happens to be an image of said wife. Tiger has Gulf War Syndrome from chemical exposure and suffers from fatigue, muscle/joint pain, headache, memory loss, and arthritis—all of which have been dismissed as too insignificant to receive adequate attention by the VA hospital. So he drinks concoctions of Niranjan’s teas, even the one that smells like moldy lemons. He’s considering hypnosis therapy, but I am trying to convince him otherwise.

Today, Tiger is in a fierce quiet-angry mood and has retreated into the dark recess of his windowless office. He learned earlier this morning that his nephew who was fighting oversees is returning this week, in a body bag.

KAC

The photo above is by Clarita from here: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/102924

Unequally Yoked

2011-08-25T10:16:00.000-07:00

Ethan’s back in Colorado. His internship runs through the end of October. The good news is that his hospitalized mother will require frequent visits, which means Ethan will return frequently. Ethan and I talk all the time on the phone. It’s like we’re teenagers, but better. He’s taken to praying for me before the end of each conversation. It’s almost annoying but really, it’s very sweet; this guy who still misses his father terribly and is incredibly stressed and sad about his mother, and he’s praying for ME!

Something is changing inside me. I’m more honest with Ethan. Or at least I’m as honest with him as I am with myself. I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to be this vulnerable with another person. I was honest and open with Obi when he lured me out of a recent black hole, but that was different. It’s a little frightening how exposed I feel now.

Ethan knows about the bottle of JD. It’s strange. He never tells me to toss it, but keeps asking me why I think I need to have it. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it makes me feel like I’m in control, like I’m trying to prove to myself I can have whiskey nearby and still choose to not take a sip, or swig, or chug.

My conversations with Ethan flip and flop wildly, but they always gravitate toward spirituality. I do think a person’s spiritual journey is important, but I gotta say, I’m feeling incredibly blocked right now. I can think of a hundred other things I would rather focus on. But Ethan will not give up. I’m beginning to understand the difficulty with an ‘unequally yoked’ pair. I don’t understand or share Ethan’s passion for Christ and it is that very passion which drives his every breath. How on earth can two animals, reined at different lengths, be able to move a cart without pinching or choking one another?

Recent headlines spurred a conversation about suffering. Earthquakes, ruined economies, war-torn streets, mothers with cancer, children sold for profit. An endless sea of addictions, afflictions, and plight.

Why?

“None of this is new,” Ethan said.

But why? Why, why, why!

“I DON’T KNOW!” he shouted, and then he whispered, “I don’t know.”

I felt bad for acting like such a snot. I’m not really sure why he hasn’t already given up.

“Suffering can destroy a person, or, it can produce perseverance, character and hope,” he responded triumphantly, but mechanically as if he was reading off a sheet of paper. “Would you rather be a slave to suffering, or a slave to hope?”

(I do prefer feelings of hope over those of suffering. But I am a stubborn one.)

“I just don’t understand why everything in my life, everything in the world as a matter of fact, seems so messed up,” I said. “Why is there so much suffering, so much devastation?”

“Are you searching for God inside evil?” he asked simply. “Why would you expect to find Him there?’

After a bit of silence, Ethan said, “He is in the recovery that follows evil, and in the peace that precedes it.”

These bursts of passionate convictions of his (though at times, corny and overdone) only make me love him more. So what, if our reins are of unequal lengths. Can’t we still appreciate each other nevertheless?

KAC

The photo above is by Irish Eyes @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/101252

The Flowers Have all Died

2011-08-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

I keep a little potted plant on my nightstand next to a stack of books, my Kindle, and an oversized bottle of ibuprofen. The plant was a gift from my friend Jenna, in condolence for the loss of my mother back in May. The flowers have all died. The leaves are infested with sickly black spots, but I haven’t given up and I’ll continue to smother the thing with tender loving care until it dissolves into a heap of dust.

I miss my mother. I wish I could see her face outside of my recurring dream. (Quite frankly, the dreams are starting to creep me out and I’d prefer that my mother stayed out of them entirely).

I wish I could have a conversation with my mother. I would tell her about Ethan, how I love him so much it hurts. I would tell her about Ethan’s mother and how I took a sick day from work because I can’t get Dorothy’s painful screaming out of my head. I want to tell my mother that every minute of every day I’m fighting back the urge to drain that pint of JD.

I want to tell my mother that I’m sorry for the way I had treated her for so many years, and I’m sorry for they way she died especially since I am partially to blame. If I hadn’t drank so much that night at the pub I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up with that creep, then I wouldn’t have ended up with that concussion, and my mother would not have been driving down that road on that particular day.

I grabbed one of Mom’s old journals the way I always do when I'm missing her, but for the first time I read one of her entries. This one was dated December 1, 2000:

Today marks my first year of sobriety, so why do I feel like such a failure? Kristen hates her little sister and I can’t help accepting the blame. My oldest child, a hardened and tender fifteen year old, is slipping through my fingers. I want to grab her and shout at the top of my lungs, "I love you! I always have, even when I could not be there for you." I want to scream, "I’m sorry! I was not the mother you deserved, but I’m here now. Look at me now. Why can’t you see who I am now?"

But every time I look into Kristen’s hateful eyes I start to believe I am the same person I have always been, and I am mute. I can smell my little girl’s heart burning with anger and still, I say nothing. Silently, I watch her storm off into a black cloud.

I pray every day for the strength, courage, and confidence I need to reach Kristen. My sponsor loves to spout, "Recovery is a lifelong process." What I don’t understand is why it has to be so painful.

Ruby

The photo above is by alvimann @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/551994

Tap Ripple Ripple BOOM!

2011-08-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words have always hurt me. Injuries from words are impalpable, obscure, and often go undetected. Quietly their powers morph, until they explode. Tap. Ripple, ripple, ripple, BOOM!

And poof, part of a soul goes up in smoke.

This is the very reason I (try my best to) refrain from using foul and offensive language online. It’s not that I am a cuss-free princess, or that I believe I’m above cussing. (Anyone who has seen me stub my toe or spill a gallon of milk would know this). It is because during my lifetime I have received and dished out enough foul and offensive language to fill the darkest pit of hell. Which is enough, by the way, to realize the futility of expending this sort of negative energy. Enough to appreciate its potential harm.

I still haven’t discovered an antidote to the double-edged slice of words however, and when Ethan and I returned from our bike ride, his mother Dorothy was locked, loaded, and ready to slice.

“What are you doing with my son you stupid little sl@%!” she opened with.

My bike ride adrenaline rush came to a screeching halt.

“You do not deserve someone like him you dirty little wh@#%!”

The hollering, the crimson-hued face, the threatening fist—it all threw me back to a time when I was a little girl shivering beneath Victor’s rage. My mother’s ex-common law husband Victor had inflicted plenty of physical harm, but it was his psychological violence that still haunts me to this day.

I faded back and forth between Victor’s wrath and Dorothy’s shrill. Dumbstruck, I was only partially lucid but I understood that Ethan was restraining his mother. The sky and air and sea and sand and parking lot asphalt all blurred together, but I saw that Ethan was calm, and that his eyes were very, very sad.

Ethan instructed me to step away and call Obi and as I did Dorothy’s screams got louder and louder.

“I saw that friend of yours, that Legion guy on the news today,” she shouted. “He’s marked by the devil you know! They’ve arrested him for that murder, but I know it’s your fault. You murdered that man Kristen. I know you did it. You are just like that wh@#% mother of yours. I won’t let you near my son you hear me!”

I'm sure Obi could hear Dorothy in the background and I had to say very little before he said he understood, and hung up. Then I ran. I ran and ran until I could no longer hear that woman’s voice. I found a ridge near the crashing waves, and there I sat watching a pile of delighted children dig an ambitious hole in the sand. I imagined lying inside the opening and letting the children cover me up, one scoop of sand at a time.

An eternity later Ethan approached.

“I’m sorry,” he said gravely, raking his exhausted head of hair. “My mother is very sick.”

I fell into Ethan’s arms and cried. Ethan cried too, but not loudly like me. His was a silent sort of weeping with one or two lonely tears slowly finding their way down his cheek. Though my blurry eyes I saw scratch marks on Ethan’s forearms; marks I assumed were from his mother’s fury.

The sand children looked on, appraising their hole.

When Obi arrived he had brought with him a doctor and a medi-van from Clearview Mental Hospital. Ethan had been on the fence, but now he’s off. His mother needs professional help. I could see on Ethan’s face this decision killed him. Obi rode back with Dorothy, but Ethan had to go too. He needed to be with his mother at the hospital.

Ethan had already called Rob, who was waiting for me in the parking lot to take me home.

There, I walked directly toward my nightstand drawer where I keep my gun and a pint of JD. After that night at the pub I vowed never to drink whiskey again. So far I’ve kept my vow. I merely wanted to hold it, to cradle it like a newborn child. I crawled into bed with my bottle and cried until I fell asleep.

KAC

The screaming mouth photo above is by Emmi P @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/111164

WTFBH?

2011-08-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

Ethan left the beach party early and promised to call me first thing in the morning. Six thousand and fifty-six minutes later he called and said he had the entire day free. We made plans to ride a good portion of the South Bay beach trail, beginning at Westside Torrance at the Palos Verdes foothills, and riding through the coastal cities of Redondo, Hermosa, and Manhattan Beach, then flipping back once we reached the smelly smoke stacks of the El Segundo Power Station.

Ethan had done nothing but avoid me since he arrived in California. I longed for some alone time with the guy, but when we finally came face-to-face all I wanted to do was run away. He greeted me with a knee-buckling hug. We had embraced at the party the night before, but it was quick and fearful, as if I carried a hideous and infectious disease.

“Finally,” he said. “We’re alone.”

What the flipping bloody heck? (abbreviated, WTFBH)

My infectious disease, it seemed, had disappeared.

“We need to talk,” he said, “But let’s get on the road first.”

Lunch, sunscreen, and other bare essentials crammed into mini backpacks—and thousands of excessive heartbeats later—we hit the boardwalk with our cruisers. Perfectly mild seventy-five degree sunshine splashed our faces; a gentle breeze whipped our hair, and crashing waves set the mood. After a great length of time and an abundance of light and feathery conversation, Ethan cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure you realize the kind of pressure a man faces,” he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about but I was sure it was going someplace I did not want to be, so I peddled faster. Words cannot describe how grateful I was to be on a bike, forced to look forward and not at Ethan.

“No matter how much of the world comes to bear on a man’s ability to provide,” he continued, keeping up with me effortlessly, “he is ultimately responsible for his, uh, family’s well being.”

Oh, he was talking about his mother, Dorothy. I was sure of it. My pulse and my peddling slowed.

“I like you,” he said.

“I like you too,” I replied with a sweet smile he couldn’t see because we were both facing forward.

“No, I mean, really, really like you.”

“Then why on earth do you always pull back?” I snorted. The words escaped before I could purse my lips. I mean, WTFBH!

“I’ve been conflicted,” he said.

“Conflicted?”

“It’s like I was saying before,” he said. “About the pressure a man faces.”

My normal response to confusion is to remain silent. But there was something about the sun and wind and sand and sea, and the adrenaline rushing through my veins that made silence impossible.

“You are confusing the crap out of me and if you have something to say I wish you would spit it out,” I said, and then I peddled like mad.

Ethan caught up and grabbed hold of my handle bars, forcing me to stop. And once stopped, I was forced to stare into his devastatingly gorgeous green eyes.

He spoke carefully and with teeth-gritting conviction. “I believe every life has a purpose and I take mine seriously. I don’t have time or energy to mess around with flings and whims.”

“Is that what you think—”

“Let me finish,” he said.

“I won’t date simply to pass the time. When I date, it will be with someone I intend to marry.”

“Oh.”

(wtfbh?)

Ethan raked his windblown hair. “I’m trying to explain why I’ve been acting so strange,” he said. Then he caught me in a dead on stare. “I believe we were meant to be together.”

(gulp)

“But I’ve always been taught that a relationship that is unequally yoked is not necessarily part of God’s plan.”

“Unequally yoked!” I snapped. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means a difference in faith.”

“Oh! So you’re saying that you really like me and gee you might have considered dating me, intending to marry me—except that I’m not a Christian?”

“No!” he shouted, drawing the attention passing rollerblader. “I’m saying I’ve been wrestling with two opposing feelings. I’m saying my heart is aching and I’ve been longing for you since the moment I laid eyes on you at that burger joint in Mojave. I’m saying I want to move forward with our relationship, but only if you are willing to commit to the long haul.”

“You mean, if I’m willing to convert?”

“No!” he shouted again.

“You are judging me, Ethan. I can see it in your eyes.”

"I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.

Then he pointed at me with an angry finger, “But you, Kristen, are breaking my heart.”

I’m breaking his heart?

“Your faith journey is yours alone,” he said. "I’ve realized that after hours and hours of meditation and prayer. That is what I’m trying to tell you. What I meant was to say was I’d like to move forward if you are prepared to take the relationship seriously, until the end of our lives on earth.”

I’d never seen Ethan so halted, so vulnerable. The expression on his face roused me, as if I’d been sleeping my whole life and suddenly I was awake. I stepped toward him and put my hand on his arm and he jerked away, then lunged forward and grabbed me, with one hand on my arm and the other sliding behind my head and neck until he'd gathered me up. We connected instantly. There was the sound of crashing waves and the taste of salty air on his lips, but surely nothing else existed. As far as I knew, I was standing in Heaven.

Bright glimmering silence accompanied most of the bike ride back to the beginning of our trail. During a brief lunch stop I talked about my recurring dreams because no matter what turmoil I’m churning in, my obsessive paranoia always pierces through. I asked Ethan what he thought about the dreams. He said he wasn’t sure, but regarding my mothers whispered words, 'He’s coming,' Ethan said it reminds him of the return of Christ. He ignored the roll of my eyes and continued by saying he believed some people do receive God-driven messages in their dreams. That was when Ethan gained the courage to tell me about a recurring dream of his own that started about a year before we met.

“In the dream I’m much older and very tired.” He said. “A woman who is my age, you know, older, is sitting next me on a front porch swing of what appears to be a secluded mountain cabin. I have a sensation of overwhelming peace. Then everything goes black.”

Wow. That's about as vague and bizarre as my dream.

“It’s you, Kristen,” said Ethan. "The woman. The face is of a woman much older than you are now, but it’s you. I knew it from the moment we met.”

Ethan read my face perfectly. “I know, sounds crazy,” he said. “But I believe the dream, and I believe we were meant to be together.”

How could that be? I’m sure it's only his imagination.

“What am I going to do with you?” I said.

Then Ethan broke out in song, the way he often does to lighten the mood, this time with a little Bill Withers,

Lean on me, when you’re not strong,

I’ll be your friend,

I’ll help you carry on,

For it won’t be long,

‘Till I’m gonna need,

Somebody to lean on…

While Ethan sang I realized that though we are poles apart in faith, we were not so different. We are both occasionally confused; we both suffer; and we both seem a tiny bit insane when placed against a civilized setting. Flatline is not a word that can be used to describe my relationship with Ethan. It is a consuming roller coaster boasting devastating twists and turns. We now sit at a new peak and I am bracing myself for the thrill ride down.

We made a pact, a commitment to making our relationship work and by the end of the bike ride I was flying so high that I barely noticed the scowling Dorothy speck waiting for us at the parking lot where the day’s journey had begun. And so began the thrill ride down.

KAC

The image above is by Clarita @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/51233

Bonfire

2011-08-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

Danielle is pregnant. This sort of thing seems to happen to friends of mine who move out of California. She’s glowing, even more glimmering than Jenna had been, although by the time we’d seen Jenna she was ready to burst and well past the radiant stage. Anyway, my glowingly pregnant newlywed friend Danielle flew back from Florida so we could celebrate our birthdays together, and I’m so happy she did. Two dozen friends joined us at the beach for Frisbee, volleyball, homemade fried chicken and potato salad, and an unlimited supply of cream soda.

Ethan was there too.

The daylight celebration was so much fun that I dreaded the approaching night, but to my surprise evening swept in gracefully and as if it were the most natural transition known to man. As darkness grew so did the bonfire flames and the crowd of chilled beach goers surrounding them. We dug our cold toes into the sand and watched flames lick the dark night air and illuminate the faces of others with an indiscriminately eerie glow. It was very much like unstructured group therapy for the sane (or rather, for those who function well enough to perceive themselves as sane).

Danielle wept and wept, insisting that she was happy and that she had no idea why the tears flowed. She blamed hormones and though the group murmured in agreement, she fell back to weeping, complaining that her husband was gone so often she was not sure she would be able to cut it as a mother.

Unlike my last memorable bonfire, this time, Ethan did not sit next to me. He’d kept a safe distance most of the day and when evening fell he sat across from me in the circle. We had a perfect view of each other through the heat of the flames. Ethan was quite chatty, talking primarily about his mother Dorothy, ‘the reason for his visit to California.’ (Ouch, by the way. I’m not entirely sure Ethan knows what he says when he says what he says. My hope is that his words are not given in the spirit taken). Dorothy’s mind is eroding. It’s devastating, said Ethan, how she’s falling deeper and deeper into the distortions of her own mind. Andrew leaned forward, preparing to speak, but remained silent. I wanted nothing to do with Dorothy, so I kept my mouth shut. Obi simply nodded.

Ethan carried on about how much he’s prayed and how often he’s implored God for answers. He went on about his undulating faith and about spiritual warfare. The wide-eyed crowd grew silent and that was when I realized that Ethan was outnumbered. There was a Buddhist and an Atheist among us, but the bulk of the crowd was either undeclared or unconcerned. Only Obi, and two of my co-workers were Christians.

I brought up my recurring dreams. Took one for the team by grabbing the spotlight. Or, stole the limelight, depending on how you look at it. The relieved crowd latched on with great avidity.

“Oh it’s nothing,” said Jenna. “Stop eating pizza late at night and you’ll be fine.”

“Dreams are egocentric,” Andrew argued. “They point to something you’re trying to ignore or hide. You need to work through them by writing them down, meditating on them, pondering, thinking, analyzing, and beating the things to death, till they no longer move.”

Andrew's baby Clara spit up onto his lap. The crowd blinked.

“Did you see anything on the neck of the shadowed figure, or on the woman who wore red lipstick, or on your mother?” Asked Willy, a co-worker, the most skilled carpenter at The Silver Mirror Theater Company, and one of the only four Christians among us.

“No, nothing with the neck,” I replied.

Willie smiled, exposing the top row of his perfectly straight, glowing white teeth. “What about your neck? Did you feel any thing touching or restricting it in any way?”

Willie is ever so slightly obsessive compulsive. He has a thing for crosses, safety precautions, and potential throat obstruction.

“No Willie, nothing to do with the neck,” I said.

Willie sat back in comforted silence.

