A Story from my Youth:
Irvine is a square city, full of four way stops, tract homes and superfluous neighborhood watches. It is a quarantine, completely sterile. I grew up within its walls and in the middle of a sleepless night I climbed up on the kitchen counter in my right angled and symmetrical middle class American home. White walls, white fridge, white tile, white family. I contemplated none of these things. I lost no sleep over my privilege, but plenty over the fact that someday I would die. I was born with an expiration date. When i brought this complaint to my parents and asked them what happens when I die they gave me what they thought was an honest answer (when there really is only one right answer, "I don't know). And at this point I wish i knew about them what i do now, that they are not perfect..."You rot in the ground James" replied my father. My mother quick to join the party added "and then worms eat you." So because of this I was up at two in the morning on a Wednesday, tears dripping down my not yet even close to completely formed five year old face. Fuck eternity and existentialism, all i wanted was a god damned Granny Smith Apple. And stupid rules like no climbing on counters, no knives, and no midnight stacks were not going to deter me.
I reached into a drawer grabbed a butter knife and a cutting board sitting crisscross apple sauce on the counter. I must have been used to my mother cutting apples for me because I never cut apples anymore. I sliced into the apple, but the knife was stuck. I wriggled it back and forth to no avail and the tears flow, which had been stymied by my apple eating ambition, starting up again. Full of frustration and anger at a world that clearly has it in for me, I used my left hand to hold the apple and pulled the knife out as hard as i could....straight into my chin. Blood everywhere, red across the white counter, the white tile stained red, the white skin of my youth flayed exposing the true red underneath. All this happened in that strange silence that can be found in suburban tract homes in the middle of the night. A place devoid of culture, barely alive, somewhat like a human on a gurney in the hospital near death, with only faint blips on the heart monitor. I am a faint blip, i am bleeding, I am a human being. And like a human being I began to act very strangely...
Feeling half veteran criminal and half five year old boy scared of his parents, I began to cover up the crime. I stemmed the bleeding on my chin, and cleaned up the blood, threw the bloody paper towels in the trash, and hid the damn granny smith (that I didn't even get a taste of) deep in the trashcan. All of this was done in that eerie silence that can make me so incredibly productive. My thoughts streamlined as I executed my plan to perfection. After completing the kitchen clean, I began the cover up. The white tile extended from the kitchen down a white walled hallway with a step down to the gray carpet of the sterile living room. I drew a little blood from my chin, using deft child hands to squeeze drops out and spread them across the tile step. It was all in the details. I dripped a little onto the carpet for good measure, and created a trail. I was a creative little monster. Once I had created the evidence to back up my glorious and well crafted lie, I faked a scream that woke up my parents. They came in and were very concerned. I said it was "OK" and that I was fine. I can't remember if I faked tears or not, but I wouldn't be surprised. At this age, and for the next ten years, crying came as naturally to me as breathing, seemingly equal parts of my life. Upon close inspection my father decided to wake up my pediatrician. It was now three in the morning as the Cosmakos' drove to my doctor's office.
We brought along my baby brother and I told the Dr (who I think was one of the only other Jews in town) the same elaborate lie I had told my parents. I was cold , detached, and deliberate. I was not to be fucked with. I was more sure of myself this night than I may have ever been. I miss that feeling of a life that is a long unwritten story. At 5, it can go in whatever direction I want, there isn't much to be unwritten. Every moment was as important as the next, and equally forgettable as soon as it had passed. Now everything seems tied together, the idea of linearity of time seems like a cruel joke (no different than Santa Claus or God), and here I am remembering what it was like to be a child. At 27 I still believe in people (choosing to keep my naive hopes and dreams close). I still lie (more often than I would let you know). I still hurt myself (and not always on accident). I still think (foolishly or not) that my whole life is still ahead of me (that I have just begun). I still believe in myself, in my revolution, in my soul, in the innate goodness I was born with. I still carry the guilt that caused me to reveal the truth of the cause of those stitches to my parents when I was 13. It is the guilt that comes with secrets. Of others being close to me without knowing the full truth. It is wanting to be understood as I truly am, not someone's conception (deeply flawed and most likely horribly inaccurate) of me. They seemed to forget the incident, and did not care about my elaborate cover up. They shared a look of confusion, a quaint laugh, and asked what I wanted for dinner. Maybe they are too caught up in their own lives to realize the importance of this. Maybe they just don't care...but I will always care. I miss that five year old boy. He is still in me, but often I forget to listen to him and I forget who I am. But sometimes, on days like today, I remember...
