While on my second or is it fourth glass of wine, I acknowledge the vessel. A mustardy colored cardboard box with thin
rusty band denoting the contents of a delineated
plastic liver of 2015 Pino Grigio with a
black plastic petal shaped spigot wherein rests a sexy red nipple calling to be
caressed hard by thumb in order to release its honey toned nectar. The colors are a faux natural as if to refer
to nature and along with suggestive stylized decals such as the sun, trees and
a couple enjoying such contents in stylized wine glasses to resonate that this
wine is not only from the earth but that the makers of this fine affordable
beverage are concerned about the well being of the planet and for the imbiber. However as recyclable as the box may be and
even still the inner most contents are a remarkable expectorant of natural
filtration to be liberated back into the earth, the plastic of the black spigot
and liver are troubling. For it can only
be down-cycled into a puddle pit of non-biodegradable particles eventually
molding the earth and encapsulating all the oxygen until it resembles the
inflatable globe that my three year old son thoughtless and perhaps lazily left
there in the yard, resting on a throne
of lush plantains delicately rocking
with each breath of wind. We are all
children of the earth no matter our age or background. Compared to how long this molten rock clad in
extraordinary beauty and filth has been floating around we are fetuses born
generational any and every time we chuck our toys down after we are done and
let the ants get at them. We are unnaturally natural; we exist merely to
consume oxygen to keep the flame going on until the end- Ours and the
worlds.
I drink this
brand of wine because of its economical and ecological impact. And because and most importantly it relaxes
and replaces such thoughts of world obliteration with desire determined intent
to drunk myself in order to forget and forgive our collective daily damage.
Truth be told, I don’t particularly
like nor enjoy thinking or entertaining such things and who really does? Why toil
on self destruction and other people’s problems. I cannot change the world. The whole of it is
immense and I am mere fledgling barely off the ground shaking loose my fur and
in full wonder of how I got here and from what branch; tremendously
apprehensive of my ability to fly. I
will stand my own ground on the only ground I know and not worry about flying
but nesting. This is where I will
caretake and pick up the countless carelessly discarded McDonald's polystyrene
time capsules from the crooks of the road that separate the harmless and
healing Jewel-weed from the taunting Poison Ivy, for which I have become
personally acquainted to the point of respect and near complete aversion. Shouldn’t it be the goal of every soul to
commit to the environment that he or she situates and inhabits and to foster
the kind of change they desire? I
believe it is that way for everyone from the doll collecting ninny in her
eclectic menagerie of diluted loneliness to the train hopping gutter punk in
their box car of the same name. I am
blissfully aware and bewildered of what happens in my yard. At night I can take in as much breath as I can
see the stars yet in the day as the sun beats down on patches of milk weed and
wolf’s bane I am nearly strangled by humidity.
I am not in control nor have I ever been no matter what I root down or
set on foundation, the honeysuckle and bellflower vines will force even one of
the strongest poplars to starvation if I am not there to stop or alter their trajectory
towards the sun. And. Who is to say that
it my place? Except of course if it is
my place, my shelter, and my home that this weakened silvery saluteur to the
sky intends to fall. For trees never
intend to fall unless they do and that doing is completely questionable and nor
do we intend to fall unless we do and so doing is also completely questionable.
I never much questioned falling. It was a natural act of gravity and the lack
of ground nearby. I simply went with it and
fell the best I could. Not even after
when I was about ten when I was playing with a my twin brother, Steve and a blond neighborhood
girl that I have forgotten the name of and fell quickly and absentmindedly eight
feet backwards while attempting to sit down on a brick wall. I landed near a would-have-been death spike
the color of a school bus meant to delineate and delegate parking spots. The breath was knocked out of me and I was
checked for a concussion. Told not to fall
asleep. I did not think of falling but
of where I landed-In close proximity to something that if I had landed would
have definitely kept me kababobed for all to see but also would have allowed me
to fall much deeper than I was ready to go-not ready but willing. The act of falling and the will to fall are
not completely different but are disparate.