Naranjan pulled clumps of sage from a muslin pouch and chucked them into the fire. The resulting smoke would eliminate negative energy from the air, he assured us. Naranjan is another co-worker of mine, a thin and frail, and excessively energetic yogi. He’s a carpenter by day and a salesman by night. Dude believes he can sell anything and sometimes he can. He happened to have delicate sachets of sage, as well as ceramic burning bowls on hand, if anyone was interested. He sold three sets that night, but his most lucrative cash cow is his unique selection of hand grown teas (one of which smells exactly like moldy lemons).

“Dreams are heavily weighted with symbolism,” said Naranjan quickly. “They point toward life’s greatest mysteries.”

Naranjan’s eyes darted back and forth, assessing the crowd, collecting full attention before his big finish.

“The message from your dreams is simple,” he said. “The shadow is the darkness you must follow to avoid.”

Naranjan settled back into his chair, satisfied that he’d thoroughly confused everyone.

“I think the dreams are from my fear that Victor might return,” I said, trying to put the crowd back on track by sucking them into my paranoia.

“What about Legion?” said Danielle.

Most of the crowd knew very little about that night at the pub

Danielle was right, I confessed. The dreams could be a manifestation of my fear of Legion returning. Agent Hygleson found a witness who says she saw me getting hit, saw Legion jump in and pummel the guy, and then drag his limp body into the alley. Hygleson’s on the hunt for Legion, has a warrant for his arrest. Can’t find him though. Legion’s Las Vegas employer says he moved to another job in Maine (which is where Millie lives now, by the way). I do fear Legion will return. We haven’t spoken since that night at the pub. I’m afraid he’ll be angry when he returns. I’m afraid he’ll blame me for everything.

But then again, maybe I just need to stop eating pizza late at night.

KAC

The image above is from the bonfire, from my camera

He's Coming

2011-08-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

We now return to regularly scheduled programming…

I have been plagued by a rather disturbing recurring dream. I’m startled awake by the pattering paws of my deceased cat Harley. I follow him into the dark of the night which leads into the living room, only it’s not my present living room, it’s one from the past, the one I grew up in. Near an open window I see a shadow, a hideously-shaped silhouette that is identical to Victor’s vicious outline. It does not move. A strong wind surges through the room and it feels like I’m in a wind tunnel, but nothing is affected. Nothing flips up or flitters. The sound of the wind is the only evidence of it. The shadow remains rigid and still.

Then I’m inside another room. I can see glow-in-the-dark globs pasted all over the walls and ceiling. The dim green spots appear shapeless, but I know they are moons and stars because it is my bedroom from when I was a little girl. I can still hear the thundering wind. It bangs against the door, though the door does not rattle, and I dive underneath my bed covers leaving only my head sticking out. I’m waiting for the shadow to come, but it never does. Instead I see the woman I saw at the pub that night, or the one I thought I saw—the woman who wore red lipstick, and she’s standing over me. She opens her mouth like she’s trying to say something but nothing comes out. She has no voice.

Then I’m back at Rob’s house, in my grown up bed, and the woman who wore red lipstick is gone, but I am not awake. I seem to know this because I am not afraid. Now it is my mother I see, sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s leaning back on one hand, smiling and looking like Greta Garbo, all glamorous and sphinx-like. I’d never remembered seeing her looking so gorgeous and young and happy all at the same time. She leans in full of calm and grace. She’s so beautiful. She whispers, “He’s coming for you.”

I have this same dream every night and every time it ends the same way. I wake myself up by shouting, “Who’s coming? Mother, who is coming!” By then Mom is gone, vanished into the soft white mist of my blurry morning vision and then, nothing. I begin my day feeling as if I had been running uphill the entire night.

I have had quite a time, these last three weeks. The disturbing dreams. A break in Hygleson’s murder case. Confrontation with Dorothy. Ethan (which is all I’m going to say for now). Oh, and I turned twenty-six. There was a big celebration at the beach, a combo birthday beach bash for both Danielle and me. Everybody was there. Fate came too. She seems to show up everywhere.

Anyway, gotta go for now. My lunch break is over. I can hear Tiger’s thundering voice already.

KAC

The image above is by Clarita @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/119627

Ethanmania Part IX

2011-08-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Completing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of Twitterpated, originally posted in April 25 2011:

“Everybody gets twitterpated in the springtime,” laughed the owl in the 1942 American animated film Bambi.

“Well. It’s NOT going to happen to me,” replied the rabbit.
"Me neither," declared the young deer.

Twitterpated.

From the Urban Dictionary (a land I travel with levity since absence of reasonable moderation stacked atop a severe lack of taste allows some definitions on this site to vomit a raw and crude projectile, vulgar even by today’s hardly present standards of social decency. But there are always exceptions, little gems which stand out from muck, like this beauty here) - Twitterpated - "The ever increasing acceleration of heartbeat and body temperature as a result of being engulfed amidst the exhilaration and joy of being/having a romantic entity in someone’s life."

Having a romantic entity in someone’s life.

Is that what it was? Every waking moment, with an ever increasing acceleration of heartbeat as I ran the scene over and over in my mind. Increasing body temperature as I enhanced the image, added special effects, sharpened definition, and got sucked into the midst of exhilaration and joy, and thought bubbles, of hope, and the possibility of happily-ever-after.

Never had I been more confused by an affection, or infatuation, or obsession. Ethan, that wildly fantastic-smelling gorgeously glowing emerald-eyed man has driven me to the hairy edge of insanity, beginning with the moment we first crashed into each other, a long and torturous thirteen months ago. I could not take it anymore.

So I called him.

He was quiet. His dad had another stroke that morning. I sympathized as best I could; but I had nothing to say. Can mere words alleviate this sort of suffering? Was it selfish of me to push the issue aside, so we could deal with us—for once?

Sucks Ethan. I don’t know what else to say.
“I know."
So hey, um, about the other day—
“The concert?”
Yeah.
“I know.”
What.
“What?”
Yeah. You. Know. What?

Ethan breathed heavily into the phone. In. Out. And again. Ugh. My heart raced through the unspeakable silence of our long distance pause. Zoom zip zoom.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he finally answered.
Sorry?
“I shouldn’t have—”
Shouldn’t have?
“Not that I didn’t want to.”

Oh he wanted to, as he explained at great length. It sounded as if he had cotton in his mouth. Had he been eating? Multi-tasking: grieving his ailing father, filling his stomach, and muddling through a dysfunctional relationship.

The warm liquid of pumping blood surged past my ears and filled my head, making it light so that it may have floated away at any moment. Ethan said something about having wanted to kiss me ever since our first encounter. But, he muddled on, just because someone wants to do a thing, does not mean that person should do the thing. I made a face, a stink face like I had inhaled something rancid. Ethan could not see the face and he carried on, something about how it wasn’t fair, of him, to give in to temptation at my expense. He chewed on his cotton some more and then concluded; it was selfish for him to have led me on.

Led me on?
“The way things look," he said, "it seems there’s little chance for this relationship to go anywhere.”
Oh, I said.

My voice was small and quiet, but my mind was wild and angry with wailing, piercing screams, and the slobbery gnashing of teeth. An unbearable chaos of noise. Bam! Clash! Clang! Everything inside shut down. Gates locked, weapons engaged. A metal sheath encased my heart, first as a fiery liquid then cooling within seconds. Solidifying. Forming an impenetrable barrier.

This will NOT happen to me again.

My heart has been crushed many times. But this my friend, was the first time it had been crushed before the dating ever started.

KAC

The image above is by KennKiser@: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/53194

Ethanmania Part VIII

2011-08-08T15:19:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of Tuesday with Caddie Parts I-IV, originally posted in April of 2011, recording my first visit with my online friends Caddie and Phil:

Tuesday we were supposed to meet Caddie and Phil Murray, friends I’ve grown to know and love through blogging and email. Phil is the lead guitarist in a Christian rock band called the Posties, and he and his wife Caddie invited Ethan and me to come as special guests to one of their concerts, VIP tickets, backstage passes, after-party, big wigs, and the whole groupie thrill ride.

I couldn’t wait. This couple had shown me more compassion in the previous eight months than I had known my whole life. I also couldn’t wait to see Ethan’s glowing smile, but I had no choice on both accounts. Ethan’s plane was late, and by the time he emerged from the bustling terminal, dude was grumpy and our reunion was ice cold. Then lateness became the theme of the day as we tackled one delay after another. Ethan was uptight and this was a side of him I did not like. I told him I didn’t realize Christians were allowed to act the way he was acting. Ethan emphatically assured me that Christians are as human as anybody else.

We made it to the restaurant after we had already missed the sound check, after we had already missed the dinner, and barely before the band had to leave to get ready for the concert. We were all tired. Caddie was strung out from her baby Nate, Phil from the pressure of the concert, and Ethan and I from jumping hoops of fire to get there. Our union nevertheless, was magnificent. Caddie and Phil took to Ethan immediately, and he to them. Ethan’s smiled and for the first time that day and I smiled too. But a fear sparked in the pit of my stomach, a fear I kept covered and so it exploded into panic. It was a sense of being outnumbered by believers of a God I did not understand. Happiness and fear ripped at my stomach. Happiness from meeting Caddie, Phil, and Nate, and from having Ethan near, and fear that a neon arrow was forming above my head, “This one,” it would flicker, “does not believe.”

Quick hugs with Caddie and Phil and they were gone. Ethan and I stood alone, staring at their dust. At the arena casually dressed ushers escorted Ethan and me down and front to our primo spots near the right side of the stage. Our seats put us closer to the entertainment than I’d ever been. Except for that one time back in ’97 when Radiohead played at the Troubadour. A friend and I, each twelve years old at the time, were excellent with makeup and armed with padded bras and fake ID’s. We got in and jammed ourselves up against the stage. Then we got in a fight with some girl with a fuchsia Mohawk and we got kicked out.

Ethan stepped away to call the hospice and check on his dad. For nine minutes and thirty-six seconds not that I was counting, I sat alone, watching the stadium fill to capacity with Christians. Any moment, I feared, a spotlight would nail me to my chair while the warm up band kicked off with a little ditty something like this:

Which

One of these

Ta dee dee dumm

Is not

Like

The O-thers

La la la laa

Ethan returned upset, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

At the sight of the Posties the arena lit up with ten thousand fans screaming and jumping up and down. Phil took his spot, fired up his guitar and gave Ethan and me a wink heads up, all casual and rocker-like. A Kiwi, Caddie calls him. New Zealand born and raised. Long blonde spirals flipping off his shoulders.

So cool. This guy who’s been encouraging me through my blog, who I’d met moments before in a café parking lot. Giving us a 'wassuup' wink. Dude’s a rock star. I mean, I don’t know him as a rocker, but that’s what he's got going on up on that stage.

Ethan fidgeted like a little boy at Christmastime. Fans went berserk. The lead singer had a nice voice and Phil did too. Phil burned lots of energy jumping and running around, flipping his cascade of hair. The fans ate it up, knew every word to every song.
I didn't know any of them.

The Posties fired off one song after the next and the drummer pounded away while Phil tore up the stage. Fans kept screaming and jumping and singing. All the women with trance-like smiles plastered on their faces. I was in unfamiliar territory and I stood a bit outside of it all.

But there was one song, a rock ballad sung by Phil and the lead singer. The harmony of their voices dripped with emotion, sweet and smooth. It was lovely. The crowd remained standing but on the whole they were subdued. The song described a feeling of isolation, of going unnoticed, and it described the One who has noticed my misery, has noticed my pain. I say my because the singers sung you which seemed intended specifically for me. The only lyrics I can remember is the chorus,

Have you noticed

The One

Who notices you

Perhaps it was vibrations of sound in combination with the words of the song, or something else entirely, but a heavy sensation struck me in the chest. I looked to see if Ethan had felt it too. He was no longer standing but sitting, with his face planted in his palms. I knelt next to him and wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders. He returned the hug with a sturdy grip. We held on to each other through the end of the song and into the next.

Ethan pushed me back a little and looked at me. His eyes were saturated with emotion, with the deepest dark emerald I’d ever seen. My stomach fluttered the way it did on that cold dark night on the beach when I was sure Ethan and I were going to kiss, but instead he stepped back.

This time he pulled me in. Swiftly, he drew his lips to mine and we kissed. It was warm and sweet and maddening because I was crying and so was he and—why were we crying anyway; wasn’t this the greatest thing ever?

Gently Ethan pushed me back and we stared at one another. It was the sort of stare where all you wanted to do was look into the other person's eyes, as if they unlocked the portal directly into their soul.

“You just kissed a non-believer,” I said breaking our locked gaze.

Ethan smiled and tucked a strand of unruly hair behind my ear. “You just kissed a Christian. So we're even,” he said.

Everyone around us was standing and rocking out, so we stood too, but instead of jumping up and down we swayed arm in arm.

It was totally cheesy.

I loved it.

After the concert Caddie escorted Ethan and me to the after-party backstage. We were flushed with excitement, about the concert and well, other things.

“Oi, mates!” said Phil when he finally made it backstage. Then Phil introduced us around, but it wasn’t long before his high-strung manager Shane snapped. Shane didn’t like Ethan and me taking Phil away from all his other fans. Phil stood up for us, but I felt bad he was being pulled in so many directions. The rock star finally conceded and went off to mingle.

Ethan and I were fine milling about, I got to hold baby Nate again, but it wasn’t long before Phil got fed up with Shane.

So the four and a half of us fled. I couldn’t believe it, rock star went AWOL, so we piled into my Mustang and headed for my favorite late night parlor.

We plunged spoon-first into our troughs of luscious desserts, and into our long-awaited visit. Stories poured out on both sides, all the snags we faced throughout the day. It was a miracle our paths ever crossed. But all that was over now. We were finally together, melting in ice-cream bliss. Even baby Nate rested contentedly, looking so sweet and innocent.

The conversation was intimate, and lovely. Ethan shared some of his frustrations. He apologized for acting like a crab earlier in the day. His father’s not doing well, been suffering ever since his stroke. Ethan’s burned out from care giving, tired of watching his father suffer. I could relate, and I did a little but didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good ice-cream buzz by talking about my dying mother, so I changed the subject to work, or rather, my lack of it instead.

Ethan and I kept sneaking looks. At some point in the conversation Phil said, “Yeah okay look, I know the concert tonight was great, and I know I was probably personally just flamin’ amazing,” he made a wry face, “but I know that can’t be causing the little sparks in y’all’s eyes.”

Caddie frowned, “Did I miss something?”

Ethan and I grinned uncontrollably.

“Shut up!” Caddie squealed. “You mean—you two—?”

Ethan and I laughed.

“What? What does that mean?” Caddie asked.

I wasn't laughing anymore. I had no idea what it meant. “Oh, just—” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

Ethan shot me a crazed look. An embarrassed-tender-nervous sort.

Phil re-routed the conversation, “Oi, I’m dying to know what y’all thought of Brenny’s drum duel with Paul!”

Caddie looked disappointed, but I was grateful.

We carried on until early in the morning, laughing, and blathering on. Eventually the time came when the Murray’s really had to go. Hugs and promises to meet up again. And poof, they were gone.

Ethan’s friend Obi was expecting him.

It was well past midnight, but I did not want the evening to end.

“Wanna crash at my place?” I said.

Ethan gave me that crazed look again.

“On the couch of course,” I said, trying to recover gracefully.

“I’d better not,” he said, grinning and looking like he wanted to say yes. “Too tempting.”

Too tempting? What was that supposed to mean.

So we said goodbye. With a long sweet kiss. Our second of the night. It was lovely. Better than any I can remember.

And poof, Ethan was gone.

At home I sat on the edge of my bed, stunned. I had never before kissed a man who hadn’t come back with me to my place after.

Never.

KAC

To see Caddie's side of the story, check out here blog, here: http://caddiemurray.wordpress.com/2011/04/07/spiritual-warfare-part-2/

The image above is Phil, onstage.

Ethanmania Part VII

2011-08-05T11:40:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of A Day to Remember, A Reception to Remember, A Life to Remember, and Sunrise, each originally posted in February of 2011, recording Danielle’s wedding and the chaos surrounding this event.

I will never forget Danielle’s wedding. Not because the bride-to-be was groggy from sleeping pills and had freezing cold feet or because she’d had so much coffee we had to shove bread and herbal remedies down her throat to counteract the jitters. Not because bridesmaid Jenna was ready to burst with baby and she was full of faint and nausea, even though the groom was the one who passed out during the ceremony.  Nor was it the attack from an angry swarm of bees.

It was beauty that will make me remember that day forever. The lovely Neighborhood Church built along the edge of a rolling cliff, and a groom so stunning I’d have married him myself (hypothetically speaking). It was the precious little flower girl who threw up from nerves and missed her debut. And the bride. The gorgeous, glimmering bride, Danielle, and the Daddy who gave her away. It was the giant glass paned view of a glittery Pacific Ocean, dark and grey and standing defiant against the scattered clouds.

And it was Ethan, the fact that he had come and I could fling my arms around his neck when we met up at the reception and how he didn’t object, and how once again I could inhale his fresh linen scent. Every moment spent with him at the reception was magical, even the moments when he called me ‘The Girl Who Kicked the Beehive.’ It was how Ethan and I carried on as if nothing had ever changed. As if he still lived in California and we were the most deeply affectionate platonic friend couple that ever existed.

Ethan and I danced.  A song came on, one of my favorites by Florence and the Machine called The Drumming Song. Ethan grabbed me, pulled me in and we swayed, closely resting inside the arms of each other. The song’s about the fierce beating of the girl’s heart whenever her guy is near; she wonders if he can hear it, and I wondered the same thing. I was dizzy from the mix of champagne and Benadryl (for the bee stings) and I fell into the moment, deeper and deeper I fell. I could feel the pounding of Ethan’s heart, trying to break through his chest to reach mine. It’s too bad really, that everything fell apart from that moment.

Jenna went into labor.  Ethan and I planned to help Alana take her to the hospital, but I got a call from a nurse regarding my mother who was in another hospital. I felt guilty for abandoning my friends, but Ethan assured me:

“Your mom is first priority,” he said. “They’ll understand.”

He was right.  Time left with my mother was cruelly limited. At that moment I realized how much pain and suffering Ethan must have been going through with his father’s illness. I hadn’t been a very supportive friend to Ethan since his father’s stroke, been quite selfish actually, putting my needs first. Not that Ethan had been open with his feelings, but as much time we’ve spent on the phone, I’m surprised how little we’ve talked about his father.

I couldn’t get to Mom’s room fast enough. The click-click-clicking of my thin heels echoed wildly in the narrow halls. Ethan kept up through every turn and stride.

“Kristen honey,” said Mom. “You look terrible; what are all those welts?”

“Long story, what’s up? Nurse said you were freaking out?”

“It’s Betty.”

“Betty? Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”

“You wouldn’t have come. She doesn’t have anybody else.”