Irvine is a square city, full of four way stops, tract homes and superfluous neighborhood watches. It is a quarantine, completely sterile. I grew up within its walls and in the middle of a sleepless night I climbed up on the kitchen counter in my right angled and symmetrical middle class American home. White walls, white fridge, white tile, white family. I contemplated none of these things. I lost no sleep over my privilege, but plenty over the fact that someday I would die. I was born with an expiration date. When i brought this complaint to my parents and asked them what happens when I die they gave me what they thought was an honest answer (when there really is only one right answer, "I don't know). And at this point I wish i knew about them what i do now, that they are not perfect..."You rot in the ground James" replied my father. My mother quick to join the party added "and then worms eat you." So because of this I was up at two in the morning on a Wednesday, tears dripping down my not yet even close to completely formed five year old face. Fuck eternity and existentialism, all i wanted was a god damned Granny Smith Apple. And stupid rules like no climbing on counters, no knives, and no midnight stacks were not going to deter me.
I reached into a drawer grabbed a butter knife and a cutting board sitting crisscross apple sauce on the counter. I must have been used to my mother cutting apples for me because I never cut apples anymore. I sliced into the apple, but the knife was stuck. I wriggled it back and forth to no avail and the tears flow, which had been stymied by my apple eating ambition, starting up again. Full of frustration and anger at a world that clearly has it in for me, I used my left hand to hold the apple and pulled the knife out as hard as i could....straight into my chin. Blood everywhere, red across the white counter, the white tile stained red, the white skin of my youth flayed exposing the true red underneath. All this happened in that strange silence that can be found in suburban tract homes in the middle of the night. A place devoid of culture, barely alive, somewhat like a human on a gurney in the hospital near death, with only faint blips on the heart monitor. I am a faint blip, i am bleeding, I am a human being. And like a human being I began to act very strangely...
Feeling half veteran criminal and half five year old boy scared of his parents, I began to cover up the crime. I stemmed the bleeding on my chin, and cleaned up the blood, threw the bloody paper towels in the trash, and hid the damn granny smith (that I didn't even get a taste of) deep in the trashcan. All of this was done in that eerie silence that can make me so incredibly productive. My thoughts streamlined as I executed my plan to perfection. After completing the kitchen clean, I began the cover up. The white tile extended from the kitchen down a white walled hallway with a step down to the gray carpet of the sterile living room. I drew a little blood from my chin, using deft child hands to squeeze drops out and spread them across the tile step. It was all in the details. I dripped a little onto the carpet for good measure, and created a trail. I was a creative little monster. Once I had created the evidence to back up my glorious and well crafted lie, I faked a scream that woke up my parents. They came in and were very concerned. I said it was "OK" and that I was fine. I can't remember if I faked tears or not, but I wouldn't be surprised. At this age, and for the next ten years, crying came as naturally to me as breathing, seemingly equal parts of my life. Upon close inspection my father decided to wake up my pediatrician. It was now three in the morning as the Cosmakos' drove to my doctor's office.
We brought along my baby brother and I told the Dr (who I think was one of the only other Jews in town) the same elaborate lie I had told my parents. I was cold , detached, and deliberate. I was not to be fucked with. I was more sure of myself this night than I may have ever been. I miss that feeling of a life that is a long unwritten story. At 5, it can go in whatever direction I want, there isn't much to be unwritten. Every moment was as important as the next, and equally forgettable as soon as it had passed. Now everything seems tied together, the idea of linearity of time seems like a cruel joke (no different than Santa Claus or God), and here I am remembering what it was like to be a child. At 27 I still believe in people (choosing to keep my naive hopes and dreams close). I still lie (more often than I would let you know). I still hurt myself (and not always on accident). I still think (foolishly or not) that my whole life is still ahead of me (that I have just begun). I still believe in myself, in my revolution, in my soul, in the innate goodness I was born with. I still carry the guilt that caused me to reveal the truth of the cause of those stitches to my parents when I was 13. It is the guilt that comes with secrets. Of others being close to me without knowing the full truth. It is wanting to be understood as I truly am, not someone's conception (deeply flawed and most likely horribly inaccurate) of me. They seemed to forget the incident, and did not care about my elaborate cover up. They shared a look of confusion, a quaint laugh, and asked what I wanted for dinner. Maybe they are too caught up in their own lives to realize the importance of this. Maybe they just don't care...but I will always care. I miss that five year old boy. He is still in me, but often I forget to listen to him and I forget who I am. But sometimes, on days like today, I remember...
posted by Rydra Cosmo at
4:23 PM
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