...you don't need a weatherman (written in mid-2006)
One day (Tuesday) you think that some people deserve the hell they create for themselves, and the smoke from your cigarette curls around your fingers. Your nails are worn and bitten down to the quick from when you pace up and down hallways, waiting for news; any kind of news. Like your nails, who once used to be buffed and polished and all that sparkles, you find it hard to accept the underlying meaning behind the thought, but nowadays you punish yourself by examining the feelings that hide the most pain.
When you were twelve years old, you were rejected for the first time. You never really got over that scar, and when you poke at it it throbs once and someone draws a curtain over your eyes.
When you were nineteen years old, your dad threw you out. Suffice it to say he never understood why you tried your hand at loving and disobeying him at the same time, and when you think of the words he used to get you out you can feel the pitter-patter of your pulse all the way down to your knees. It’s what true betrayal feels like.
When you were twenty-two years old, you took one look at the blood on her face and started biting your nails. This is hurt and betrayal all at once, and you want them to eat the dirt at your feet. Some people deserve the hell they create for themselves.
We want justice. We want something that makes sense. You know all the words, and yet you feel like the most powerless person in the whole universe.
“What the hell is going on, Daniel? What the hell is going on?”
It blew up.
You get up and walk to the window, but stay close to the wall; hiding. The street lies deserted, dead and much too silent. Stray beams of sunlight filters through the clouds and hit the pavement at a right angle from where you stand, creating a scene where an empty container is the lead and sole actor. The silence is oppressive because you know what you would see if you could see through brick, and you take a steadying breath to push the screaming to the back of your mind. Outside the air smells like smoke, like falling dirt and oily patterns on the sea, but in here all you can pick up is disinfection soap and desperation.
You push a hand through your hair and let out a weary sigh. You’re all alone now. Someone was here before, but they left a couple of hours ago. They said they wanted to stay…but couldn’t. They had something to do. Of course you do, you’d said to them and looked away.
Youfuckerjustleavealreadyifyourenotgoingtobeherewhenshewakeandyoubetrayedheryoubetrayedmeyoubetrayedeveryone. I will never forgive you for this.
Who are you talking to?
It’s the principle of the thing, and more: it’s life. That’s why she would have gone out there, looking back at you with those eyes that never closed, marching off to fight a war to the beat of her own music. You can’t do that, and you hate yourself for it.
“Daniel. It’s not…power to disobey the rules, I fucking hate the very word power, they write you off and ship you off to the corner on Fifth, and let me tell you – it’s a very lonely corner, no matter how many of the others you meet there. But do you know what word I hate even more than power? Passivity. Today, if you're not grief-stricken, you're not paying attention. If you're not terrified, you're not paying attention. I know we’re heading for something very bad here. I can feel it. But there are people out there who say it’s worth everything, and I feel like it’s all we’ve got. I don’t know what else to do, and I hate Dennis, because all he does is talk. I don’t wanna talk, and I don’t wanna sit still, and so this is what I’m doing. For better or worse.”
There’s a sudden movement in the street. Masked and hooded he makes his way across empty spaces and dusty sidewalks. You imagine the sound of his sneakers (blue?) bouncing off the walls, the smackidismack echoing in rhythm with his heavy breathing, following an inner voice. Nowadays, there’s always a voice. It tells you to keep going, to never give up, never give in, never let them win. It’s a voice you love and hate equally as much. You passively watch as he hesitates for a split second outside a wooden door; deciding, weighing consequences, crying out for help. This time God says no, and you freeze as he passes by safety and continues on towards danger.
And then it’s like someone has wrapped their hands around your throat. Slowly squeezing all the air out of your lungs until there’s just this hollow realization left. I know. Did she do this to you?
“When I have trouble falling asleep, I count the things I gave up to be here. It’s not an aid, it’s just something I do rather than doing what Natalie does when she locks herself in the bathroom.
After an appropriate amount of time has passed, my heart is so filled with pain and regret that it needs to go somewhere or I’ll explode. Ironically, this is when I fall asleep, but when I wake up I know I’ve been crying for several hours. All the signs are there: my heart is beating too fast, my cheeks are itching and I can barely open my eyes – all that.
And yet. And yet…you don’t trust me at all, do you?”
You always knew more than you let on. You had these tiny pieces of information which put together could have formed a magnificent whole. She suspected you from time to time (you don’t know if others did), but always seemed almost too afraid to ask. That simple fact that there was something – anything – about you that could frighten her leaves a taste of bile and death in your mouth.
You push your forehead up against the cool glass of the window and wait for the dizziness to pass. There’s a lot you need to think about now. Things to take care of – let go and let God? No. No more passing things on. From now on you’re going to be involved. So fucking involved that you will be crying in your sleep for years to come.
Now/You:
I’m asking for your understanding only once. No acceptance, no forgiveness, no permission. This is all you get. I will never believe that you care. You used violence; now look at me, you decided this without asking; now look at that. You don’t care a bit. You don’t care a bit.
And it’s time to do something about that.
Then/You:
It’s time to do something about that.
The door clicks shut behind you.
Note: Inspired by the documentary “The Weather Underground” by Bill Siegel and Sam Green; 2002. Quotation from an essay by Naomi Jaffe, former member of the WU.
I don't think this is finished...