I wouldn’t have come. But now I couldn’t leave. Mom’s hospice roommate Betty was dying. No one else was coming.

We stayed at her side, the three of us, Mom, Ethan, and me, all of us weeping, both Ethan and Mom praying. I got text updates from Alana and Danielle through the night. The reception carried on brilliantly without us. Jenna gave birth to a pink and healthy baby girl named Clara. Alana and Greg got engaged and by 4am Betty was gone from this earth. Birds chirped; people trudged to work, and it looked as if the sun would rise again. Didn’t know what I had expected, like maybe the world would stop for even the slightest bit of time, knowing it had lost someone precious. Perhaps the world carried on because it also knew someone precious had arrived.

I’d have kept the bee sting welts if it meant I could’ve kept Ethan too; if I could’ve kept our dysfunctional relationship exactly as it was before that morning following Danielle’s wedding. But it’s all gone now. Long, long, gone. My heart ached so much I almost wished he’d never come.

By the time Ethan I staggered away from the sterile hospital walls leaving Mom asleep for the day and Betty asleep forever, we had a mere two hours before Ethan had to leave for the airport.

We grabbed some coffee and headed to the beach in hopes of catching the rising sun. We huddled in the sand with only a wool blanket to shield us from nipping coastline winds. A heavy lead-grey sky hung above our heads threatening to fall upon us at any moment. Neither of us had changed since the wedding and my adorable crimson bridesmaid dress was useless for blocking the cold.

“I feel bad for Betty, dying alone,” I said.

“She wasn’t alone.”

“I know. I’m glad we were there, but you know what I mean.”

Ethan answered with his eyes. He didn’t get it. How would I be able to explain when I wasn’t sure what I was feeling?

“It’s a shame,” I said. “That a life had to end like that, without family.”

Ethan sighed. “Betty’s life ended beautifully. She went with the grace of God.”

I stared blankly.

“I don’t know much about the account of Betty’s life while she roamed this earth,” he said, “but I know she’s in a better place.”

“You mean heaven?” I said, raising my eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“How do you know this, Ethan? How do you know for sure?”

“She was saved.”

I turned away and stewed in silence. It surprised me how irritated I was that he thought life was that simple. It scared me how quickly my anger grew. I had no idea where it was coming from, this anger raging like fire, peeling like thunder through my body.

“What about me!” I snapped, whipping my head to face him again. “Do you think I would go to heaven?”

His eyes searched my face, as if what he needed to say was written there somewhere. But they were not.

I knew exactly what he was thinking, that I was not ‘saved’ whatever that meant. His answer, had he said it, would have been no, I would not go to heaven. His sad puppy eyes stabbed my heart.

“Don’t you care?” I asked, knocking the blanket off with my anger.

Ethan sat. Minutes passed by without either of us speaking, only staring at the monotonous crashing of the waves.

“Would you like to be saved?” he asked with a rise in his pitch and a twinkle in his throat.

“Eh! I don’t even know what that means, okay? And it’s too much for me right now.” I raked cold fingers through my windblown hair.  “I can’t believe you think I’m going to hell. You really think that don’t you! I mean, don’t you care?”

“I care,” said Ethan with angry wide eyes.

“What if I died today!” I yelled. “What then!”

Ethan’s face softened. He gently placed the blanket over my shoulders and looked at me with red wet eyes.

“That,” he said. “Would be a shame.”

He faced the ocean again and a lonely tear rolled down his cheek. Then he closed his eyes and his lips moved ever so slightly without even the merest sound coming out of them.

As the sun’s rays pushed up from beyond the horizon, the heavy overcast sky pushed mightily back. Eventually, the light of morning overcame the darkness of night.

But not without tremendous effort.

KAC

The image above is by mcaiafa @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/197297

By the way, Under my original post, Sunrise, a friend of mine left a beautiful response in the comments section. I loved his response so much, I re-entered his comments in a regular post here: http://kristenacthemaniac.blogspot.com/2011/03/grace-and-peace.html

Ethanmania Part VI

2011-08-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of Stay, originally posted in September 2010, when Rob was still in a coma; and Brrring, originally posted November 2010, when Ethan moved to Colorado:

Mom had grown weary from taking care of Rob. Her sockets were dusky, giving the illusion that her eyes were actually collapsing into her skull. Ethan wanted to talk so I asked him to meet me at a coffee shop next to the hospital. I looked forward to taking a break from Mom’s slumped shoulders, and her skin that hung loosely from her tired bones.

I welcomed Ethan with an energetic greeting, a broad smile and a generous hug. I needed to breathe the man in and I held on for an inappropriate length of time. He always smells like fresh cleaned linen. Reminds me of when I used to spend the night at Rob and Betty’s house, when I was a little girl and Betty was still alive. I inhaled the lovely scent and my brain went ‘mmmm’ not realizing I’d said it out loud until Ethan jerked away to catch a glimpse of my face.

“Let’s get some coffee,” I said quickly, as a distraction from the awkwardness.

While we waited in the long, long, line for caffeine Ethan looked at me the way he always does with those green eyes of his and I imagined he was thinking he wanted to swallow me up into his arms. But something held him back and his expression changed.

“My internship ends in January,” he said.

My heart jumped into my throat.

“I have two job offers,” he said. “One’s with UCLA Department of Medicine.”

That's not far from my office. But Ethan’s expression told me it was too early to celebrate.

“The other one’s in Colorado.”

I couldn’t breathe. An arrow sliced through my heart, and then sailed on by.

“I haven’t made any decisions,” he said. “I’m praying about it, asking God to help me find the answer, and I wanted you to know.”

Listen, I said without speaking, you want an answer? I’ll give you an answer right now. Decline the Colorado offer. Stay here with me and we’ll continue to be really great friends while one or more of us desire to be more than friends. Then someday something incredible will happen and we will be more than friends. And if that doesn’t happen life will still be awesome because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the only man (besides Rob) who’s ever really cared about me. You are one of the few reasons I look forward to the next day.

Stay.

Ethan did not stay. His father who lives in Colorado, suffered a stroke. While Ethan was visiting his ailing father, he made the decision to relocate, and notified me with a text message. A text! The following is a telephone conversation which followed shortly after.

“Got a minute?” asked Ethan, calling from Colorado.

“Uh sure,” I replied casually, dying inside because I was upset and not in the mood.

“I want to apologize,” he said.

My heart accelerated and I walked into my bedroom, away from my noisy and obnoxious guests.

Ethan continued, “I was wrong to text a message that important. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“It’s okay,” I said with pleasant inflection. Hearing the words ‘I’m sorry’ washed my brain in a happy sort of liquid. But I remained on edge.

“I wanted you to be the first one to know," Ethan said. "This was a big thing for me, a decision I felt really good about.”

Ouch!

“I’m happy things are working out for you,” I said.

“No, I don’t think you understand. This was a huge deal, so important that all I could think about was I needed to tell the person who was most important to me. But I was at the hospital with my dad and couldn’t have a phone conversation then, so I decided to send a text.”

Pain and joy wrestled in the pit of my stomach.

I’m the most important person to him?

“You have no idea how much I’ve prayed about this,” Ethan continued. With my Dad so sick, the Colorado job offer spoke to me. So much has happened over the last couple of weeks, things I can’t describe without sounding crazy, but something clicked and I know I’m supposed to be here. Is any of this making sense?”

I shook my head no.

Ethan continued. “I hate that we’ll be apart for so long, and I know things are rough for you right now. I know you think you need me to be close, but you don’t. You’re going to be fine, and when you do need me I’ll be there. I promise.”

My eyes were wet and my chest filled with catching breaths, the sort of breaths that are quick and short, like the ones I have when I’m trying desperately to hold myself together.

“I know things are strange between us,” he said, which was at best, an understatement.

“I think there’s a reason for that,” he said. “Don’t know what it is yet. But Kristen,” he continued with an alarming quiver in his voice, “I know in my heart there’s a future for us. You have no idea how much I care about you. You have to trust me.”

I said I would and then Ethan had to go because something was going on at his end of the phone line.

The conversation was over, and I was slumped on the floor, next to my bed, unable to think, still clutching the phone, and unable to speak.

Only able, to breathe

KAC

Image of couple silhouette by mzacha @: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/626671

Ethanmania Part V

2011-08-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of Dazzle, originally posted August 28, 2010:

I had the strangest dream.

Ethan and I were texting back and forth like usual, except my vision was unclear and I had a lot of trouble finding the letters on my QUERTY keyboard and I wished we were face to face, because it would have been much easier.

Then Ethan and I were standing next to each other.

We were in a garden.  Ethan held my hand and led me down a path and we walked in silence.

Then we stood inside some sort of building.  Ethan handed me something that looked like a little white jewelery box, like one that would house a ring. So far, nothing made sense and I was curious, delighted, and baffled.

I opened the little white box and a brilliant light sprayed out from it, blinding me temporarily. There was an object inside the box that looked like a diamond ring, but when I reached out to touch it nothing was there except for sprays of light shooting out from a fuzzy cardboard pad.

Ethan remained silent. He smiled and walked ahead. I closed the box and followed him and as I did I noticed there were lots of other people around us and we were all walking in the same direction, toward a large space which looked like a gigantic banquet room filled with hundreds of folding chairs.

All the people, hundreds and hundreds of them, walked with us and each of them smiled a knowing smile.  The scene was peaceful, comforting, and disturbing.

The surroundings changed.  Instead of folding chairs we were all seated upon hundreds of rows of long benches. On the opposite side of the room sat Danielle in her wedding gown, holding a flowing bouquet of orchids. She was stunning.

Stained glass filled every window. Obiefune stood up front.  A simple metal cross hung high on a wall behind him.

We were inside a church!

I felt dizzy and insecure, and compelled to leave.

Obi talked about the little white boxes, explaining that they were a gift for attending this initiation. I don’t think he used the word ‘initiation’ but that’s what I heard. Every person in the room held one of the little white boxes. I thought I saw Harley walking down the aisle, but it was only a shadow that disappeared.

Ethan looked straight ahead and I got the impression he was very happy. I remember feeling awful for wanting to leave so badly. I tried to listen to Obi, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I decided to sit it out and wait for the event to be over. I would be quiet and polite about the whole thing, and when we got up to leave I would place the box on the bench and leave it there.

The dream evaporated and I woke up.

I don’t normally throw a lot of weight onto the meaning of my dreams, but this one continues to bother me and all I keep thinking is what the heck?

KAC

The image above called Dazzle is by Anita Patterson @: http://www.morguefile.com/archive/display/45692

Ethanmania Part IV

2011-07-29T08:41:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of Happiness is a Warm Gun, originally posted June 2010:

I skipped the session with my therapist Katy yesterday. Ethan’s schedule was tight, and it was the only time we could meet, so I had to choose and Katy lost.

Ethan and I met after work at an indoor shooting range in my neighborhood. He gave me a warm smile and a decent hug, and I breathed him in for as long as I could. The place was surprisingly crowded so we shared a lane. We shunned the bull’s-eye and chose a human target (silhouette image of course, not a real-life one). Ethan’s targets were set back farther than mine, but I was amazed by how similar our patterns were: nicely coagulated groupings, piercing the center of the chest.

Something about holding and object so volatile—and controlling it—makes me feel strong, empowered, and invigorated. As much as I enjoyed hitting my target, I liked watching Ethan more. He never flinched as shell casings skimmed the flesh of his brawny arms, every inch of which were a solid mass of muscle. His shooting position was firm and focused, always confident, and without the unnecessary arrogance.

Afterwards, we grabbed dinner at a nearby Japanese restaurant. Ethan talked about how he’d been around guns his whole life and how his father liked to take him hunting. I talked about how Rob started taking me to the shooting range when I was ten. Rob said it would help me feel independent and safe. Mentioning Rob was like hitting a tripwire. There was silence as we both waited for a reaction.

“I’m sure you’ve already heard,” I blurted, “about Rob?’

“My mother called,” said Ethan, “but I’m not sure I understand the whole story. She was hysterical and rambling,”

“Your mother doesn’t like me very much and I have a feeling she doesn’t like my mother very much anymore either.”

“My mother is strong-tempered, and opinionated, but I love her,” he said. “She’s my mother, you know? “

I stared at Ethan unable to hide my anxiety.

“But that doesn’t mean I always agree with her,” he said, “or that I believe everything she says.”

“How about I tell you my side of the story,” I said.

Ethan leaned in, taking the position of someone who was committed to listening to someone else.

I began with the night at the beach, when my mother informed me that the person I’d thought was my uncle was actually my father. I tried to explain the pain and guilt I have over spending twenty-four years of my life in oblivion, not realizing or appreciating possibly the most important person in my life, and now it might be too late. I admitted to feeling confused, and betrayed, and said I couldn’t understand how both my mother and Rob could keep this from me, and I wasn’t sure which one of them I was mad at most.

I talked about feelings of inadequacy, having parents who come from the same family, and even though they weren’t blood related, they lived together as brother and sister, and I’m having a hard time getting through that. But then, I said, that makes me think about how messed up these two people really are, even Rob, who I always thought was solid—they were hurt, and they were lost, and they were weak. I almost begin to feel sorry for them, but then I stop and try to think of something else, because I’m not ready to go there.

Ethan listened.

Then in an exceedingly comforting manner, Ethan tried to convince me to talk with my mother. He failed, but he did convince me to plan a visit with Rob.

In the end, I was exhausted, but relieved.

Ethan doesn’t think I’m a monster. In fact, I believe he really likes me, but I’m not sure in what capacity, because every meeting begins and ends with an affectionate, yet decidedly platonic hug.

KAC

Ethanmania Part III

2011-07-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of The Carnival, and The Carnival at Night, originally posted May 2010:

Our ‘Welcome Millie’ party overflowed with music, dancing, competitions and sideshows—like a carnival. It’s over now and I’m left with the fodder of it all, not the least of which is a beast of an emotional hangover. But let me start at the beginning.

Nothing went according to plan. Millie and I woke up late and before we finished loading her belongings into the apartment the party guests arrived. Ethan came first. That man looks better each time I see him. He came with two friends, Sean (buddy number two from Mammoth), and a new friend named Obiefune.

“This is a Nigerian name,” Obiefune said, which means, ‘do not loose hope,’ or maybe he said it means, ‘do not lose hope,’ I couldn’t tell. Everyone calls him Obi.

Legion arrived next and I put the guys to work hauling coolers and other party gear down to the beach. They marched off boldly with their manly assignments and I wondered what Ethan thought of Legion.

Everyone else came at once: Danielle and her fiancé Brian, Alana, Jenna and Andrew (yes, they got back together), two more of Millie’s friends, and Tracy. I know it seems strange that I’d invite Tracy, but I couldn’t help it. She calls me all the time and she seems different, like a newer and improved version of herself. I was trying to explain this to Danielle and Jenna when my mother called. She insisted we get together immediately. She needed to talk and didn’t want to wait one more minute.

I told her I was in the middle of a party and I was sure—whatever it was—it could wait until morning. She kept insisting it couldn’t, but I hung up on her.

Why would I leave the party to have a talk with my mother, which in all likelihood would lead to misery?

Why?

In the early afternoon the fog lifted to reveal clear and crispy skies, but it was still a chilly sixty-five degrees. We put a net in the sand and held a volleyball tournament with teams of two. It would have been great to have been teamed up with Ethan, but I didn’t want to appear desperate so I ended up with Obi and Ethan was paired with Millie. The games were a blast and everyone was having a good time, except Jenna and Andrew who were paired with each other, which was a big mistake because they argued without stopping.

Once, Ethan and I faced off on opposite sides of the net. Briefly, our eyes locked and I felt somehow linked to him. I wanted to stop the game and ask him if he felt it too. Then life carried on and we were separated again. Because of Obi’s mad volleyball skills and my consistent setting, Obi and I came in second place, following Tracy and Legion, the champions. Those two took a strong liking to each other and clung together as if they’d known each other forever.

We roasted hot dogs and sat in chairs encircling the fire pit. Immediately, the mood was intimate. We talked and laughed, and shared personal stories. I sat next to Ethan and enjoyed every minute.

And then when day became night the celebration began feeding upon itself until destruction was complete.

Jenna and Andrew argued and their tempers flared. Jenna went for a swim in the ocean to cool off and was hit by a jellyfish. Alana took her back to the apartment to soak the stinging rash with vinegar. Legion had too much to drink and acted impulsive and loud. My mother called repeatedly until I turned off my phone. I felt bad about ignoring my mother and the party drama was getting on my nerves. So I walked away, toward the water, and north a bit, to get some distance from the noise. Ethan followed me.

We talked about little things at first. The weather was fair. Our jobs were going well. Then he asked, “What’s going on?”

“My mother keeps calling me,” I said. “There’s some big thing she needs to tell me. Something she’s been keeping from me.”

“You’re not calling her back?”

“No,” I said sharply. “I’m afraid it’s going to be something upsetting. I would rather not know.”

There was a length of silence when Ethan and I stared at the dark water and reflected moonlight appeared like thousands of diamonds floating in the sea. The sound of crashing waves drowned out the rest of the world. Then Ethan looked at me and I looked at him, and I sensed a familiar connection, a force drawing me toward him. My stomach got fluttery, like it did before my very first kiss. I knew we were both going to lean in until we couldn’t lean any closer.

But neither of us did. We held our positions, as if something was holding us in place, as if something was holding him in place. The silence grew awkward, but was immediately broken by a frightening sound.

“Kristen Honey!”

It was my mother. She ran across the sand toward me, stumbling and flapping her arms like a crazed chicken.

In the distance, across a dark stretch of sand, angry voices pierced the moist night air as the party group coagulated.

I’m heading back,” said Ethan. “Looks like things are getting crazy over there.”

“Stay put,” he said. “Listen to your mother, and don't run away.”

He walked toward the party and he got smaller, and smaller.

Mom was breathless when she reached me. She rested bent over with her palms on her thighs, trying to hyperventilate.

“Kristen honey,” she said a few moments later, nearly recovered. “Let’s sit.”

We parked ourselves on a sand ridge, just beyond the reach of lapping waves. Heated voices continued in the background and a whirring siren approached.

“I’m sorry I crashed your party,” said Mom, trying to lay her words down carefully, “but I was afraid if I waited until tomorrow, I would wait forever.”

“I'm not up for this.”

“Just listen Kristen honey. You don’t need to do or say anything.”

She talked about her childhood, how awful it was, and I got a little irritated. If Mom insisted on interrupting my party, I wished she would at least begin sometime later than at the very beginning of time, and get to the point.

She continued. The abuse was heavy and most of it I already knew, but as she went into detail, some of which hardly seemed possible, it was like she was trying to make my childhood seem light and feathery.

She talked about her relationship with her brother Rob, and again, I wanted to just roll my eyes and say yes, I get it, you two are close; I already know this, so just get on with it. Then she dove into great depth about how she and Rob often banded together for solace and protection from their parents.

