And then she was gone

Umbilical cord attached, eyes closed, and a whimper that failed to resemble a bark.
****
The storm hit the Municipality with such immediate and instant force that a street-level flood was a foregone conclusion.
****
The professional put her at between three and five days old.
****
Without a mother to provide protection, an SUV tire diverting the onslaught of water was the only thing between her and death.
****
209 grams of wiry muscle was her fighting weight.
****
The owner of the metal box, motor and electronics attached to the mass of protective rubber noticed the tiny morsel of a pup and carted her to safety.
****
The white boots worn on two paws and her underbelly was off-set perfectly by the jet black fur adorning the remainder of her miniature body.
****
She arrived wrapped in a towel and housed in a dilapidated cardboard box.
****
She would wiggle, cry and paw when disturbed, but loved the warmth of human flesh.
****
While it was settled that the office collective would raise her during the days, a tall, somewhat lonely, and dog loving member of the group---at his own suggestion---was tasked with caring for her throughout the night; after further consultation, a decision was made to make the same her adoptive father.
****
The meatier parts of the body provided her with the most comfort, but complete contentment was achieved when she was placed in the rolls of skin around the tall man's belly, or the breasts of the many women who flocked and jockeyed to cradle and comfort her.
****
She awoke three times that first night, eager to be held and eat her man-made formula through a .1 oz. dropper.
****
The office attitude shifted immediately, where the stress created by the recent intrusion of an unwanted outsider and months of constant driving towards a yet unreached goal melted into toothy grins and talk of an imagined future.
****
Her cries, while distressing and sad, tickled the ears of those lucky enough to be in her presence.
****
Notwithstanding the original agreement to keep her presence a secret from the surrounding populace, visitors came in droves, eager to take part in the bi-hourly feedings.
****
Her fits of fight and struggle to burrow indicated a strength and will to live that allowed her admirers to forget the fragility of a being that small.
****
By day three she had been showered with a stuffed rabbit, pug scarf, ticking clock, heating pad and a knit sweater.
****
With the whimper, movement and will to eat gone, the office broke into a collective panic--the professional was consulted and an emergency visit was made and the news was devastating; she was brought back to her adoptive home in the hopes that antibiotics, love and a battle for life would bring our precious back from the brink.
****
Mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed, legs outstretched, and body motionless and rigid; the time for miracles had come and gone, with prayers unanswered.
****
The tears were real, pain plentiful, and questions unanswerable.
****
In a last show of love, her once vibrant remains were buried amongst the bushes and trees adorning the grounds where she touched and changes the lives, at least momentarily, of so many strong minded and seeming impenetrable individuals.
****
Leila was between five and seven days old and died of fading puppy syndrome. Watching her pass was one of the hardest things this tall, sometimes lonely, dog loving man has ever experienced, and I have seen my fair share.

My love, my life, my beer

A minor update of something I previously wrote:

If I were a better man, I would not taste it in the back of my throat, pain for its familiarity, or burn for its soothing properties. I would be happy with my situation, health, wife, employment, apartment, etc., but at this moment, I am not. For now, I am longing for something I simply cannot justify, nor attain, on a busy Tuesday afternoon—for that I hate her, here, this job, and of course, myself for giving in, as this is St. Patrick's day, and being Irish, this is my day to shine on this island—so please lord, quench my desire, my thirst, and if you could make it a chilled Guinness, I would be forever grateful. . . .

Sitting and waiting

He came into my life at a time when I did not yet realize there was a void. I took his name before I understood the significance; and he became my father. Throughout my younger years, he never missed a baseball game, at least not that I can remember (and I played year around from the age of eleven until I was eighteen). He did not much care for basketball, but he was there, every game he could make, cheering me on, even during the years I was relegated to the end of the bench, without a chance in hell of seeing the floor. Girls were discussed, sex talks had, funny stories shared, and numerous days and nights spent fishing and camping. In fact, looking back on those years, I could not have asked for a better role model.