One is intentional and yet a result of inertia. I am not sure if Steve at the time had any
idea that I had fallen until he and the blonde nymph dressed in a red cape, I think
we were playing He Man and She Ra, noticed me near breathless lying there. I however, many years later knew of my
brother’s falling; was inherently aware of his symbiosis with honeysuckle and
yet like he when I found him I was with a friend yet she wasn’t blonde nor
wearing a red cape and not even a she but I would assume Kyle while dialing 911
was just as shocked at the fact that despite efforts to be in control and
somewhat superhuman we all will fall…
‘All of this had always been and
he had never seen it; he was never present.
Now he was present and belonged to it.
Through his eyes he saw light and shadow; through his mind he was aware
of moon and stars.’ Herman Hesse from
Siddhartha
Mildly hung over on a lazy Sunday
on Februrary 9th 2013 I spent the whole day planning digging and
setting posts that were to be the foundation and frame ends of my neighbor
Carry’s hoop houses for her vegetation to seed with my friend Kyle, who was
residing with me and my wife at the time at our modest but secure abode in
Cosby, Tn. I could go into details of my
Floridian neighbor, Carry, her mild tomboyish abrasive manner, her quirky sense
of humor and even theorize why she says “Hell’s
Yeah” in that long drawn out smiley way but this isn’t the time or the space or
the point. I could also tell you about
Kyle, the lonesome libertarian drifter who longs for his own space in the world
but is constantly lost in the Puppetry of unseen controllers of the universe,
which would be more pertinent to where I am going but for now it’s a misfire
target into unnecessary character development.
Instead I will focus on the feeling of the day which is on par with my
intent not to go into lengthy description with whom I spent company on that fateful
February afternoon. My sensors were
blocked by drink and indifference. I
drank for the same reasons as I mentioned above: to forget and forgive My daily destruction and
trespasses. Steve has been M.I. A. for
about three days. I have felt and even
discussed his intentions to most likely end his life. I have been preparing for
it ever since he was called out a week before by our Dad for skipping school,
at age 37 he was taking welding classes and doing well, therefore signaling to me that he kicked the
wheels off the wagon of sobriety. I didn’t
take it too well. His drinking got in
the way of us being buds and him being the kind of uncle that my wife wanted
him to be. Not that he was abusive or
even irresponsible when he was drinking but he was unpredictable and
unreliable. At least that was the fear. I asked him to stop on behalf of our
friendship and his relation to his nephew. And. He did. For a while. Then I left to visit my wife’s
family in England. When I returned I had
a feeling that he was drinking again which concurred by his actions and made
evident by my friend Kyle’s observations while I was away. For two weeks after my return we barely spoke
to each other and I never saw him alive again. I knew he was going to fall
because I am his twin and yet I didn’t want to think about it. After going around to visit him on Saturday
and he never showing up…well, I guess I decided to get shitty drunk. And the
next day he came back to his house and must have set up a plan for it to be his
last.
The Monday succeeding I decided
that it was enough and I was sober on that gloomy morning, well sober enough to
know that something wasn’t right. So I dressed
for a funeral although in winter I usually dress for funeral, come to think of
it I am dressed in all black now and it is the beginning of June. Anywho. I put my black beanie that conforms to my
head, a near tight black sweater and black jacket, black Levi’s and black
rubber boots, it had rained the night prior and it looked as if it was going to
be buckets. And buckets it was but the
rain did not fall from the sky.
As we pulled into the alley where
the house my wife and I restored and lived in for two years, a tiny 1940’s
cottage perched on a small patch of yard, not even an acre with a massively gorgeous
hackberry tree behind it, whose leaves had all fallen revealing a fractal world
of stark lightning branches webbed in the doom lit sky, I was half relieved to
see Steve’s 90’s model blue grey salt stained Crown Vic in the driveway. Half relieved because it was a sign that he
was there. I went up to the door and
peered into the glass that happened to be covered by a curtain so there was not
much to see, knocked and yelled for him to get his lazy butt up. No answer and the door locked. I kept calling his name and was beginning to
think that he wasn’t there after all.