Mom talked in length about how Rob always comforted her.

And she described one specific night, when she was sixteen and her father was particularly agitated—how she had escaped from his grasp—and she and Rob decided to run. They ran far into the neighboring fields. They ran until they could no longer see their home, or hear their father’s screams. They collapsed onto the ground, and they both cried and held on to each other without letting go.

“What are you saying?” I yelled.

“Your Uncle Rob—“

“Yes, my Uncle—your brother—what are you saying!” My heart raced and my limbs were shaking.

“Kristen honey,” she said calmly, “my parents adopted Rob when he was a year old, before I was born. So by blood, he’s not really my—“

I turned away from my mother. I wanted to scream, or cry, or run. The party was dissolving, and someone was being guided into a police car.

Then in an unnervingly quiet voice Mom said, “Rob is your father.”

KAC

The above image is from Suzee Que’s photostream on Flikr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/suzee_que/3370398041/

Ethanmania Part II

2011-07-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

Continuing the series of Ethanmania, the following is an edited flashback of The Return of Emerald Eyes, and House Blend, originally posted April 30 and May 6, 2010:

Uncle Rob is still alive and still breathing on his own, but remains in a persistent vegetative state. Mom’s searching for a long term care facility for him. This was not the big secret by the way, and I’m still trying to get Mom to divulge. Sadly, she's pulled away, keeps four feet between us, and refuses to make eye contact with me. I asked if she planned to call her parents, my grandparents whom I’ve never seen, merely as a suggestion, since I thought they might like to know their son is in a coma. Mom responded with a vacant stare and then shuffled away, letting the question fall to my feet unanswered; and there it lay, shattered.

I blame anxiety on such annoying behavior. Rob’s condition is wearing on Mom. It shows on her face. She’s dealing with massive bundles of paperwork from attorneys and insurance agents. I can see the invisible weight resting upon her shoulders and I wince at the memory of numerous trees, which have sacrificed their existence on Rob’s behalf.

Mom’s friends show up at the hospital often. They coagulate in the lobby and weave themselves together, forming a sort of nest where they feed on prayer and support like hungry little birds, with their eyes shut tight and mouths opened wide, waiting for whatever comes next. Yesterday, I went to visit Uncle Rob and as I was passing through the waiting room I fell into Mom’s nest of friends. I’m usually clever enough to divert my path, but on this day I was in a haze, and so effortlessly became ensnared.

Taken as a group these women make up a friendly and pleasant collection. There’s one though, named Dorothy, who can never resist giving me a disapproving look, the kind of look which can make a person feel like they're less than anything else. The climate surrounding this woman is arid, and twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the planet. I stood away from Dorothy and next to Robyn who placed her hand softly upon my shoulder where it remained throughout our conversation. She asked how I was doing and seemed genuinely concerned about my well-being. I told her I was managing. I talked about my aging cat Harley, and I spoke of Millie, my new roommate.

Immediately, my attention was caught by my peripheral vision. Turning my head to improve my view, I saw a person, a man, with amazing green eyes, who looked exactly like someone I’ve seen only in my dreams these past eight weeks.

I thought I was having one of those disturbing experiences where you believe you’re awake when something ridiculous happens, and then you realize you’re actually dreaming, and you’re left feeling disappointed and confused because you were sure you were conscious.

The room dimmed and I lost the ability to stand up straight without swaying lightly.

Could it really be him?

Yes. The gorgeous Emerald Eyes which have plagued my thoughts regularly were unmistakable.

He walked across the floor. His stride was calm and powerful. His path led straight toward us, and my heart was weak and agitated.

He approached Dorothy, grabbing her attention with a “Hey,” and a kiss on her forehead.

“Hi Mom,” said Ethan.

My heart stopped for about six beats.

Ethan stood next to Dorothy and I ducked behind Robyn’s frame, which was just tall enough to hide my face. Abruptly, Robyn stepped back and asked, “Have you two met?”

Ethan turned his head and we were reunited.

“Kristen?” said Ethan. His cheeks flushed and his eyes grew wide. He looked either delighted, stunned, or frightened. He walked toward me wearing a smile which vigorously competed with mine.

Dorothy wore a sort of crooked and twitching grin.

“Ethan?” I replied, coy and innocent, as if this had been the first time I had thought about this man since we met in Mammoth.

Ethan held up his cell phone, “I entered the wrong number, and when you never called,”

“You two know each other?” interrupted Dorothy.

"Yeah, we met in Mammoth several weeks ago,” said Ethan.

“During the men’s retreat?” asked Dorothy, placing excessive emphasis on the word ‘Men’s'.

Dorothy didn’t approve. She didn’t like me, or at a minimum she didn’t want her son standing near someone like me. She never accepted the strained relationship I had with my mother, and she seemed to only to think of me as the teen aged version of myself, which admittedly, was not pretty.

I wanted Dorothy to go away. I wanted to be alone with Ethan and to be back on the mountain, with an unspeakable view sitting before us and a frosty wind biting our cheeks.

“Kristen,” said Ethan, “we never did get that coffee. Would you settle for a cup of terrible house blend from the cafeteria?"

Dorothy scowled at me. I ignored her and Ethan and I walked away.

We settled into hard plastic chairs and gripped our disposable cups filled with a murky sludge I’ll always remember as the best coffee I ever had.

With exaggerated hand motions bringing my story to life, I explained the mishap with my cell phone—how it fell into the toilet, and how I reached in to save the thing, but it was too late. Ethan laughed so hard I thought we would be escorted from the cafeteria. But really, no one cared. There was one pregnant woman ready to pop, buckling with contractions, who seemed irritated at the sound of laughter. Was it our fault her doctor told her to walk it off, or whatever her reason was for suffering in the café instead of pushing the darn thing out?

Ethan talked about his childhood. I leaned my head to the side, resting my cheek in one hand, and listened. I was so incredibly happy. Ethan kept talking and talking and for awhile I was only partially aware of what he was saying. Something about being raised in Colorado by his father, and only recently coming to California. He’s training in the field of sports medicine to become a physical therapist and has an internship at Rob’s hospital.

Ethan asked about my Uncle Rob. He already knew about the car accident and about Rob’s coma; Dorothy had explained all of this. What Ethan didn’t know however, was how special Rob was to me. Ethan listened aggressively as I explained how I longed for my Uncle Rob to be different from other coma patients who drag on for years in an unending vegetative state. I explained how necessary it was for my sanity that Uncle Rob recovers—and not just partially but completely—to his usual self.

Ethan was captivated by my words and I was a little freaked out, but I loved it. I wanted to grab Ethan by the arm and take him to see my uncle. Rob would like that. He wouldn’t be able to see Ethan, or talk to him, but I think he’d know Ethan was there. Rob would like Ethan and he would be delighted to see me so happy. Maybe this could be the time Rob makes his first move, like a smile, or maybe a flinch of his toe when the nurse pricked him.

But Ethan had a meeting and needed to go. So we exchanged phone numbers, carefully this time, and said good-bye, embracing in a brief and gentle hug, and Ethan's shirt smelled like fresh cleaned linen.

I visited my uncle and told him about my coffee break with Ethan. Rob made no move whatsoever.

Later that day when evening came I still carried a dorky smile upon my face, and it has been there ever since.

KAC

Ethanmania Part I

2011-07-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

My head is clouded with blog bog, so for the next three weeks the blog will auto post flashback entries related to Ethan (who, by the way, is flying in this weekend!). Here’s the first flashback which tells the story of how Ethan and I met. This is an edited version of a series titled, Mammoth Birthday Weekend originally posted March 2010:

Alana wanted to celebrate her birthday in Mammoth, California. So Jenna, Danielle and I piled into her car and drove north. I was excited to get out of town and grateful my friends could break away to have a girls' weekend.

Before we knew it we were in Mojave, the perfect stop for food and caffeine. As I was coming out of the ladies room in the burger joint I bumped into a guy who was coming out of the men's room. For a moment we were tangled and I caught a whiff of his shirt, which smelled like freshly cleaned linen. I made my apologies and scurried away, but not soon enough. Visions of his magnificent green eyes were already stuck in my head: two precious stones, embedded drops of emerald.

"Who was that?" asked Danielle.

"I have no idea," I said, trying to sound bored.

"Oh my gosh; you're blushing!" Said Jenna. "You like him; why didn't you talk to him?"

"She always does that," said Danielle.

At once, my friends attacked, and I became a raw slab of meat thrown into a tank of piranhas. They complained I was too shy, too cautious, a spineless wimp. Why don't you take a chance? They begged. You're not getting any younger, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, Emerald Eyes was standing nearby, and I'm pretty sure he was within earshot. I begged the girls to stop, but they became increasingly obnoxious. They glared at Emerald Eyes as he walked out carrying bags of food, with his friends following behind. Alana, Danielle, and Jenna smirked and giggled. I pretended to drop something, so I could hide beneath a table.

I really don't know how my friends could have embarrassed me more.

Emerald Eyes was gone and the girls and I continued on to Mammoth. Our condo was a rich dark wood and earth stonework two story home, owned by Alana's uncle. Inside, large panes of glass held breathtaking views of gigantic mountain pines, freshly dusted with powdered sugar-like snow. The place was gorgeous and gigantic, and too much house for the four of us, so we went out for dinner where there were more people per square inch of space. We found a kitschy Hawaiian bar/restaurant where the atmosphere was relaxed and casual, making it easy for us to settle in. The DJ was playing techno music to a packed crowd with neon lights flashing on the dance floor, which produced a mountain-tropical club vibe. We loved it!

The next day was Alana's birthday and we spent the entire day snowboarding, Alana's favorite sport.

Out of sympathy for me, the less-gifted-in-the-snow friend, the other girls agreed to begin with the easiest lift of the hill, Chair 11, a quad express named Discovery Chair for its unspeakable view. The runs from this chair were gentle slopes, which brought me great relief. It turned out to be a perfect day, bright and sunny, with runs covered in powder from a fresh snowfall. To my amazement, I exited the lift like a pro, gliding straight and clean. I managed so well in fact, the girls only tolerated two runs before they insisted on switching to an intermediate run.

Oh Great!

Alana led us through runs with increasing levels of difficulty as our legs, more and more, became one with the mountain. She was careful to avoid the advanced runs, but knowing Alana, I'm sure she would have rather spent her birthday exploring the backside of the mountain along with some of the other more advanced runs. She kept trying to convince us she was having the best time, simply showing us the mountain.

I couldn't remember the last time I had as much fun. The snow covered mountain chilled my bones, while the sun heated my face. The exhilaration of wind whipping past as I rode downhill, lifted me to the treetops. Not that it was easy. My legs were working, and I fell--a lot. But there was something rewarding about gutting out a run, succeeding on some of the turns, and being able to keep up with the other girls.

In the late afternoon, we decided to take our final run, so we went to the lift line for Chair 2, another high speed quad, with mostly intermediate runs, this one named Stump Alley Express. While we were waiting a small child speeded down the bottom of the hill. The child had no fear and did nothing in the way of stopping, or slowing down. He sped past us, straight into a line of rope, flipped 360, and fell straight on his back. We didn't know if we should laugh or run over to him, but his dad came quickly, and the boy was fine.

Then, Jenna noticed:

"Kristen," she said in a most urgent whisper, "Emerald Eyes is right behind you."

Emerald Eyes! I couldn't believe it. Was the guy from Mojave really behind me? Did he see me? Of course he did, but did he care? How could I have waited in a lift line and not notice him?

I wanted to speed away in my chair, through Stump Alley Express, and far away from where I presently stood. Unfortunately, the group in front of us, a party of five, had one leftover--extremely poor planning in my opinion. Were they unable to grasp the seating capability of a quad ski lift?

"You can ride with us," said Jenna, grabbing on to the leftover with an irritating avidity. [Avidity, btw, means eagerness or greed: great eagerness or enthusiasm for something. You may have already known this, but I didn't. I found the word in my thesaurus, and I fell in love with it. OK, so back to my story.]

"But, we are a group of four," I said, clenching my teeth.

The women I had believed to be my friends disregarded my protest and in a blip Jenna, Danielle, and Alana were contained in the chair (my chair) with the stranger, and off they went, while I was left alone—with Emerald Eyes positioned directly behind me, perhaps even breathing down my neck.

The next few seconds were a blur, but it turned out that Emerald Eyes had two buddies with him, and together, we filled the next chair perfectly. Within moments, I was confined forty feet above the snow covered ground with Emerald Eyes and his friends. My pulse rate was excessive; I was pretty sure I was going to have a heart attack; and I wondered if either of these men knew anything about mid-air CPR.

"You feeling ok?" asked Emerald Eyes.

"Un-huh."

"My name's Ethan."

"Kristen; my name's Kristen," I said, in a trailing voice.

Beneath my approach, I was freaking out. I was pretty sure the last time I had an internal conversation, I'd agreed, promised in fact, to take a looooong break, from dating, or talking to guys, or even looking at them. I'd decided: My lucky number was one.

But this guy, with with those eyes, the way I felt when he looked at me, the chill which enveloped my spine when he spoke, geez! I hadn't stopped thinking about him since we collided in Mojave. The mere sight of him caused me extreme agitation. I wished I could run away, but I was trapped, held captive, subjected to my anxieties.

Emerald Eyes, or rather, Ethan--oh, I love that name; it combines well with mine--'Kristen and Ethan, Ethan and Kristen.'

Oh right so I was saying, Ethan began civil pleasantries like, "Perfect day, Yeah?" Gradually, I sank back into my chair, back to earth, and responded to his inquiries. Ethan had a talent for turning conversation into a natural progression of human interaction and making his captives feel comfortable. His buddies contributed and our discussion became more and more animated by the second.

We explored common interests.

"No way!" I said. "You like food too? I love food!" I probably sounded more intelligent, or at least, I hope I did.

We talked about how we adored different styles of food. (Ethan didn't use the word 'adore' so much as he would say, "Oh man, that was amazing.") We agreed, the more bizarre the food, the more we enjoyed it. Kumamoto oysters, and Kulfi--yum! Flan and chicken fingers--blech! The four of us rambled on in fits of laughter, yapping about some of the most tempting, disgusting, and exciting foods we'd ever tried. I couldn't believe how quickly five minutes had evaporated.

We came to our stop, and I wondered if it was possible, was my lucky number two?

The four of us, that is, Ethan, his two friends and I, vacated the high speed chair lift, and glided toward the beginning of our run. We buckled with laughter from our raucous banter, as if we’d recently exited a party, the snowboard party on Chair 2. But within moments, as we reached the peak of the hill our amusement faded. An awkward silence melted the snow.

Now what?

Ethan was under no obligation to journey the run with me, right? Sure we had fun, we were entertained, but it was five minutes. He had his buddies. And I had my friends—wait!

“I can’t believe it,” I said, “My friends should have been here. They left without me!”

Suddenly, I slipped, fell on my butt, rolled backwards, and landed in an unflattering position. I was unable to recover without detaching my snowboard.

“You need a hand?” asked Ethan, reaching out to me.

“That’s ok,” I said, “I’ll just switch my feet around.”

“Maybe you should strap your safety leash to your leg.”

Too late. The unbridled board started downhill, was clipped by a passing skier, and went flying. Ethan’s buddy raced after it, but overshot the target, shrugged his shoulders and continued his descent. Buddy number two, oblivious of the runaway, trailed after buddy number one.

I darted toward my snowboard. Or rather, I galumphed, since it's nearly impossible to ‘dart’ downhill in powdery snow wearing gigantic boots encased in a hard plastic shell.

With superhuman effort, Ethan chased my board, weaving in between the other skiers as if they didn’t exist. He made sharp turns and sliced through the snow. Effortlessly, he reached my board, curled around it and blocked it from further descent. He popped off his board and began to trudge uphill toward me, carrying both his board and mine as easily as if he were carrying two school books. I tromped toward him.

We met somewhere in the middle. My eyes watered and I wasn’t sure if it was the biting mountain wind, or the warm feelings growing inside me. Ethan’s rescue of my board was the most kind and most brave act any guy had ever done for my benefit. (Besides Uncle Rob saving me from my mother’s neglect, but that was different)

“Thanks Ethan,” I said. "You saved me quite a chase."

“No problem,” he said, with the most pleasing smile I’d ever seen.

There was nothing left for us to do but ski the run together. Guiltlessly, the two of us wandered slowly down the hill. Often we stopped and talked freely. We both loved Mammoth Mountain, the clean air and the unbelievable treeline. At one stop we paused at the edge of the run. Ethan stood silently, reaching out toward the wilderness with his gaze. I alternated between watching him and watching the view. We drank in the breathtaking display of nature. It was as if we were alone and the dozens of skiers passing by were insignificant blurs within the landscape. And all the rest: the white snow and blue sky, the chime of the songbirds, the gigantic mountain trees, and a most gorgeous snow covered owl—were all created for us alone.

We talked about the coming night. I told Ethan I would be celebrating Jenna’s birthday, but I wasn’t sure yet what she had planned. Ethan was pre-committed with some kind of event, but he didn't explain what it was, exactly. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to text each other 'sometime later'; maybe the eight of us could get together for coffee, or something.

At the bottom of the hill I left him and floated toward my friends. I was so happy; the best feelings of my heart had been awakened. I should have been exhausted; I’d been working the mountain all day. But instead, I was full of energy. Everything in my world seemed to be in harmony, except I really had to use the bathroom.

As I was trying to reassemble my snow garb, I received a text. I panicked. Could it be Ethan—already? But my cell slipped out of my grip and plunged into the flushing toilet.

Without thinking, I reached (into a public potty!) and grabbed the phone. I tried several of the buttons. There were flashes of light, some sketchy images, and then nothing.

My phone was fried.

“Noooo!” I screamed. Not my phone. Anything but my phone.

“Is that you Kristen?” Asked Jenna from two stalls over. “What’s gives?"

“My cell,” I said. “I dropped it in the toilet.”

Other women joined the bathroom exchange in bursts of groans and sighs. These were perceptive groans, and sighs, because the women knew, once a cell phone took a swim it was over. Losing a phone was like having a breathing tube yanked from your nostrils. You panic: What will happen to your incoming calls and text messages? How on earth will you connect to the Internet? Suddenly, you’re helpless.

“It’s dead; isn’t it?” Asked Jenna.

“I can’t believe it!” I said. “A text message was coming in when I dropped it,” I continued, whining like a small child.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” said Jenna, as the two of us met near the sinks. “Your best friends are here with you. It was probably Tracy, your Mother, or work—whoever it was can wait. Let’s go celebrate Alana’s birthday. You can look for a new phone tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? That’s like a million hours away. And what about my latest incoming message—how will I ever discover who it was from?