Throughout our family's many struggles, and my brother’s ever-present sickness, he never disappeared on me, choosing instead to make himself present at all possible times. My friends were his friends, my interests his interests, my goals his goals. Not once did he tell me I was not good enough, that I could not succeed, that the world was above me. He was a rock, a shoulder to laugh and cry on, and my closest friend. I know I did not say it enough, but I cherished ever minute I spent with him. I adored the way he made me feel loved, supported and protected, even when I was not getting the same from other members in the family. I always knew, regardless of what I had said, done, or failed to do, he would be there at the end to prop me up. It was because of this that I thought that if I turned out to be half the man he was, I would be something special. Then one day, my father was no longer half the man he had once been, at least not to me. I wish it happened gradually so that I had had time to come to grips with the rejection, but it did not. He woke up one day and the light of love that once burned so bright for me had been extinguished, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I was finishing college at the time, heading off to further my studies, and while my outward appearance screamed grown man no longer in need of parental coddling, my internal-self was nowhere near that steady. I was lost, moving across the country to a place I had only previously visited, with not so much as a friend to converse with; I needed his love, support and guidance. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay, that he would always be there when needed, but it never came. After my departure, the phone calls went largely unreturned and emails unanswered. As the years passed, the contact became less frequent, the conversations minimal and the visits near nonexistent. There was a begrudging, someone painful graduation venture, a few holiday trips out west, and my wedding, but for the most part, unless it was on my dime, time and initiative, there was nothing. I just kept asking myself, how could the man who dropped me off at college and shed only the second tear I had seen fall from his eye simply forget about my very existence? How could the man who re-set my mangled thumb and let me get back into the game just because he understood how goddamn important it was for me never to quit, simply walk away? I had, as far as I could tell, done nothing, but refused to be the only one willing to give . . . maybe that was my fault. Possibly, had I refused to give up, forced him to talk, sent more emails, or flooded him with letters, he would have come around and once again shown me the side of him I held so close to my heart.

I am now in my early thirties, married, gainfully employed, but still alone and in desperate need of my dad, the man who raised me, to tell me he loves me, to reach out and show that he cares, because without that, I have lost much of the hope that carried me through my childhood – for if someone once so great, and integral to my life is willing to drop me without so much as an explanation, then what hope do I have for the future?

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Art:

Blood streamed from my body like a faucet, splattering haphazardly into puddles on the legal brief scattered beneath me. Her expression was a mismash of disgust, anguish and fear. As she clinched the bed frame for support, she struggled for words, but nothing cognizable emerged, instead came of stream of gasps, mutterings and deep breaths. I laughed curiously, confused by her failure to grasp the meaning behind my masterpiece. “Do you not see it,” I pleaded. . . . “It represents the cost we have paid for this godforsaken profession.” The tears convinced me that she did not. I had missed my audience, and again, I realized that this, art, was not for me.

She is going to blow!!

It is big, it is bad, it is my ankle. . . . This is why adults should not play childish games.

Her morning after

Not so much a follow-up, but a continuation—from the woman’s perspective/voice—of http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html and http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/11/his-morning-after.html. As you can tell, I do not write a woman’s voice much, so I welcome any and all pointers and/or criticisms.

The months of lingering, of semi-intellectual chatter and of making myself ever-present, finally paid off, so why am I riddled with doubt? Why can’t I just revel in my victory, regardless of its ultimate outcome? The fact is that he chose me, not the forty-something’s jockeying relentlessly for his attention, not the other nymphish coeds lusting after his every move and not his wife, who neglects his very presence. He asked me to join him at the table, not the other way around. I think he cares for me, maybe; it wasn’t just my body he wanted to warm him on this winter night, was it? I am better than that, I have everything to offer him in this world, and I am not that kind of woman, I don’t do this; or at least I didn’t. . . . God, he has been awake forever, he is probably wishing that it were somebody else laying next him. Fuck that, I am going to feign sleep for as long as it takes for him to tip his hand—if he gets up in a silent attempt to slip out of this room and back into the life he was so desperately complaining about six hours ago, then I know what I am; but if he puts his head down for just a moment, then he is mine. Please, just rest your head on my shoulder, please. . . .

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s words are “Phantoms & Shadows,” and we are supposed to write about things and people, times, places, events and how our memory has treated them. As you can see, I have not strictly complied, but this is what came to mind, so I went with it.