There is a carport that I built along with Steve and Kyle’s help attached
to left of the house where I then walked and started to peer in windows. The one to his bedroom gave me no detail
except for the mystery of a grey curtain.
The next window however had no curtain and I could see a light through
the room coming from the bathroom. He’s
taking a shower, I surmised. So I made
my way to the back door that was unsurprisingly not locked because I had failed
to fix it so it could. Then I noticed
that the sink was running and there were dishes piled and I became more curious
and as if slow motion kicked in as I exited the tiny kitchen that led directly
to hallway made by the refrigerator and the transverse living room whereupon
directly to my left was the bathroom. Where the light was coming from. Where my brother was. Steve. In
the tub.
The Bathroom was the first room
to be fixed when my wife and I moved into the house. The space of the room was very small but
could neatly fit a porcelain art nouveau style bath that stopped at the floor
and spanned wall to wall, a toilet and a wall mounted sink. There was a window that we were talked into
taking out by my Dad because neglect and perhaps bad planning had lead it to
rot most of the structure around it so it had to go along with some of its
supports, which were eventually replaced. I would have liked to have had replaced the
window but was again advised not to because of its proximity to the shower
head. Once we had the window out and the walls
redone my wife decided that she would like the room to be painted school bus
yellow and I accented it all with cedar trim. It pretty much was the coolest and warmest
room in the house. Yet on the tenth day
of February 2013 it was a garish portrait of wonder loss and intentional
decent.
My first reaction never strayed from
the purpose of my initial visit which was to see if he was there and in both
cases I knew that he wasn’t but I had to be sure that I was going to do all
that I could so I ran out to Kyle who was still outside the front of the house
and told him to call 911. When I ran
back in all I could think was that he didn’t have to and this became my audible
chant for nearly the whole span of what seemed both infinitesimal and a blink
before the ambulance and police arrived.
In that time of existence I scanned the area looking for clues as to why
and what and how. There were knives of
all sorts neatly lying next to and about him by the wall. Two with delicate
handles of ivory inlaid with gold, appearing to be very small steak knives,
perhaps for cutting fish for they seemed to be oriental for whatever that means…Even
his multi tool as if none of the blades would do…Did he make this decision
while doing the dishes?…Fuck knows I’ve thought about it there overwhelmed by
all the dirtiness and obligation…One time out of nowhere I crashed a plate down
out of derelict frustration and broke one my favorite mugs, yet now I cannot
remember what it looked like. His body
lay there motionless, of course, naked except for his black underpants, the
kind that are not boxers and are not briefs, form fitting and wet. The mote of water surrounding him was the
color of rust. His wrists were slit cross ways and not horizontal like most say
to do instead, at least, if you are serious.
But then I noticed too up where his arms bent that those veins were
punctured as well and tiny streams gave their trickling deluge to let me know
that he was tapped out. Mostly what I remember
are his eyes. Blue grey like mine
looking past everything and anything and his tongue half poised as if to
speak. There were cigarette butts in the
toilet that sat directly by the tub that were smoked right down to the butt. And
a blood stain smear that resembled a hand-print on the wall, toilet paper on the
floor as if he may have tried to stop the bleeding at one point. Long ago during a painting critique of one of
my friends work about the subject of suicide I remember the professor-Longish
grey hair pulled tight in a pony tail stating that suicide was an
accident. Yes and no. An intentional accident in this case as
everything seemed to have a place and made sense like a piece of art or a still
life arranged with precision so as when I found him, for I Was meant to find
him, it would appear like an achievement of glory which I suppose it was rather
than a fall from a brick wall onto a parking pole. Although in both instances the color yellow
was involved.
The Police were the ones that
found the note on the refrigerator.
“Hey Bro,
Sorry about the mess I’ve left
behind.
Live your life. I’ve lived mine”
So I do and I drink wine out of a
box and contemplate its return for it will always be a thing terrestrial as my
brother’s ashes will be-combined with the earth and I try not to give a good
God damn about any troubles of the world, for the one thing that is not of this
earth but aerial eternal is the energy that is a mystery to all and who knows
where it will rest or where and when we will fall.