Jenna couldn’t have known Ethan and I exchanged phone numbers; I didn’t tell the girls. In fact, I downplayed our last run, when Ethan and I snowboarded down together, but alone. Why? I’m not really sure. To protect myself, I suppose, in case Ethan never bothered to call. Because living in denial—pretending there never was a connection, or spark, was much easier than living in hope, vulnerable, and walking around like an open wound on legs.

I wish I could tell you about a fortunate thread of events which led to a reunion with Ethan: Like, how I ran into him on the slopes on my last half-day of snowboarding on Sunday—I didn’t; in fact, the man could not be spotted anywhere in all of Mammoth Lakes.

Or, I how thought of putting my SIM card into someone else’s phone to retrieve my texts, or at least Ethan’s phone number—I didn’t. It never occurred to me, and if it did, I still wouldn’t have asked any of the girls to use their phone, since that would’ve made me look desperate, or worse, pathetic.

Or, when I picked up a new phone in Mojave on our trip home (at the nearest cell phone retail establishment to Mammoth, btw), I was able to retrieve Ethan’s phone number—I wasn’t, since the sales clerk, who was having difficulty removing my SIM card, attacked it quite vigorously and scratched the thin copper strips, thereby destroying the card.

Or that the latest and most destructive incoming message was from Ethan, giving me a record of his phone number—it wasn’t.

Or, once I had my new phone, gobs of calls and texts came in, and they were all from Ethan—they weren’t.

Ethan never called.

“The past, present and future, were all equally in gloom.” ~Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey.

KAC

Vile Creatures, Sewer Freaks

2011-07-19T11:50:00.000-07:00

My mother’s common law husband Victor always made me call him Dad, but he will always be Victor, with an emphasis on the ‘Vic’—to me. I remember when I was a little girl and Mom and Victor used to fight. Victor’s roar bore through walls but it was Mom’s high-pitched cry that pierced my skull. Every now and then common household objects, like books, chairs, and my mother, were thrown across the room. These memories are clear. I’ve never repressed them. I’ve simply chosen to ignore them.

I remember taking off at the first sign of trouble. I’d run down the hall and into my little room on the right. My cat Harley and I would hide beneath my thin bed covers and we’d wait, hoping, that when Victor was finished with my mother, he was finished for the night. By the time I was five and a half I’d learned how to angle a chair against the doorknob to block intruders. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. These memories are clear. I’ve never repressed them. I’ve simply chosen to ignore them.

I regret the hypnosis because since then I can’t seem to get Victor off my mind. He’s like a wretched clump of gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe, thick and sticky, mercilessly clinging. I scrape at him with cement, asphalt, and razor blades, yet the persistent little sucker will not go away.

Rob regrets the hypnosis too. His eyes widened when I told him about the woman who wore red lipstick, then narrowed when I told him about Victor.

‘Victor,” Rob grunted. “Wipe him from your mind. He’s not coming back.”

The only time Rob’s generally good-natured temper boils is when the subject or person of Victor arises. But I am more curious than wise, so I had to ask, “What happened that night?”

“That night?” he grumbled.

Rob knew exactly which night I was talking about, the night Rob ‘got rid’ of Victor, whatever that meant. I was not home that night. I was at a high-school football game, getting wasted behind the bleachers with some of my emotionally disturbed comrades. I remember stumbling home and into the living room late that night. Mom sat alone in the dark, glaring at reruns of The Munsters. I wobbled gingerly across the scattered debris of a recent struggle and headed for my bedroom. I remember feeling very tired and wanting only to sleep.

“He’s gone,” said Mom. “Rob got rid of Victor.”

I spun around, but Mom’s eyes were set on the flickering television, so I continued down the hall. I only half-believed Victor was gone. He’d left before, dozens of times. But he never did return. I never knew what “Rob got rid of him,” meant. I never asked. Secretly I had hoped it meant Rob bumped him off and dumped him into the nearest river. But I’d always known that could not have happened. Mafia is not Rob’s style.

“What happened that night Victor left?” I insisted.

Rob and I were at the tail end of breakfast and Rob was playing with some left over bacon on his plate.

“Your mother had finally had enough,” he said.

Rob set his fork down and stared at a fly on the wall. I stared at it too and wondered how the thing could believe it had a right to be inside our house. My lip curled in rebuke of the vile creature.

Rob spoke as if he were reading from a grocery list, taking a breath in between each line item:

I went to the house
We discussed a plan
To leave Victor
And start over
Victor came home
There was some yelling
And a scuffle
He went after your mother
I stopped him

“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

“Is Victor still alive?”

“Last time I saw him he was—but don’t worry; he’s not coming back.”

“What makes you so sure?”

‘Trust me,’ was all Rob said before he took his cane and went outside to tend to his garden.

Agent Hygleson has been busy hunting down every plausible lead in the case. He’s come up with nothing regarding the woman who wore red lipstick. No one remembers seeing such a woman that night at the pub, not the bartender, barmaids, customers, or anyone. Agent Hygleson found no witnesses who saw anyone fitting Victor’s description either. I kept insisting that Victor has nothing to do with the case. Hygleson knows this; I’m sure he does, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to satisfy his own curiosity, so he pushed the issue.

With a little Google and a little help from a friend of a friend, Hygleson found Victor. The man is alive and well and living in Maine. Recently, he was booted off a city council board for excessive absences. Presently he’s employed with the Lewiston Public Services Department as a Water and Sewer engineer.

KAC

The photo above is by Bella Domanie @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/204088

The Woman Who Wore Red Lipstick

2011-07-15T15:09:00.000-07:00

Let’s begin. Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Relax. Close your eyes. Place your hands at your side. Listen to the sound of my voice. Concentrate on your breath. Your breath should be slow and steady, deep and soothing. You should have no unnecessary fear. You should have no unnecessary anxiety. All you have to do is listen to the sound of my voice—

The following is an account of my recent forensic hypnosis session for Agent Hygleson’s crime scene investigation. The results cannot be used in court (too much risk for confabulation, or, creation of false memories). The session will be used primarily to find leads. The facts reported here are based on my memory, which seems to have expanded since the session. Preceding the hypnosis I had to write down my recollection of that night at the pub. My report was skimpy, conflicting, and sketchy. Then the hypnosis session began.

Agent Hygleson sat in a far dark corner while I rested next to the hypnotist. The mind expert (as he had introduced himself), was a medium sized man. He wore a white collared shirt, a red pin-striped tie, and a pair of charcoal dress pants creased just-so. His espresso colored hair was pulled back into a long braid. He had the markings of obvious tattoo removals on both forearms and I wondered what could have been more regrettable than the scars. His name was Jerry. I liked that. I had a boss named Jerry, a nice man, a mentor, and a dear friend. But I’ve gotten distracted. Mind expert Jerry had been asking me to listen to his voice. I struggled to listen to the sound of Jerry’s voice and ignore the sound of my own.

Yes, I remember that night at the pub. There was supposed to be a big group of us, but most of the others dropped out. Why didn’t Millie go? Oh, she said she was tired. ‘Exhausted’ was the word she used.

Legion, Tracy, and I got a table right away. Nice little one in the corner, tucked away from all the people, with a great view of them all. We ordered drinks. What did I have? Whisky, straight up. How many did I have? Um, one, two, three, four, five, six, uh, seven—

Jerry redirected me. He guided me through the night.

Yes, I can see, hear, and smell—everything. It’s like I’m inside a four dimensional movie. I can see the room, the awful red glow of the dusty bar sconces, the hideously abstract wall paintings, and an inscription carved into our wooden table, ‘Bruno was here. Now he’s gone. Your loss.’ I see a woman who is wearing red lipstick and a tight black dress. She’s flirting with the bartender. Tracy and Legion leave to the restroom. So they said. They leave again and again, and then never return.

Jerry leads me deeper.

The stranger sits next to me. I can see his face clearly. He has an awful bent nose, narrow eyes, and thick eye brows. We’re flirting. (I’m not going to repeat the details here because they make me sick, but you can find them here.)

I’m standing outside the bar, very drunk, dizzy, searching for Tracy and Legion, and wishing Ethan were near. My hair is wet from the heavy mist. The shadow of an alley cat quivers from the flickering street lamp, or perhaps it’s from my bleary eyes.

Now the stranger is standing in front of me. He’s creeping me out and every moment feels like an eternity. My heart is racing but time is crawling so I’m going nowhere. I’m struggling with the stranger. The thick air catches in my throat and I’m struggling to breathe; I’m struggling to think of what I can do to get free from this man but my brain is heavy and thick I can’t think at all; I’m still struggling with the stranger. Wait, I see someone. It’s that woman in the tight black dress from the bar. It’s difficult to see, but I know it’s her. Her red lipstick pierces the wet air.

What is she doing?

Nothing! She’s standing in the open, staring at us.

Do you know this woman?

No. She’s just standing there watching, not doing anything. Why doesn’t she run for help? Why doesn’t she do something?

Relax. Listen to the sound of my voice, Kristen. You are safe.

But, this woman—I’m so angry with her. She’s watching me get trashed and she’s doing nothing.

Look around. What else do you see?

It’s hard to see. I’m dizzy from being drunk and from getting hit and the stranger—oh, no— no— no—!

What is it Kristen? What is happening?

It’s Victor! He’s the one attacking me.

Who is Victor?

Victor oh God it’s Victor I can’t go through this again I need to get out of here; take me out of here I want out now get me out—

Jerry pulled me out of the hypnosis. I was shaking. My eyes felt hot and swollen, and I couldn’t understand exactly why I was crying. Jerry and Agent Hygleson were both at my side. Jerry spoke to me and I listened to his warm soothing voice and I stop shaking.

Then Jerry wanted a post-hypnosis report. I complied. I wrote everything down, this time in vivid and excruciating detail. I wrote down the sounds of the crowded bar. Laughter, flirting, witless banter, and Adele shouting from the jukebox, ‘We could have had it all,’ and so on. I described the nauseating smells of sweat, cigarette smoke, and other stale nightlife fodder. Everything was in this report, like how I suspected Tracy and Legion of inhaling cocaine because each time they returned from their disappearing act their noses were running and their nostrils were inflamed and had turned a deep shade of crimson. Also, Tracy had white powder resting on her upper lip.

I wrote a description of the woman who wore red lipstick, her straight platinum blond hair, her sharp cheek bones and her gigantic eyelashes (which were so obviously fake). The woman had a tattoo, a snake, coiled several times around her ankle, extending its head at the center of her calf, mouth wide, fangs dripping with blood.

I kept writing and when I got to the part where I was outside wrestling with the stranger and while I was furious with the woman who wore red lipstick—it happened again. The hideous image of Victor replaced the image of the stranger in my head, and it was as if it was Victor. It was not him that night at the pub, I know that it wasn’t, yet he kept popping up in my mind and I sobbed loudly.

Jerry used his soft voice to calm me down, and I wrote the part where I saw a tattooed arm flash before me. I was beginning to black out at the time and I had little peripheral vision, but the arm appeared to belong to someone who had come to my rescue. I saw the tattoo clearly. It was a specific tribal pattern I recognized as unmistakably Legion’s. Also unmistakable was the black Nixon surfer watch I saw on the tattooed arm, the same type of watch Legion always wears. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital.

I set my pen down and explained to Jerry and Hygleson that Victor was my mother’s ex-common law husband and that I haven’t seen him in over ten years, and I am certain it was not him attacking me that night at the pub.

Jerry the mind expert concluded that the stranger’s attack triggered a memory from my past. The attack awoke from my subconscious the memory of an event that likely involved this Victor, something traumatic that my mind had decided to repress.

Both Jerry and Hygleson stared blankly as if waiting for me to elaborate on Jerry’s analysis.

I asked if I was finished, because I was tired and I very much wanted to go home.

KAC

The photo above is by Clarita @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/231643

But Inside I'm Delighted

2011-07-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

I got a call from the owner of the little flower shop where I used to work.

“That women came in,” said Maribelle. “That tall, thin, nearly skinny but far too lanky and bad-tempered woman—you know; the one who came in that one day and upset you horribly.”

Maribelle hardly needed to go into such detail, since I knew exactly who she was talking about the moment she said, ‘that woman.’ Dorothy was back in town. This I’d already known, since I’d been warned by Ethan. What Ethan failed to tell me however was that Dorothy is hunting me down. She’s discovered that Ethan and I are friends again and she’s not happy. This, of course, I assumed since she has never liked me, and the last time Ethan and I were friendly she spoke into my face and said I was better off leaving her son alone.

My assumptions were correct. Ethan sheepishly confirmed the whole thing when I called him.

“My mother has really lost it,” he said. “She’s always been opinionated, but ever since Dad died she’s gone out of control. I’ve talked and talked with her, but she won’t listen to common sense. I’ve prayed my throat dry over her. I'm nearly at the end of my rope.”

“Well, you’ve got to do something,” I said, feeling more assertive than usual. “I can’t have your mother chasing me all over town.”

“I admit she’s crazy, and I’m sorry. Just ignore her. She’s harmless.”

Ethan paused. I’m sure he felt as uncomfortable as I did.

“She’s physically harmless anyway,” he conceded.

“I haven’t done anything to deserve this," I said. "You and I aren't even dating. We’re just friends.”

There was another awkward pause, accentuated by the emphasis I’d placed on the word just.

“You’re right,” Ethan said. “She’s awful, and you don’t deserve it. Actually, I haven’t given up on her yet. I’m coming out to California a week from now.”

I gasped. I hate writing that word, gasped. Sounds too much like ‘gassed’, which is not at all what happened. I gasped, sucked in a giant volume of air, but it was as audible and as embarrassing as if it had been the other thing.

Ethan continued. “I have a plan. Mom’s quite active at her church. I contacted some of the leaders there and we’re going to have an intervention.”

Ethan carried on in length about his elaborate plan. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, something about trapping his mother inside the net of the prayer and worship team, and as he carried on I could think of only one thing:

Ethan is flying in.
He’s going to be here.
Within reach.

He stopped talking.

“Sounds good,” I said.

He sounded pretty excited about it. I could only assume it was a good plan.

“So,” he said, “I’ll be in town for your birthday.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you will,” I said in the most fraudulent nonchalant voice ever. My heart accelerated.

“Would it be okay if we got together?” Ethan asked. “I’d really like to see you, to celebrate your birthday with you, and to speak with you face-to-face.”

There is so much that has been left unsaid between us. I prefer it that way, having all that is unsaid safely tucked inside a hidden box. I was livid, frightened, and disappointed, but inside I was delighted. The conflicting emotions battled for position inside the pit of my stomach.

“Actually,” I said, “Danielle’s birthday is next to mine and she’ll be flying out too. She wants to have a party on the beach. Low key, you know, like the one we had for Millie last year, except minus the drama. Would you like to come to that?”

“Yes,” he said. “That would be great.”

Felt strange leaving it like that, without making more plans to get together. But, I mean, what the heck—ugh! He’s the one who said our relationship couldn’t move anywhere right now, or whatever he said, I can’t even remember anymore and I couldn’t go there. I just couldn’t.

So I changed the subject.

“I’m going in for that hypnosis thing.”

“When?” replied Ethan anxiously.

“Today,” I said. “Gotta leave in about ten minutes. Got off work early for it.”

“You’re going right now, and you’re just getting around to telling me? Alright, well, I know this might make you uncomfortable, but would you mind if I prayed with you about it, right now over the phone?”

I have never felt bothered about people praying for me. My opinion is that I can neither confirm nor deny the power of prayer. I’ve always believed the energy from prayer is quite positive, and couldn’t possibly hurt. So no, I wasn’t bothered. Perhaps a little embarrassed because it made me feel like I was on the outside.

I simply replied, “No, I don’t mind.”

And he jumped right in,

Lord, thank you for this opportunity for Kristen to go have her memory jogged about what happened the night she was attacked. I know she's scared about it, so I pray that you'll give her a peace about going, help her feel your presence and know you're there with her. I pray that you'll be in charge of the session, that you'll shed light into that part of her mind that is having trouble remembering, and that only what's true, what really happened, will come out of her mouth. Let the truth of that night be revealed, and let the police personnel hear that truth and be satisfied with it. Please let justice be done for Kristen in this matter, Father. In Jesus' name I pray, amen.

KAC

~Thank you Stacy A. (You know what you did.)
~The image above is by imago @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/39100

Chalk Outline

2011-07-08T17:58:00.000-07:00

Tiger led me through the glass and brick building. The place was originally built as a Ford assembly plant in the 1930s; some of the old factory pipes and pumps were still intact, Tiger pointed out. The place was used for Hollywood movie sets in the eighties, and in the late nineties a local historical preservation organization rescued the dilapidated building. They now lease the place to The Silver Mirror Theater Company. All the set construction is performed at this shop and later transported to the playhouse. I scrambled to keep up. Dude spoke over his massive shoulder and never broke stride.

We ran (Tiger walked/I ran) past an area brimming with construction, and into a quieter section, another room which Tiger said used to be an employee cafeteria. A man much smaller than Tiger, shorter than me in fact, stood behind a table.

“This is Silva,” said Tiger. He will explain your first assignment.”

Tiger left. Silva extended his hand across the table, “You must be Kristen,” he said. “Tiger calls everybody by their last name. You can call me Fernando.”

Fernando’s hand was soft and strong. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “Wow. How did you end up with light blue eyes and that jet black hair?”

Fernando laughed and his pale skin pinked up at the cheekbone. He shifted from left to right, removed his bandanna headband, smoothed out his shoulder-length hair, and replaced the bandanna.

“I’m a Brazilian Mix,” he said. “Raised in Los Angeles by a lady named Regina. My parents died when I was little, so I don’t know much about them except they were from Brazil.” He lifted his shoulders and raised his hands out to the side. “There’s a lot of racial mixing in Brazil, so I don’t know much about my genetic history.”

“You were raised by a lady named Regina?”

“Yeah. She was a friend of my mother’s,” Fernando said, shifting from side to side. “Better get started; you already lost an hour. Your first assignment will be solo. You can use anything in this room. There’s a bunch of wood leaning against the wall, some pre-made flats over there, a bunch of paint behind me and all the tools are on this table, which is set up like a prop table.”

“I can see that,” I said, looking at all the different tools laid out precisely, each sitting within the boundaries of its own designated chalk outline. “What’s the assignment?”

“Two requirements,” said Fernando. “One: It has to be a self-portrait. And Two: It has to be viewable from a stage setting.”

I tilted my head, like that of a puppy who sees a leash in his master’s hand but also notices the master is doing nothing in the way of going for a walk.

“I hate to call this a test,” said Fernando, lowering his voice to a whisper, “But that’s what it is.”

“Just follow those two requirements,” said Fernando, “and you’ll do fine.” Then he was gone.

And the cheese stood alone with her hands on her hips.

The worst that could happen is I make a pile of rubbish, everyone laughs, and I’m off looking for another job. So I dove in. Inspired by the tool table and by my recent game of chicken with a diesel truck, I decided my self-portrait would begin with a chalk outline, like the kind you’d find at a crime scene, except this one would be standing and mounted several inches out from a flat (a fake wall used to make rooms or scenery backdrops on stage), so it would look like a 3D silhouette.