I would relive every day from April 1986 to February of 1998, the twelve years you spent with us on this planet. I would embrace every opportunity to hold you, talk with you, and cherish all that you had to offer. In this relived existence, no moment would pass without me conveying just how much your life meant to me. For more than ten years I have thought—on a daily basis—about the missed chances, and how my pride, anger and confusion stopped me from being the brother you deserved. I have been haunted by my failure to use kinder words, softer touches and gentler expressions. I have tried hard to overcome these failures and to correct the flaws that allowed me to fuck-up the chance I had to make you my world, but I struggle to overcome the emptiness that is ever present in my soul. I question my ability to love anyone if I could not love you the way you deserved, the single greatest person to ever cross my path. If presented with this, I would gladly forgo all that I have accomplished in this life – would pass on the travel, give up the degrees, walk away from the cushy life I have built for myself . . . . but, as we know, dreams and reality do not often coexist. So instead, I am destined to spend my life wondering what if, why, and how could I.

January 20, 2009....

I have never been more proud to be an American than I am today.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Pilgrimage

My pilgrimage is an ever evolving journey towards a meaningful existence. I have been blessed with the ability to communicate, learn, and grow, so I am hell-bent on taking out of this life, and giving back to others, all that is available. There are smiles to create, a world to discover, distances to run, rocks to climb, music to hear, books to read, people to meet, a family to have, and lessons to learn. The beauty of this march is that every day, regardless of its outcome, puts me one step closer to the end of the wander; my ashes floating on the tides of the open sea.

Next Problem

As is turns out, my hands, arms and shoulders are good for more than pushing paper, hitting a keyboard, lifting a cold one to my lips, and the occasional bar scuffle. Much like my feet, knees, hamstrings, quads and shins have allowed me to trek long and far across the face of this earth, the former, coupled with the latter--and my desire not to fall absurd distances--allow me to go higher than I ever previously imagined. While the wounds are deep, soreness debilitating and exhaustion real, the joy I take from reaching new heights is indescribable.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase is I Believe

It is not poetic, well said, or an original thought, but … above all else, I believe that our lives are a gift—regardless of who that gift is from—and that we have an obligation to ourselves, to those that have passed, and to future generations to make this world a better place to exist. If we each did one thing everyday, no matter how small, to benefit others out of pure selflessness, we may all find life a little more palatable.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s phrase was/is “I knew instantly;” a list seemed to be in order:

I knew instantly . . . that the words, my words, would be the escape from the world that I could not comprehend.

I knew instantly . . . that you would leave me a trampled shell of the person I was before walking into that class.

I knew instantly . . . that I could withstand more pain, suffering and agony than most boys of that age.

I knew instantly . . . that my departure was more than a step towards freedom.

I knew instantly . . . that something would get fucked up by my temporary assignment away from you.

I knew instantly . . . that being in your presence would lift the weight that had been crushing me since birth.

I knew instantly . . . that I was a nomad.

I knew instantly . . . that I would owe you my life.

I knew instantly . . . that I would eventually come to hate you, and you me.

I knew instantly . . . that I had made a horrible mistake by not going to medical school.

I knew instantly . . . that I was not as good a person as were you.

I knew instantly . . . that your death would haunt me into adulthood.

I knew instantly . . . that my performance would never match my credentials.

I knew instantly . . . that you would not be the one that got away, regardless of the cost.

What I did not know was that I would be a thirty something adult caught in the endless struggle to be happy.

Sunday (or more appropriately in this instance, Monday) Scribbling

This week’s word is Tradition

Failure, deceit, broken promises, aloofness and physical ailments, the markings of an existence not yet complete. Since birth, he has experienced, known, digested, and accepted the same as his fate. There was a struggle once, a fight against the inevitable, but he is, if nothing else, the product of his upbringing. No amount of classes, lectures, broken hearts, devastation and false starts could break him free of the cycle of his lineage. They are, as much as anything, his birthright. The positive is that he is the embodiment of the tradition laid out prior to his conception.