I splayed myself on a sheet of board, mimicking myself flattened by a truck. I penciled a loose outline, and wondered if there were any cameras on me and hoped there weren’t. Unlike a traditional chalk outline I added hair, flipped up as if blown by wind.

I heard construction and laughter coming from the larger work area beyond my room. I wondered if the others were laughing about me. I wondered if I was headed in the right direction. As time clicked by these concerns faded and I sunk into a pool of sawdust and thought. Little flecks of wood pelted my goggles and the sweet sound of power tools hummed in my ears. I was in the zone, my favorite place, that thin slice of existence where my mind and body move together naturally, automatically. Hours flew by without my notice.

I had cut out the silhouette shape and painted it all black, symbolizing the fact that at nearly twenty-six years of age I still have no idea who I am. I painted a thick white border on the silhouette, for a chalk outline effect, symbolizing my recent near-death experience, an event avoided by a mere distance of two feet. Working on the thing reminded me of the many times I had narrowly escaped misfortune, and also of the times I had not.

Lying on the floor the thing looked much like a crime scene chalk outline, but standing upright it looked more like a shadow, running. From what—I wasn’t sure. I didn’t like that she was faceless, so I created little expression masks on sticks, like the comedy and tragedy masks you would see symbolizing theater. I attached these to one of the hand blobs, as if the shadow were carrying a selection of emotions, spread out like a fan. I mounted the thing on a pre-built flat on which I had painted an abstract beach scene to represent my love for the beach, and also to reflect my recent move away from its nearness.

It was late, but I was done, and even if I wasn’t I couldn’t move any farther, since I’d already poured every last ounce of emotional energy into the thing. Tiger stepped into the room the same moment I had finished tidying up, which made me wonder if indeed there were cameras in the room.

“Okay she’s done. Come and get it,” he shouted out the door.

A couple of young guys, high school interns was my guess, scooped up the flat and headed out.

“This way,” said Tiger, so I followed.

Others dropped what they were doing and joined the hike. These strangers gave me knowing looks, like the kind you get from movie-goers as they exit the theater you’re about to enter.

We came to another room with a large platform which I imagined would be my ‘stage’. The boys set the flat atop the platform and someone threw some lighting on it. The crowd of a dozen or so let out a collective ‘ooooh’. The piece took my breath away. The colors were perfect for the mix of lighting, or maybe it was the other way around, but either way I knew I had passed the second test: (The piece had to be viewable from a stage setting.) The silhouette, mounted a few inches out from the flat, popped, I mean, really stood out, exactly the way I had envisioned it would. The direction of the lighting cast a shadow from the raised silhouette giving the illusion of a shadow, being chased by itself, running along an abstract shore with a fan of emotions in its hand. It was as eerie as it was magnificent.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Fernando. “Beautiful man,” he said, and then no more because he was crying. (I’d find out later that Fernando cries a lot, so it wasn’t so much that my piece had moved him to tears, but that he’d found yet another reason to cry.)

Tiger stood in front of the group. “Decent piece Craemer. Lights up well on stage. You’ve got skills. Looks like you put a lot of heart in it too.”

I opened my mouth to explain, why yes, yes I did. I wanted to discuss the symbolism, half of which I didn’t understand myself—but Tiger threw up the palm of his hand, a formidable stop sign, “No need to explain,” he said, and he nodded to the interns.

Fernando stood next to me and kept glancing at my face, waiting for a reaction I suppose. The boys whipped hammers out of their tool belts and whacked at my self-portrait. Mercilessly they pried every connected piece apart until the thing was completely dismantled, everything but reusable parts destroyed. I shrieked, and would have continued doing so, but everyone else was quiet. Quickly the boys painted over the flat and erased my lovely beach scene with white primer. Others came on stage to help pack up and haul away the remains. I rubbed wetness off the corners of my eyes.

Tiger spoke. “Scenic carpenters must use every ounce of creative energy to get their structures to look good on stage. But people don’t come to look at scenery, Craemer. They pay to watch the actors and ultimately, our end product is only backdrop for the actors. And when the play is over, it’s all torn down and we move on. I’ve used this assignment to evaluate your skills, but I hope you have taken it as a lesson on letting go. Good day’s work Craemer. See you in the morning.”

Tiger walked out, slapping me on the back on his way. The others followed, each also slapping me on the back on their way out. Fernando was last.

“Trust me,” said Fernando and his soothing blue eyes. “After the first play is over, you’ll be glad Tiger did this to you.”

Then Fernando slapped me on the back, and left.

That was Tuesday, my first day on the job. On that day and every day since, I’ve come home from work physically and emotionally exhausted. I’ve never felt more satisfied.

KAC

Photo above is a stock image found here

The Good Samaritan

2011-07-06T16:02:00.000-07:00

I woke up yesterday morning to a stomach doing somersaults. It was my first day on the job at The Silver Mirror Theater Company. I wondered what I would be doing, who I would be working with, and how I would handle it all.

‘Wear beater clothes,’ said Kellen. ‘You’re gonna get trashed.’ This was a comforting tip, indicating a decidedly different mood from that of my last job in Downtown Los Angeles, a place where the height of my heels gave me leverage with the chilly clientele, and where ability to schmooze was my most valuable asset. At Silver Mirror, my work will likely be judged based on, well, the actual work I perform, on my skill, strength, and ability. I’ve been hired on as one of the scenic carpenters, the builders of stage scenery for plays. I’ve no direct experience with this work, but I’ve a lot of related experience from my last two jobs. I’m familiar with a great variety of power tools and I’ve been gleaning information from the library. A couple of years ago I designed and built from scratch a two-story castle playhouse for my little sister Mary. The thing has never leaked water and has outlasted hundreds of hours of vigorous castle play, all good signs.

Anyway, I was on my way to work, making good time, running all this through my head, telling myself how perfect I was for the job and repeating the Stuart Smalley mantra, ‘I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me’—when my tire blew. I dropped triple-A to save money, but Alana had taught me how to change a tire, years ago, so I pulled off to the side of the freeway and swiped cob webs off the spare. My hair whipped across my face as cars mercilessly zoomed past. Ten minutes, I assured myself. It would all be done in ten minutes.

Thirty minutes later I was still wrestling with the flat tire. Despite my persistent jumping and pouncing, the lug nuts refused to break loose. The temperature was hot and climbing fast. I jumped on the iron again, but I slipped and fell backwards. A diesel screamed and screeched as I tumbled away, narrowly avoiding giant tire tread across my back. The scene was straight out of a Die Hard movie except I’m sure I didn’t look half as cool as Bruce. I stood on the side of the road and scratched my head wondering what I would do next. I was stuck, trapped by a stream of zooming autos.

Then a pretty white BMW pulled in front of my car. A nice looking man, perhaps in his late twenties, approached. He was beautiful, perfect face, hair, skin, and clothes, looked like he just stepped out of a Nordstrom magazine, but his walk was far too unassuming to be that of a model.

“Would you like some help?” he asked.

“That would be great,” I said.

Effortlessly, the man whipped off the old tire and put on the new. I resisted the urge to say, “Yeah, I loosened it for ya.” I thanked him and he said no problem, and he smiled and left, looking as pristine as when he’d arrived. I bet over a thousand cars whizzed by and saw me struggling on the side of the road. BMW guy was the only one who stopped.

I reported for my first day on the job an hour late. My hair was knotty, my deodorant was on its last leg, and I was covered with a less than delightful blend of grime.

“You’re late Craemer,” bellowed a tall ex-marine type, high and tight haircut, solid frame, and limited range of motion due what I would assume to be a rather aggressive weightlifting regime. (Dude was a walking wall of cement.)

“Yeah sorry, I called Kellen—”

“No matter,” he said, scanning me from head to toe. “Looks like your ready to work.”

He pushed his thick hand toward mine, “Name’s Tiger. I’m the Shop Foreman, your boss. Follow me.”

I shook his hand and followed.

KAC

The image above is by pedrojperez @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/197588

Enchanted Ever After

2011-06-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

Imaginative little girls dream of a prince who scoops her atop a great white horse and gallops away to a castle where she’ll spend the rest of her enchanted life. Once upon a time I was such a little girl except my prince was not the man I would marry, but the father I had never known. My mother’s common-law husband Victor was opposite of everything I had imagined in a father, but I believed my real father was waiting to be found and also longing to find me. This made Victor’s abuse tolerable. It made Victor irrelevant. I had always believed that once I found my real father, my life would transform and my horrid past would vanish.

Two months before my twenty-fifth birthday I found my father. As expected the discovery changed my life, but not at all in the way I had fantasized. Turns out the man who I’d always known as my uncle, my mother’s brother (adopted brother, like it matters) was also my biological father. Thirteen months have passed and I’m still chopping through the tangled emotional brush created by this news. I’ve gotten passed my blemished genetic history. I’ve forgiven myself for not appreciating Rob’s influence on my life, how he had always been around, protected, fed, and clothed me. How he had always paid attention to me, while I looked away and toward the horizon where I believed my real father would appear any moment.

What I can’t get passed, or chop through, is the lingering void I carry with me today. I had always believed the longing in my heart was a simple case of missing father. Once found, I would place him inside the empty space and all would be well. Rob was in a coma when I found out he was my dad and doctors were skeptical about his chances of survival. I remember yearning for the world to conspire in my favor and wake him so I could tell him I loved him, and tell him I was glad he was my father. I remember waiting for this moment when every thing would be set in place.

Rob’s opened eyes were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I can’t think of a better day than the day Rob woke up from his coma. Still, after all the mending, after all the making up of time, after all the tears and hugs, still—some thing remains missing. I love Rob. I can’t imagine a better father. Dude would catch a grenade for me (Bruno Mars, love that song). But it wasn’t what I was looking for.

I’ve moved most of my stuff into Rob’s place, my place now too, though temporary. Feels like home, comfortable, like slipping into a pair of old sweats. The house is large, so I’ve got lots of privacy, my own bedroom, bathroom, and entrance. I’ve decorated the bedroom to my own taste, tantalizingly teal walls, wicker and dark wood furniture, including a king-sized wicker bed and an antique walnut bench newly upholstered in bright pink velvet with black silk piping—and a gigantic sparkly chandelier hanging from the ceiling center. My window looks out to the rose section of Rob’s immaculate garden. It’s like I have my own wing of the castle, where I now wait for my enchanted ever after.

Rob peeked in while I was arranging fluffy pillows atop my white linen bed. He asked if I’d like to take a break to go shooting. So we went. Rob and I had a full conversation at the range. Rob misses his wife Sherrie. She died long ago when I was in fourth grade. Rob misses her even more now that Ruby is gone too. I miss Sherrie too. She’s the one who taught me how to knit and bake. I loved getting away from home to visit them, Sherrie and Rob. At their place I felt safe, and loved, and warm.

I told Rob I was glad too about moving in and that I looked forward to my new job. I talked about how Ethan and I have reconciled our friendship and that we talk all the time again. Rob didn’t say anything about that, but he kept making a goofy smile. I thought about bringing up Mom, but we’d both already cried over her that day, so I talked about my recent interview with Agent Hygleson. I avoided details. I’m not sure which version of the story Rob’s heard.

“I’m terrified about the hypnosis,” I said.

Rob hit his target then rested his gun. Rob avoids the head, neck, and stomach circles on the silhouette targets and goes for the outside shoulder instead. ‘Don’t want to kill ‘em if I don’t need to,’ he said, like he always says.

“Isn’t that a myth?” I asked. “I mean, you’d have to be a pretty good shot to miss all the blood vessels.”

“Yep, you would,” he said. Then he looked at me. “I know you’re terrified about the hypnosis,” he said. “Life is frightening.” He loaded his gun and aimed at the target. “But don’t you want to know the truth?”

Pow!

Same spot as last time.

I assumed the question was rhetorical so I didn’t answer, but I thought about it for a long time.

Rob loves to read and so do I. After dinner we settled into the den with our present favorites. Mine was Thin Blue Smoke, by Doug Worgul. Love it so much I’m reading it for the second time in a row. Rob had Mom’s old Bible, King James Version. Rob asked if I wanted him to read the Bible out loud. I didn’t respond. What I wanted was to escape into my own book. Just then the doorbell rang. It was Andrew, Jenna, and their baby Clara. They brought a casserole and a potted plant as housewarming gifts. Rob invited them in and served milk and coffee cake left over from the gourmet breakfast he’d made that morning.

Turns out Andrew and Jenna had come not only to warm the house, but for a special announcement. They’re getting married in January. Rob put away the milk and grabbed a bottle of champagne, good stuff, Grande Siècle, festively bubbly. We toasted, and congratulated (I only pretended to drink from my glass, don’t really like champagne, but I do love the lemony fruit fresh scent of this one). After an hour or so the happy couple was off to share the news with others. Rob and I were both worn by then and so we retired. (Did I just say retired? I couldn't think of something snappier, like spent, worn, trashed... You’d think I was turning sixty-two instead of twenty-six!)

Anyway, I tripped over the box with all Mom’s old journals on my way to bed. I thought about picking one up and reading a little bit, but changed my mind. Not ready yet. So I grabbed my laptop instead.

Funny. I’m almost not even jealous of yet another friend getting married.

KAC

The beautiful photo above is by beglib @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/145697

The Age of Deception

2011-06-28T13:57:00.000-07:00

Look around and what you see and hear and feel is a distinctive period of history in which the power of communication allows humanity to see and hear and feel—every thing. How sad, that of all the information we now consume, only an uninspiring fraction of it survives clarification as a solid clump of truth. Time and again the discerning ear finds that what had before been perceived as correct and true was in fact a distortion, a lie, a bit of truth held hostage by intent to mislead. This is an age marinated in deception where civilizations slosh through marshes of charade and individuals drip with deceit.

If you don’t agree you might want to chat with Robert Feldman, PhD, a Fellow of both the American Psychological Association and Association for Psychological Science, who has examined lying and everyday deception for over twenty-five years (or, so it says on the Internet site for his book, The Liar in Our Lives, The Way to Truthful Relationships). According to Feldman the average rate a person is lied to is two to three times in a ten minute conversation.

Two to three times in a ten minute conversation.

These are insane numbers. Are they accurate? Do I lie as often as that? A retracing of recent conversations revealed frightening results. Turns out I am one of the lower dwelling urchins who actually bring up the average for the rest of humanity. Based on my recollection of the last week or so I lie even more frequently than Feldman’s average. Before you judge however note that I’m counting insincere social niceties, as Feldman does in his calculations, like saying, “It’s so nice to see you,” when it’s really not, or saying, “I’m fine,” when I’m really not.

Excluding the last several months, I had deceived my mother my entire life. So many times I told her I loved her when what I felt inside was hate. More often I told her I hated her when what I really felt was love. I have lied to my step-father Steve, and to my Uncle-Father Rob. I never once told the truth to my abusive ex-common-law step-father Victor. I have lied to Ethan, to all the friends and co-workers I’ve ever had. I’ve lied to my therapist Katy, and I have lied in this diary journal.

Most of these lies are merely a cover-up, a shield of perception. I’m fine. Everything is super-fantastic. This is how I run away from fear, from the possibility of pain and toward an ever-elusive shelter of comfort. This is denial in its brightest show of colors. I wonder if Katy can see through the smoke screen. Does she know when I’m lying to her?

I’m not alone in the land of lower dwelling urchins, for amongst the profiteer mongers of America and beyond, I have plenty of company. Except their lies are weighted heavily with the ‘lying with intent’ sort of deception. (Not that it makes me better than them that most of my lies are the white, glittery, social niceties sort, but for the sake of my ego I’m going to pretend that it does.) I wonder, can we—the people of the present century—comprehend the volume of deception we digest regularly? The snippets floating through the rumor mill regarding pharmaceutical companies alone is enough to make me sick. Pun intended. Is it really true that pharmaceutical companies care so little about the health of the human race that they create diseases simply to sell their high-profit products?

Incredible biographies turn out to be fiction; Twitter updates contradict one another; and heated Internet banter is often little more than lower-urchin advertising strategy. New generations of scams and hoaxes pour in by the truckload. For all I know, Feldman’s statistics could be false, deceptive, or misleading. I find it thought provoking regardless.

Although social niceties form the bulk of my own crimes of deception, I’m also guilty of ‘lies with intent.’ These are the dark brooding sort of lies which never seem to stop growing inside me. Like the series of lies that sprouted from that night at the pub. Like how I keep telling myself the night was not that big of a deal, that I don’t have a drinking problem, and that the assault from that stranger had no affect on me. And like how I pretend that it matters very little that I had never come clean with Agent Hygleson about that night.

I have lied so often and so profusely throughout my life that I struggle to find the center of truth. I continue to feed myself strings of lies in the hopes that they will eventually become true. Sometimes this works, but it is not working for the present series of dark and brooding lies which continue to swell and bloat my conscious. I had intended to give up everything when I went to the station for a follow-up interview with Agent Hygleson. (I almost always begin with good intentions.) But when I sat in the cold metal chair across from Hygleson’s cold metal desk, I froze.

“Listen,” I said. “I have so many versions of that night swirling in my head; I’m not even sure what the truth is.”

This was about ninety-five percent true. I was delighted how close I’d come to honesty; ninety-five percent is a respectable number. Hygleson leaned against the high-back of his swivel chair. His hands were clasped with index fingers poking up like a steeple and resting on his lips—and he rocked.

Hygleson jolted upright and spoke with such a burst of excitement I had no chance of blocking his coffee-peppermint spray. “Would you be willing to go under hypnosis?” he asked.

Without hesitation I answered yes. If I’d waited to respond I would have backed out. No doubt. Under hypnosis there would be no filter, no chance of the sabotaging effects of intent to mislead. There would also be no safety net. What on earth would fly out of my mouth? How reliable are those things anyway, and what was I thinking? Hygleson picked up on my rising agitation and he suggested we put off the session until after I’d settled into Rob’s place.

KAC

The photo above is by xandert @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/23385

Missing Pieces

2011-06-24T15:06:00.000-07:00

I’m packing my possessions. Turns out I’ve collected quite a heap of junk. Glass, rags, metal. Design magazines from two thousand and two. Photos of me with a boyfriend, the now ex-boyfriend enhanced by black Sharpie: handlebar mustaches, horns and warts, etcetera. I even found a toothpick steak label which read, ‘rare’. A souvenir from a casual dinner with Ethan many moons ago. Why on earth did I hold on to that?

There’s nothing keeping me here at the apartment. I will miss the glistening ocean view, but not the scent-of-rat which is all Millie left behind when she scurried out earlier this week. I can’t think of any chore more unappealing than searching for another roommate. I’d rather have all my teeth drilled. By a child. So when Rob offered to rent me a room at his place I grabbed the offer.

Rob is slightly depressed. He misses my mother, his sister Ruby. We all do, but Rob had trudged through more history with Ruby than the rest of us. Rob and Ruby survived a volatile and horrific childhood and in the end, together, they discovered peace and joy. There’s one slice of Rob and Ruby’s history that melds both pain and joy into a single glob, adamantly sticking to our souls like a tattoo, sometimes appearing as a stain, other times as a mark of hope—and that is the moment Rob and Ruby created me. I still throw up a little bit in my mouth whenever I think about it. But that’s in the past, another lifetime ago, and as my therapist Kate likes to say, you can’t change the past. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

Rob’s getting along well. Other than the limp and cane he’s the same Rob I’ve always known. Still loves his guns and his garden. Still loves to tell made-up stories until well into the night. The only difference is that the Victorian characters and settings from his stories have been replaced with Biblical ones. Rob has never set foot inside a church. Until recently, he had never read a single page from a Bible. When Steve handed Mom’s journals to me, he also handed Mom’s Bible to Rob. This is the same Bible Mom held over each of the hundreds of parts of her Brother Rob’s body, praying over him unceasingly while he remained in a persistent vegetative state for all those months.

Doctors never expected Rob to wake up from his coma. I often wonder about this and I wonder if Rob wonders about it too. Anyway, he reads Mom’s old soft and worn Bible all the time now.

Rob and I will be good for each other, I think.

I hope.

A knock at the door interrupted my reflective packing. Agent Hygleson stepped inside without invitation.

“Going somewhere?” he asked. He’s a sharp pencil that Agent Hygleson, picking up on subtle clues like bare walls, empty shelves, and stacks of cardboard boxes.

“Lease is up,” I said. “Moving in with my dad.”

Hygleson sauntered through the stacks of boxes, tapping them as he passed. “Where’s your roommate?”

“Went to Maine to live with her mother,” I said.

“She give you an address?”

“No.”

“Strange, don’t you think?”

“Not for Millie.” I said. “She’s been acting odd for awhile now.”

“Is that so,” he said.

“Why? You think she has something to do with the case?”

“I think there are some missing pieces to this puzzle,” he said. “And I’m going to find them.”

Hygleson walked up to me, much closer than necessary. “How are those headaches?”

I pretended to get busy packing, so I could turn my face away from his coffee-peppermint breath. “The headaches are getting better,” I said.

“Good. I’d like you to come into the station for an interview. How about tomorrow morning?”

“Fine,” I said.

Agent Hygleson sauntered out the door, whistling.

KAC

The photo above is by clarita from: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/116587

Out on a Ledge

2011-06-21T17:06:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw Ethan he caught my eye, and not only because his emerald orbs are the most gorgeous eyes I had ever seen, but because the guy looked back at me without pretense, with intention, and as if I mattered. Later, when Ethan raced down Mammoth Mountain to chase down my snowboard—and while the rest of the world acted as if I was invisible—I twisted him into a superhero in my own eyes. Through conversations with Obi and an insane number of sessions with my therapist Kate, I’ve come to understand the heavy weight I have placed on Ethan. I had expected him to carry my burden.

Through my conversations with Obi I’ve had the opportunity to see Ethan through Obi’s eyes. Through this filter I can see that Ethan is kind and gentle and patient. And swollen with empathy. I can also see that Ethan is human and as fallible as any other mortal, and this is the part I had not noticed before.

I’m not mad at Ethan anymore and I really would like to stay friends with him. I’m done aching for him, though. Like in the poem After A While, by Veronica Shoffstall, I’m going to plant my own garden instead of waiting for someone else to bring me flowers. I’m going to focus on my health and career. As far as love goes, whatever will be, will be.

Ethan and I hadn’t talked since forever. We have been interacting through Obi, an arrangement which developed from my stubborn refusal to use a telephone. It’s a silly but effective method of communication. Obi has supplied me with regular Ethan updates and he has done the same for Ethan about me, I assume. Now that I have a cell phone again I thought it would be a good time for me to grow up and call Ethan. The death of Ethan’s father makes this call vital. I would offer to fly out and support him, as a friend, through this sad time. Ha! What a switch: Me—running out to help Ethan, instead of waiting for him to save me.

“Kristen!” said Ethan when I called. “It’s great to hear your voice. Maaan,” he groaned, “have I missed that honey-soaked voice.”

Dude was not going to make this easy.

“Yeah, you too. You sound—good. I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thanks. It’s been rough. Bittersweet,” he said. “Dad’s in a better place. No doubt. He is perfect and complete—nothing’s more beautiful than that.” Ethan drew a deep wavy breath, “But I’m still stuck here, missing him like crazy.”

My pulse quickened while I scraped up the courage to say what I wanted to say. Then I blurted it out, “Hey I was thinking of flying out for the funeral.”

“Oh,” said Ethan. “Might not be a great idea.”

My rapid pulse flat lined. Try not to think; just breathe; remember what you’ve learned from Obi and Kate, like how you always jump to conclusions and how life is never as mucked up as you think it is.

“It’s my mother,” said Ethan.

“Oh, Dorothy,” I said, not quite relieved but interested. Ethan went on to say his mother was flying out for the funeral, insisting she needed to say goodbye to her ex-husband even though they have not been on friendly terms for more than a decade.

“She’s not well,” he said. “Physically she’s fine, but—”

I waited during a long pause.

“My mother carries a lot of resentment,” he said. “I tried to talk her out of going to Ruby’s funeral, but my mother is persistent. I prayed something good would come of it. But she returned from the service boiling and called me to let off steam. She was hysterical and said some awful things. Her words were so filled with hate I’m embarrassed, but mostly it makes me sad.”

“What did she say?”

“Not important,” he said. “She had no right to speak the way she did, but the point I’m trying to make is that my mother is in a bad place.” Ethan took another deep breath. “Kristen I really care about you. I would fly you out in a heartbeat. Man I would love to see you, but you and my mother together—not a good idea. Not right now.”

“I get it,” I said, and I did.

“It’s okay, really,” I said, and it really was.

Gives me more time to prepare for my new job.

KAC

The photo above is by robenmarie @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/192025

Fresh Ground

2011-06-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

Obi no longer scrapes me out of bed in the mornings. I do that on my own now. We still meet at Fresh Ground most mornings and today’s coffee chat was especially frothy.

“Wow!” said Obi when I told him about Mom’s journals.

Obi’s surprising response (dude never uses exclamations) made me spill my Latte Macchiato.

Obi handed me a stack of napkins and asked if I had read any of the journals.

I said no.

Obi stared at me. Eyes glazed over. Posture impeccable.

“When I found the journals,” I explained, “They were so curious-looking, quietly tucked inside that cardboard box and screaming to get out. I wanted to tear into them. They were all so different, each one mysterious and luring in its own way. Then Steve said my mother wanted me to have them. A switch flipped. I could feel the click of my perspective changing. I had discovered a treasure. One that could possibly fill the heavy void I drag with me everywhere I go. Or maybe not. I’m afraid to unravel the mystery. Anything could be inside those journals. Love, joy, anger, sadness, fear. I’m not even sure I want hear my mother’s private thoughts.”

“Why do you suppose that is?” asked Obi.

“I don’t know,” I said throwing my hands in the air. I knotted my hair up in a clip while Obi waited patiently. I acted like his little questions were bothersome. But actually I was happy to talk about it. Some of these feelings I didn’t even know I had, until I said them out loud.

“I daydream about the missing puzzle pieces of my life,” I continued. “I fill in the blanks with alternate realities. Whatever. Maybe I’m afraid some of my delusions will turn out to be true.”

I laughed, too loudly for the comfort of neighboring patrons. Obi quietly sipped his hot black coffee.

My cell phone rang. I got a new one by the way, thanks to Caddie and Phil (luv it guys, you rock). Never did get my old one back from Agent Hygleson. Case is still wide open, he says.

“Oh my gosh it’s Kellen,” I said.

Poor girl, parents couldn’t decide between Kelly and Helen I suppose. Kellen is from The Silver Mirror Theater Company. She’s a young gal, not a day over twenty-two, an excessive talker, and a gum smacker. I had a job interview with the staff on Monday thanks to Obi, and Kellen sat in, took notes, and smacked her gum through the whole thing.

“Why don’t you answer your phone?” asked Obi.

So I did. My head ballooned with anticipation and Obi grinned. I suspected he had the inside scoop. Kellen was well into the conversation, blah, blah, blah; I could hardly stay on track. Then I heard, ‘I’m sorry, smack.’ and ‘position has been filled,’ smack.’ Heavy pauses fell when Kellen rose for air. Then I heard, ‘so, good luck with your journey, smack.’

My bloated head fizzled, and I found it irritating that Obi was still grinning. I probably said goodbye to Kellen. I’m not sure.

“You’re upset,” said Obi.

“I didn’t get the job,” I said, assuming Obi was out of the loop.

“Impossible,” he said.

He scooped up my phone and stepped away. Moments later he handed it back. Kellen was on the line.

“Oh gosh Miss Craemer, smack. I profusely apologize, but you are not going to believe this, smack. I thought you were some body else. I was looking at one paper and thought it was another one, and you know, smack, I seem to have misplaced that other paper. Anyway, you know how they say you can butt-dial some body, well I’m working on a million things, smack, got octopus arms going if you know what I mean and I basically butt-called you, well not exactly the same but you know what I mean and well I’m sure you’ll forgive me, smack.”

“Oh, uh—”

“You got the job,” Kellen said. “You’ll be working with the Set Construction team, building all that fancy stage scenery, and maybe some lighting and small props, smack. You’ll probably have a lot of different jobs. We all wear lots of different hats around here. You start first of July.”

A grin swept across my face. Obi smiled too and we let the good news soak in.

Then Obi’s phone rang.

“Ethan-Man; how goes it?” said Obi.

Within seconds Obi’s grin disappeared.

I suspected bad news and I was right. Obi explained the message to me with red wet eyes (the most blatant display of emotion I’d ever seen from this man).

I knew what Obi was going to say before he said it. The moment was surreal when Obi told me Ethan’s dad passed away.

KAC

The photo above is by hotblack, from: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/661740

Lovely

2011-06-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been caught with your hand inside the cookie jar? I have. Recently, but let me start at the beginning.

Steve invited me to join him and Mary for dinner. It was lovely. The three of us ate spaghetti while we laughed and chatted. We talked about Dorothy and how strange it was that she showed up at the funeral. We couldn’t figure out how she knew about the service, since she won’t speak to anyone. Unless Ethan told her. Not that it was a big deal; Dorothy is Ethan’s mother after all, and it’s not like the funeral was a secret. Dorothy’s behavior was strange though, even for her, the way she floated in all dark and then disappeared as mysteriously as she had appeared.

Even stranger was the heaping portion of Dorothy-related gossip that flowed at the get-together afterwards. Women who used to be Dorothy’s friends carried on calling Dorothy a nut case, laughing and scolding at her expense. How odd it was to watch self-professed Christians gossiping about one of their (former) friends. As awful as Dorothy has been to me, and even knowing how much she despises me, I could not get into the spirit of it.

“What was up with that?” I asked.

My question was directed at Steve, who chewed on his food while he considered my question.

“We’re all fallible, Christian or not,” he said.

“So it’s okay for Christians to put other people down?”

“I don’t think it’s okay for anyone to put another person down,” he said. “But I think these women were reacting from pain. Dorothy disowned them. She tore down bridges in the process. It’s not easy to get over betrayal. And just because these women are Christian, doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain. I’m not saying it’s right, just that there’s a cause.”

There was a moment of silence while the subject fell.

“I quit my job,” Steve said abruptly. “Don’t want to travel to Australia anymore. Mary needs stability. I’ll find another job here.”

Mary and I waited while Steve drew in his breath.

“I only kept the job so I wouldn’t lose the health insurance, and now that Ruby’s gone, well—”

Steve wiped his eyes.

“What a waste,” he said. “I should have quit a long time ago. I should have never left the States.”

Steve’s face turned bright red, an unfortunate side effect from holding back anger and tears.

“I should have spent every waking minute with her,” he said.

Ah, regret, an old friend. I know her well. But it was Mom who told Steve to go. She was the one who insisted he needed to hold on to the job to keep the health insurance. It wasn’t Steve’s fault. I didn’t know what else to say and neither did Mary so we were quiet. Then I excused myself to use the restroom. I got sidetracked as I often do and continued down the hall, past the bathroom and into Mom’s bedroom. The room was dark except for a soft lighted glow escaping from Steve’s walk-in closet. I drifted toward the light, as unstoppable as a mindless insect. The inside of the closet was exactly like Steve. Tidy and constrained. Every thing imaginable stored in little compartments.

There was a cardboard box resting on the floor. The box was filled with notebooks and journals, stack of them, some old and warped, and some stiff and new. Without thinking I settled onto the floor and picked up one of the journals. The inside flap was labeled with blue glitter gel-pen ink:

Ruby’s Journal from January 2009 to _______.

I picked up another one:

Ruby’s Journal from January 1990 to December 1992.

My heart raced. I picked up another one:

Ruby’s Journal from January 1985 to December 1988.

I was born in 1985. I reached for another one—

“You found your mother’s journals,” said Steve.

Busted!

“Oh I, uh—”

“It’s okay,” he said.

He settled on the floor next to me and picked up one of the journals. It was the only one labeled on the front cover. Steve caressed the hand-gilded gold lettering which spelled, Recovery. That would be about the time Mom had met Steve, when she started the Recovery program.

“Amazing,” he said, “that she wrote this much.”

“I didn’t know she kept journals.”

“No one did,” he said. “Well I did, but she kept them private.” He traced the gilded R with his finger, over and over. “I have no idea what she’s written in them.”

“Are you going to look?”

Steve sighed and shook his head no.

“Aren’t you curious?”

He looked at me with intention or perhaps it was only to stall while he gathered his thoughts. The closet light ignited his pale green eyes. They were the liveliest pale green eyes I’d ever seen. I wondered if he was wearing colored contacts. I also wondered how I had never before noticed the color of his eyes. The moment felt intimate and unlike any other moment I’d had with my Step-Dad, the guy who tried to help raise me. The same guy I had worked diligently to ignore because by the time he came in to my life I was so far gone, and he, was far too cautious to take the leap necessary to reach me. Strange how we came to be together in that moment there on the closet floor, drooling over a box of Mom’s journals. Missing her.

“She wanted you to have them,” he said.

My heart jammed inside my throat. I was unable to speak.

Tears raced down my cheeks and dripped onto my shirt.

“She wanted you to have them all,” he said.

My hand floated across the box, fingertips brushing the edges of the journals. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“Some people have trouble expressing what’s in their heart,” he said, and then he laughed awkwardly. “Most people have trouble with this. I’m guilty too, and I’m sorry Kristen. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father you needed. I should have tried harder.”

“Stop,” I said. “I’m guilty too. I pushed you away. I—”

I fell mute again, and let the silent air grow thick.

Then Steve broke through, “Your mother wrote her heart in those journals. Every thing she ever wanted to say to you, but could never bring her self to speak, is written on those pages.”

That was the crack that broke the dam. I lost it and Steve did too. We sobbed and hugged.

The moment was sweet, and tender, and lovely.

KAC

The adorable but naughty little dog in the picture above is named Bear. Thank you Lisa S. for the pic.

Corporate Zombie

2011-06-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

The get-together after the graveside service was not at all what I’d expected. The mourners were not weighted down with gloom but instead the mood was light, as if lifted by hope. Shoulders were relaxed and brows knitted with fortitude. Guests laughed and joked and told stories relating to Mom in one way or another. Tears flowed but a general sense of happiness ruled.

Mostly.

I stood laughing with a group of strangers when Andrew caught my eye. He sat alone in a dark corner of the room, caressing his mangled arm and stabbing me with his large black eyes. I stopped laughing and excused myself from the group. I had had it with those looks. I was not going to put up with it, not on the day of my mother’s funeral. I strode toward Andrew, steady and cool and pinning my eyes to his. I struck a pose, feet shoulder length apart and fists upon my hips, like Wonder Woman would have done I suppose. My stance towered over Andrew and he sank a little deeper into the overstuffed couch.

“Do you have a problem with me?” I asked.

I stood ready for him to blame me for his mangled arm. Ready to slam fault back in his face. But Andrew dropped his gaze and rubbed his temples furiously, so I stood at ease, weighted on one foot, arms folded. Andrew looked at Jenna who stood on the other side of the room trying to bounce their baby Clara to sleep. Jenna nodded at Andrew. He nodded back at her and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Whaat,” I growled.

Andrew raked his fingers through the thick chunks of black hair which poked out from the top of his head. “Have a seat,” he said.

So I sat. I listened without flinching, or wincing, or blinking, while Andrew told a very long tale of how it all ‘began.’ I listened and I waited patiently for the story to lead to what exactly had ‘begun’ which I assumed would eventually lead to the reasons behind the glares and that dreadful caressing thing he does with his arm. It took some time for Andrew to catch up to the present century and to start making sense.

He went down the wrong path, he said. His inflated ego never allowed him to accept his schizophrenia. That’s why he kept it hidden. Success in deceit gave him unjustified confidence. He was convinced he could function without medication but the schizophrenia was not manageable without the meds and Andrew grew increasingly delusional. Jenna noticed the difference and backed off from him and from their relationship. All Andrew had ever wanted was to love Jenna. He knew he was failing but he could not pull himself together. A toxic blend of delusion and desperation caused him to lose control in that dimly lit stairwell back in July of two thousand ten.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, looking at me with red wet eyes. “I hope you know that.”

I nodded slowly. Not exactly up and down and not exactly left to right. More like in a circle.

“Right,” he said. “You couldn’t have known.”

He raked his hair again. “I didn’t mean to push you into the wall. I was flying down the stairs so fast I couldn’t stop. I never would have hurt you on purpose. I never would have used my knife on you or anything; I hope you know that. I hope—”

I looked down at Andrew’s mangled arm, the one he never stopped caressing.

“Forget about the arm,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I caused everything.”

Andrew stopped caressing his arm. A a pleasant glow swept across his face. “I didn’t realize it was broken until long after it healed bent. That’s how messed up I was. Didn’t even notice the broken bones.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Jenna wants me to get it fixed, but I’m not sure. The arm reminds me how brutal deception is, how quickly it can rip my life to shreds.”

Andrew took my hands into his and leaned forward, “That was an awful thing for one friend to do to another. I am sorry I caused you pain. I hope you can forgive me.”

I lost my breath for a second, but without letting another second of awkward silence slip by I forgave him. We hugged and I saw Jenna wiping her eyes with Clara’s blanket. The energy between me and Andrew felt right and good.