His morning after

A follow-up to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html The hangover is overwhelming, but the world is alive and I am gripped with panic. I want to remain silent, watch you sleep, and keep you in this bed—with me—for eternity. However, I know upon regaining consciousness, you will realize the gravity of your actions, recognize my age, my life’s plight, and my wedding ring. Better judgment will prevail, and run is what you will do. Excuses will fly wild, business meetings to attend, laundry to be completed, hair to be washed. I am a Wednesday night, a funny story to be told to your friends over too many cocktails, and a round of embarrassing admissions. This is my life’s highlight; an aberration from my daily pointless mess. I can’t recall your last name, but I want it to be mine, or at least the one I choose upon our escape from my hell. As you stir, I know not what your words will be, but I know they will not be enjoyed.

Sunday Scribblings

This week’s word is Stranger

Door slightly ajar, lights off, internal voice of excitement deafening.

* * *

I had been trolling the darker side of the internet on a lonely Friday night.

* * *

The music permeating the room was upbeat, but wordless.

* * *

I had nothing, and everything, in mind; I may have posted my email address.

* * *

The scent was unmistakably vanilla.

* * *

It started with an anonymous email, “Midtown Hyatt, room 636, 9:30pm, come in silence.”

* * *

I fumbled my way out of my clothes and into the bedroom.

* * *

I had heard about things such as this, but refused to accept that they existed.

* * *

We grouped, poked, prodded and fucked, uncontrollably, in complete and utter silence.

* * *

I reemerged into the light, noise, and going ons of the normal world, a new man, transformed by the faceless, nameless, wordless sex of a complete stranger.

Goodbye

He whispered thirty-two simple words into her ear before returning to the inevitable:

“While I have everything every other man would ever want, it is because of you, and the time we spent together, that I will no longer question my existence on this earth.”

(Inspired by the final scene in Lost In Translation)

Sunday Sribblings

This week’s word is Change: The face staring back at him in the mirror is a tattered combination of exhaustion, abuse, self-loathing, loss, fear and hope. As another week comes to a slow and painful end, he is once again presented with a chance to start over. To put down the cigarettes, walk away from the bottle, leave behind the faceless sexual partners, and become the person he always dreams he will be in the moments of sobriety and solitude. Every Monday offers the chance to begin anew and start the maturation process internally promised, yet still unfulfilled. He knows, in this moment, that the fresh weeks before him are becoming less numerous than those of his past. The problem lies in the fact that the life he seeks—one filled with completeness, pride, and restful nights—is one that he has neither known, nor understood. His existence to this point has been defined by the recklessness of his days; without them, he does not exist, at least not in his current form. Nonetheless, this is the week—he tells himself aloud—that the change will stick and that the embarrassment associated with his life will end.

It is about time!!

After eight painful years, I feel like I can breath again. Great fucking day!

Rejection

If I could respond to this week’s rejection, it would go something like this:

Dear Mr. Too Busy to Follow Through:

Thank you for taking the time—albeit a week after we had agreed, and only after I called to inquire about my pending application—to send me an informal form letter notifying me that, regrettably, you would not be able to offer me a position with your organization.

As you indicated, you interviewed “hundreds” of people for this opening, so I can only imagine that changing the name in the heading of the rejection, printing it, folding it so that it fit in the envelope, signing it, and plying it with postage, was an incredible inconvenience for you and your staff. I can sympathize with the interruption, as I faced a similar situation in flying up to interview with you, on less than five days notice, and to the tune of $1,500, on two separate occasions. Not often in this profession does one get a chance to meet an individual, face to face, who demands promptness and sacrifice from others, but fails to follow through with even the simplest of requests—they usually hide behind the alleged ineptness of others. For this, I am in your debt.

Finally, I want to commend you for reminding me why it is I loathe my career choice.

Very truly yours,

AOTI

Sunday Scribblings

This week's theme is bragging.

I am a master of masking the truth of the situation. Pain is hidden
behind toothy smiles; failure, canned statements of positivity;
destruction, shoulder shrugs; embarrassment, self-ridicule; hatred,
baseless compliments; attraction, outward indifference; etc. The key
to my existence is to be the same thing to the same people everyday,
regardless of the cost and/or consequence. It saves me from having to
explain my daily ebbs and flows to those I would rather avoid. I am
the definition of even keeled.