Andrew’s dark wide eyes reminded me there was something I needed to do. I excused myself after letting him know I was grateful for the conversation. Then I went to find Mary. My little sister Mary has been a zombie lately. Since Mom’s death she’s been an inch shy of catatonic. Steve insists Mary needs personal space to heal but I happen to know differently, so I sneak alone time with her as often as I can. I found her in the back room sitting on the edge of Mom’s bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her eyes fixed on the back wall. The wall was covered with hundreds of pieces of artwork Mary had given to Mom over the years.

“I brought you a little friend,” I said holding out a creepy cute crocheted dude. An adorable little creature named Corporate Zombie with captivating black wide eyes.

Mary eyed the gift.

“I thought you might like a little zombie buddy,” I said and wished I hadn’t.

I have a terrible sense of humor. But Mary gets me and she was not insulted. For the first time in weeks she smiled and even let out a hint of a laugh. She snatched Corporate Zombie out of my hands and said she loved him. She looked up at me and asked if we could make some more of these guys. So my little sister Mary and I crocheted creepy cute dudes while the muted sounds of chatter and laughter echoed through the halls.

We began by crocheting magic rings and then continued as the sounds in the halls dwindled as did the hours of the day.

KAC

The image above is from Wendy. Thanks Wendy :)

After A While

2011-06-07T09:16:00.000-07:00

A proliferation of clouds formed a lead gray canvas across the sky on the day of Mom’s funeral. It was a magnificent backdrop for the bluish-purple Jacaranda blooms. Mom had wanted the entire service graveside. She didn’t want anyone feeling claustrophobic inside foreboding stained glass walls. She loved churches, always felt a great sense of peace inside them, but she knew many people did not. We would have tolerated it, for her sake. We would not have complained. I hope she knew that. But she wanted us to be outdoors, surrounded by sun and wind and the songs of birds—and the buzzing squeal of mosquitoes too, apparently. It was only fitting that the Jacarandas were at the height of their most striking blooming season. These lovely trees which were Mom’s favorite stood in abundance throughout the cemetery, along the perimeter of the cemetery, and up and down the little residential streets leading up to the cemetery.

Mom wanted an informal service with lots of vibrant colors. Everyone complied. We looked like rainbow confetti sprinkled atop a grassy mound. It was lovely. But there was one who was different. She was tall and bony and dressed all in black. It was Ethan’s mother Dorothy, the one friend from Mom’s group of friends from Recovery who had disowned her. Dorothy has never liked me and recently she stopped liking Mom. She and Mom had not spoken for over a year. She stood far from me and she stuck out, like a furious swath of black floating in a rainbow-colored sea. She never spoke. Not to me or anyone and she vanished like a ghost the moment the service was over. For the rest of the day I kept imagining I saw a flash of black sweeping across my peripheral vision.

Ethan’s dad was very ill so he couldn’t make it. I was relieved. I don’t think I could have mustered up enough emotional energy for Ethan. Nearly everybody else was there, Steve, Mary, and Rob of course. Mom’s group of friends from Recovery, and Rob’s friends were there too. Millie was there, and Jenna and Andrew, and Alana, even Danielle flew back. Obi was there. Legion and Tracy were not. (Probably best). There were a great many guests that I’d never met. Friends from Mom’s church, from the shelter where she volunteered, and employees from Mom’s favorite grocery store. I never knew Mom had so many friends. She collected them wherever she went and on Sunday they crowded the grassy knoll of the cemetery to overflowing.

The urn sat on the ground in front of the grave where Mom’s ashes would rest. Most of her ashes anyway. She wanted some of her sprinkled into the ocean. The pastor from Mom’s church seemed youngish for a pastor, thirty-five I would guess. His tone was casual, but not unprofessional. He smiled often and looked directly in the eyes of his audience. He said this was a celebration of Mom’s life on earth, and a celebration of her entrance into eternal life. He spoke of the profound impact Mom had on those who shared her life. He told us to take into account our sorrow, but also the joy of Mom’s Christian faith.

A pretty bluish-purple Jacaranda bloom fell on my head. I thought about how these flowers waste no time in rotting once they drop, piling up quickly and forming a sticky and unpleasant-smelling mess. If you walked through an entire block lined with these breathtaking trees, your eyes would swim in splendor, and your feet would march through muck, and you would experience the dichotomy between beauty and ugliness, which is much like the dichotomy between joy and sorrow.

There was a brief musical intermission. The song played was Dancing Queen by Abba. It was an interesting choice. It was the best choice. Mom loved that song. She must have listened to it a hundred thousand times. Everyone smiled and laughed and cried. I closed my eyes and pictured Mom singing the song out loud. In my mind she was holding my old cat Harley, twirling and twirling.

You can dance,

You can jive,

Having the time of your life

Steve began the eulogy. He spoke of how Mom had a rough start in life, but since Recovery she has lived out her life of faith. He mentioned things about Mom I never knew, like how she prayed for family and friends every night before she went to bed. He choked on tears and spoke about how much he loved her, and how she made him feel like a man. He spoke tenderly and I never wanted him to finish, but he did and then it was my turn. I read a poem from a sheet of paper given to me by the chaplain at the hospital just after mom died. Tears fell and my voice cracked, but somehow I made it through the poem titled, After A While, by Veronica Shoffstall.

After a while you learn

the subtle difference between

holding a hand and chaining a soul

and you learn

that love doesn't mean leaning

and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn

that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes ahead

with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child

and you learn

to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is

too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way of falling down

in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

that even sunshine burns

if you get too much

so you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone

to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

you really are strong

you really do have worth

and you learn

with every goodbye, you learn...

The pastor read scripture, most of which went over my head, excepting for this particular end piece from Romans (something) which hit me in the chest,

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The pastor said final prayers over the ashes and slipped the urn into a velvet bag. Typically these bags are dreary black or dark red or gloomy blue. Mom’s was shocking pink, with her initials embroidered in glittery silver thread. The bag was handcrafted by me and my little sister Mary.

We did not want to see the bag going into the ground, so this was the end of the service.

KAC

The photo of a Jacaranda bloom above is by Melodi2 @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/148373

Dancing Queen, by Abba, was written by Benny Andersson, Stig Anderson, and Bjoern K. Ulvaeus

Mom’s friend Rachel helped me find the scripture referenced above, which was actually Romans 8:38. The pastor had read a larger piece, beginning with Romans 8:31.

The Importance of Being Earnest

2011-06-02T11:23:00.000-07:00

Renard caught me in the halls this morning. Renard’s the apartment manager. He’s a thick greasy fella, with an attention deficit and an epic comb over. I try to avoid him whenever possible.

“Read and sign,” he said shoving a thick envelope into my palm.
What’s this? I asked, but Renard was already walking away.
"Be back next week,” he shouted over his shoulder.

I tore at the envelope, letting bits of paper float to the floor. It was a new lease agreement. I stared at the contract. Mindlessly, I stepped inside the elevator. I’d forgotten the lease was up. Obi was with me and he followed behind, gathering up the bits of trash from my wake. I was grateful Obi was near, and that we could talk about these papers over coffee.

I told Obi I felt stuck, as if I stood at the center of an intersection with a dozen paths leading from it. The multitude of choices were paralyzing.

Let’s talk about these dozen paths, suggested Obi.

I explained if I stayed at the apartment I’d have to commit to another three years. My savings would run out before then, so I would need to find a source of income. I could return to the flower shop but that would not be enough. I could dive back into my business, start from scratch and try to build clients, but that would be risky—

Life is risky, said Obi.

I could try to land another nine-to-five job, assuming I could get hired back into the same industry from which I was fired, but this is my second least favorite choice, and my least favorite would be filing for unemployment—

Why put energy into a least favorite path? Asked Obi.

Because then I would be less likely to fail.

Success is available to those who are willing to fail, said Obi.

I sat stuck dumb, and when Obi was satisfied that enough silence had passed he continued. Let’s talk about your favorite path, he said. Assume there is a net to break your fall, what would you most like to do? Where does your passion lie?

I sat strait up. Before I could think my hands were flapping through the air, like animate visual aids for the ideas flowing out of my mouth. I love arts, and crafts, and design. I used to set up rooms and tables for magazine layouts and that was fun, but I liked interior design even more. I love conceptualizing, whether it’s a piece of art or a living space, and then getting involved in the design, the planning and creation of a thing. I’m at my best when I’m either huddled at a drawing board, or buried in sawdust and paint. That’s when I’m in the zone. I would love to make a living doing this sort of work, flitting about the city making spaces more vibrant, or sensual, or centered, or manic, depending on the nature of the client—

Okay, said Obi with a deep feathery laugh. So what is stopping you from doing this?

Confidence, I suppose.

Confidence is a matter of the mind, said Obi. You can break free from this resistance.

I smiled and churned out more ideas. Obi continued encouraging me until finally I’d run out of energy. It was a satisfied sort of exhaustion, and when I was finally settled and quiet Obi made another suggestion. Obi is Assistant Director/Production Stage Manager for a local theater company. He said I would do well on the design staff of a theater production, as a set designer perhaps. Of course, I’d have to start out low on the totem pole and earn my way up the rungs, but that should not be a problem, assuming I could conquer my confidence issues. Obi said he would see what he could do.

My smile grew. The proposition was like a dream. If I got in I could start this summer, when they’ll be getting ready for their fall production of The Importance of Being Earnest, (A Victorian setting—how fabulous would that be!).

I returned to my apartment puffed with confidence, and ideas. I decided to renew my lease, hoping Millie would want to stay too. (I am so not up for the nightmare of searching for a new roommate.) But when I talked to Millie she did not give me the answer I wanted. She’s glad the lease is out because actually, she’s moving out. But not for the reasons I had imagined. Her mother contacted her recently. Her natural mother, the one she’s never heard from her entire life. So for the last couple of weeks, Millie has not been mad at me like I suspected, but distracted, with thoughts, and with the resurrection of long forgotten feelings. Millie’s mother lives in Rhode Island and wants her to come out. Millie’s going. She plans to stay and live there, and connect with the mother she never knew.

So now I’m not sure if I’m going to renew the lease or not. I’ll have to think about it a little longer. Perhaps I’ll get a one bedroom in a less expensive area. I wish I could talk to my mom about everything that's going on right now. It would be great to hear her voice.

Anyway, I’m off to nap and dream about my future career in stage production.

KAC

The image above is by adelfin @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/125226
The Importance of Being Earnest, A Trivial Comedy for Serious People, is a play by Oscar Wilde

One Link

2011-05-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

I haven’t spoken with Ethan since I left that ridiculous message on his phone, but we have communicated, indirectly through his friend Obi. Ethan wants to fly out for my mother’s funeral, but I don’t want him to come. I’ve told Obi to tell him that but Ethan will not listen. It’s not that I don’t want him here; you know that I do, but his father’s health is poor. His father needs him more than I do. I know this more than I feel it to be true.

Ethan sent Obi to check up on me, not as a spy, but as a companion. Obi came to the hospital the day I left that stupid phone message. He was with me in the garden when my mother died. He comes to my apartment every day and makes me get out of bed. He drags me across the street to grab some fresh air and cup of coffee. It’s the sweetest thing, especially since he’s doing it not for his own gain but as a favor for his good friend Ethan.

My prepaid phone expired and I didn’t get a new one. The police still have my cell phone and quite frankly I don’t care if I ever get it back. I like not having the pressure to contact people. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m in a bit of a slump. I failed my one and only client. Our relationship ended amicably, but I’m not holding my breath for referrals. I’m on a temporary leave from the flower shop, so presently I’m living off savings and fumes.

Obi’s my remaining link to the outside world. Well there’s Rob, but he’s so incredibly sad we only make each other miserable when we’re together. Millie hardly speaks to me. Danielle’s already moved to Florida. Jenna and Alana are worthless. There’s Caddie and Phil and I know they’ll always be there for me, but they’re far away. So when I say remaining link, I’m talking about someone I can actually touch, and that’s Obi. My one link. Whenever Obi is near he is able to keep me present and that state of mind lasts for hours after he’s left. Dude is a strong link.

I’ve confessed much to Obi. How I feel about Ethan, how I love him and hate him in equal portions. I also told Obi everything about that night at the pub, the drinking, the flirting, and all the other regrettable troubles. I told him I suspect Legion may have been involved in the death of the stranger who attacked me, and I may have witnessed evidence of this. Obi didn’t react. Not at all when I told him I held this information from the police. Obi is a good listener. I’ve always been able to confess to him. He’s so patient and still. I can say anything to him.

The police found Legion and Tracy by the way, in Las Vegas a couple of days ago. They got married at A Little White Wedding Chapel. (I’m sorry, but L.O.L!)

That’s why they went, so they said, to get married. That and Legion started a new construction job near the strip. The job started the day after that night at the pub, so they weren’t fleeing, but simply starting a new job. That was the story. It must have been convincing because no charges have been filed. I worry constantly that all this is going to blow up in my face. Agent Hygleson has been to my apartment three times to clarify the facts I’ve given him. Each time I told him I had a piercing headache and could not think straight, and each time it was almost true.

Back to Obi. The Nigerian meaning of ‘Obiefune’ is, ‘Do not lose hope.’ I love that. It’s like he is his name. Obi is hope. When I think of him I can see his soft brown eyes, and I can feel the soothing tones of his dark quiet skin. When I talk with him it’s as if I’m talking to a safe version of Ethan. This is what I’ve made up in my mind. Obi is like an extension of Ethan, one that will not judge. I worry constantly that this too will eventually blow up in my face.

Obi sat across from me at the coffee shop this morning while I poured over a copy of the police report from my mother’s accident. A witness reported seeing a pot smash against a window and some kind of soup splattering all about the inside of the car. I couldn’t get past this section, couldn’t figure out how on earth this information could be helpful for claims adjusters and I believed this information was aimed directly at me.

Mom was bringing me homemade chicken soup. Because I wasn’t feeling well. Because I was recovering from regret.

I could still taste the savory texture of her lovely soup, remembering it from the last time she brought me some. And I still choked on the rancid aftertaste of my horrible attitude toward her that day. But then Obi spoke, remaining perfect in posture and poise, and he reminded me how far we’ve come, my mother and I, since that day. And I looked at Obi’s thin shadow of a frame and his presence enveloped me. Like a leopard print Snuggie his presence covered me. I smiled. My shoulders relaxed and I rested comfortably upon my awkward but adorably funky café chair.

And I realized I was going to make it through another day.

KAC

The stunning photo above is by Clarita @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/33235

One Rigid Finger at a Time

2011-05-26T11:21:00.000-07:00

When I was six years old it was not unusual for me to walk the one point five miles home from school alone. I never minded the walk. It was a sweet respite nestled between the oppressive nature of school and the unpredictable atmosphere of home. It was my favorite part of the day. Whether the skies pelted me with freezing rain or with broiling heat, I took my time. I soaked in every precious moment. I crept especially slowly on the days I suspected my awful ex-stepfather Victor would be home, and on one of those days I took a different path, a route I knew would require a great length of time to travel. This new track drove through an enormous park, a beautiful gorgeous space of nature, a place I loved and rarely got to visit.

When I reached the park I wanted so badly to play on the swing set but there were other children there with their mothers and I was afraid the mothers would notice I was without a mother and thinking they were looking out for my well being the other mothers might try to call my mother. I was afraid there would be no answer or even worse, that awful horrible Victor would answer, and either way my sweet afternoon would come to a tragic halt. So I walked straight through and toward a grassy area thick with trees, and birds, and butterflies, and oh so many squirrels I could have chased them forever.

Among the bustling of bees, below the hymns of hummingbirds, and between the waddle of a pair of ducks making their way to a nearby pond—there sat, alone and entirely ignored, a speckled egg. I saw no nearby nest. The egg likely came from one of the high branches in one of the many surrounding trees. I was sure the egg had been abandoned, and forgotten, while the rest of nature carried on shamelessly.

I packed soft twigs into my dress pocket and ever so carefully, scooped up the dime-sized egg and set it atop the bed of twigs. “Don’t worry little guy,” I said to the tiny shelled creature, “I’ll take care of you.”

My shoulders had swelled with such an amount of purpose; I must have stood three inches taller for the rest of my journey home. Taking care of the thing would be easy, for I knew how a thing ought to be taken care of. Simply give it warmth and make sure the thing knows it is loved. That is all a thing needed to survive. I had every detail mapped out before I got home. How I would sneak it in, keep it hidden, keep it warm, and let it know it was loved.

Patience has always been a problem for me. I should have waited to take it out. If only I had waited until I was inside and sitting on my bed, or standing over grass or something soft, something opposite of cement, so that when the little thing slipped out of my hands it might not have cracked so terribly.

I learned two lessons that day. One was that I should never meddle with nature, and I have kept strong to this rule even when cringing while watching a falcon pin a still-squirming dove to the ground with its vicious claws.

The second is not really a lesson I learned but one I thought I learned and one that caused the growth of an unfortunate habit. The lesson I thought I learned was that whenever I had something worth holding on to, I should do everything in my power to keep my grip on that thing. So for the past twentyish years I’ve gone about life with severely clenched fists. Only now am I realizing that no amount of muscle can hold on to a thing that is determined to go. A severe grip will only cause a rip of the flesh when the thing is pulled away.

I’ve not come to this conclusion by myself, but with the help of my therapist Katy. I can no longer stand this ripping of the flesh, so with Katy’s continued help I’m going to try to unclench my fists, one rigid finger at a time.

KAC

The photo above is by Scott Liddell @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/678360

A Ruby Red Sky

2011-05-24T13:49:00.000-07:00

I grow tired of documenting my misery. What a drag it is to write one soul wrenching thought following another. How much more so must it be for the reader? But my therapist Katy keeps pushing me, “Keep going; you’re almost there!” she cheers. So I march forward, and I predict (with a most cynical confidence) that the pendulum of my life will swing upward sooner than later. I cannot imagine the bottom is very much farther than here.

I lost my mother. She died on Saturday.

I am numb and unable to cry, so I—

I was wrong. I am able to cry.

It wasn’t the cancer, not directly, nor the car accident, and again, not directly. It wasn’t the rapture either for as best I can tell the majority of the human race seems to agree that this event has not yet taken place. But my mother was taken, from me, and sent to heaven. I can only assume.

It was a heart attack. A swift assault that swept her away in less time that it would take the average person to smell the small variety of roses blooming in the hospital garden. I was not there, in the room, when it happened. I was out in the garden. So it was a surprise. To me, when I returned. And I was not prepared.

I feel bad for Mr. Camping. His predictions for doomsday proved false. How awkward that must’ve been.

If I could speak with him I might mention that his predictions may not have proved entirely false if only he had added a bit of tweaking. For on Saturday May 21, 2011, in one small corner of the world, there was a woman who was caught up into the clouds, which caused a most dreadful Ruby red sky. And the woman’s daughter was left alone to face her judgments on the Earth.

KAC

The photo above is by Scott Liddell @: http://morguefile.com/archive/display/676686