Tag Archives: wrath

“See the Stone Set in Your Eyes, See the Thorn Twist in Your Side — I Wait…”

The shades were closed.  The house was dark.  It had always struck me strange the way she’d keep all windows locked down, in order to keep the cold air inside.  The manufactured cool would dry out her skin and the house would smell mechanical.  She’d complain, blow the arid air through her deviated septum; then slather her age spots with some sort of bleaching cream.

She lived too close to the dessert; and only late at night, she’d give the house fans a rest.  Their constant humming would finally die down, and suddenly the sounds of gentle quietness in nature would be overheard through an occasionally open window.  The skin of my scalp would relax at the temples:  I would forget to notice my constant frown during the 20-hour long humming.  My face acquired new habits since living in this house, and I was beginning to forget the girl who had been asked to pay the price of her childhood — in an exchange for the better future.

But on that day, it was too early to allow the nature to come in, yet.  And as I entered the empty house, I immediately noticed the hum.  I had been gone for half a week:  too short of a time to forget the climate of this house entirely — and most definitely not enough to forgive it!  I took off my shoes, remembering the stare she’d give her visitors whenever they were too oblivious to obey.  Slowly, I began to pass from room to room.

The light gray carpet that covered most of the house’s footage was immaculately clean.  And if there was an occasional rug — under a chair or a coffee table — it usually marked an accidental spill of food or drink by a very rare house guest.  I’d be the only one who knew that though:  I’d witness all their hidden faults.  And she would run the vacuum every night, pulling and yanking it in very specific directions.  Those vacuum markings had to remain there undisturbed; and only those who didn’t know better were kindly permitted to destroy them with their footsteps.

I opened the bedroom’s double doors first but found no courage to come in.  Instead, I stood on the cold titles, on the other side, and studied the footsteps by her bed.  There was a cluster of them, right by the nightstand.  Is that where she had been picked up by the paramedics?  I looked for outlines of boots imprinted into the fur of the carpet.  I thought I saw none.

The living room carpet seemed undisturbed.  The markings of the vacuum, which she must’ve done the night before, were still perfectly parallel.  The cold tiles of the kitchen floor had no residue of food.  She’d wash those on her hands and knees with paper towels.  And she would go over it until the wet towel would stop turning gray.  No dishes in the sink.  No evidence of an unfinished meal.  No evidence of life at all.  I began to wonder where she’d collapsed.

The door to my former bedroom was shut.  Most likely, it had remained so since I’d departed.  I made it to the office — the only space where some disarray was less prohibited.  The bills where broken down by due dates and neatly piled perpendicularly, on top of one another.  Her husband had a habit of resting his feet on the edge of the corner desk, as he played on the computer for hours, until she’d fall asleep.  Then, he’d come into my bedroom.

My bedroom.  Its door was closed.  I turned the handle and expected for the usual catch of its bottom against the rug that she insisted on keeping on the other side.  Strangely, it covered up no visible spots.  I pushed it open.

It was a sight of madness.  One woman’s rage had turned the place into a pile of shredded mementos, torn photos and broken tokens of forsaken love.  The bedcovers were turned over.  The sheets had been peeled off the mattress two-thirds down, as if by someone looking for the evidence of liquids near my sex.  The stuffed toys which normally complete my line-up of pillows were now strewn all over the floor, by the wall opposite of my headrest.

On top of an overturned coffee table I saw my letters:  My cards to her and hers — to me.  She’d even found the letters in my parents’ hand, and she shredded them to piece.  Nothing was off limits.  No love was sacred after hers had been betrayed.

I stepped inside to see the other side of one torn photograph that flew the closest to the door.  At first, I tried to catch my breath.  A feeling on sickly heaviness got activated in the intestines.  In murder mysteries that she adored to watch with me, I’d seen detectives scurry off into the corner furthest from the evidence, and they would throw up — or choke at least — at the atrocity of crimes against humanity.  Apparently, my insides wanted to explode from the other end.

I paced myself.  Carefully, that I, too, would not collapse, I bent down and picked up the shredded photo.  It was my face, torn up diagonally across the forehead.  On the day of my high school graduation, her husband had come over to the side of the fence where we were beginning to line up.  I can see the faces of my classmates in the background.  They smiling at his lens.  They are supposed to, as he — was “supposed” to be my father.

He was not.  And I’m not smiling.  I’ve raised one eyebrow, and my lips are parted as if I’d just told him to fuck off.  Not even there, he would allow for me to be without him.  Not even there, I could be alone for long enough to remember the girl who’d been asked for her childhood in an exchange… for what?

“Give Me Hope, Help Me Cope — With This Heavy Load…”

I saw him nearing the intersection, about half a block away, on foot.  At first, I watched him pass my car, along the pavement: An ordinary man, like so many others.

His hair and beard were completely white (and I’ve always found it impossible not to trust white-haired people, for they seemed so much wiser than others).  So, immediately, I thought of him not as much as handsome but somehow dignified; trust-worthy.  Surely, I thought, he knew something I didn’t.

He wore a pair of well-ironed black slacks and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at its collar.  A pair of polished, laced-up shoes and a yellow manila envelope under his armpit:  But of course!  He had to be an important somebody!

Maybe he was someone’s tax accountant, I thought.  Or, a divorce attorney walking over the final papers to a drained, tragic face of some recently single mother.

The fact that he was passing a gas station specifically for cop cars helped my fantasy, too.  I had just noticed it the other day:  What looked like a parking lot behind a film production building was filled with the killer whales of LAPD being served by a single, rusty gas pump.  I didn’t know that the same people granting us our justice also had to pump their own gas.  It made sense, of course; but my initial assumption that they were tended to, by someone else, made the idea of my world slightly better.  Or, more just.

(That’s when I looked away:  I was waiting for the traffic light to change.  It hadn’t yet.)

I had just passed that one crowded intersection where every LA egomaniac insisted on wedging in the giant ass of his unnecessary Hummer, thinking that the yellow light would last forever — just for him!  Instead, he would get stuck there, right in the middle of the mess, blocking the rest of us with an awkward tilt of his giant ass.  Oftentimes, driven to the ends of our nerves by all the heat and strife already, we flip out, honk and scream at him, with lashing words and foaming saliva.  Aha:  Another day, in LA.

My own rage is so powerful, at times, it scares me:

What if I don’t manage to come back to the saner side again?  What if I go way too far?

They had just erected a significant palace of yoga, precisely at that one intersection, where most of us are ready to lose our minds.  (And those people granting us our justice:  Why aren’t they granting it at that specific spot in the city?!)

On the other side of the street sits an ill-used parking lot, permanently fenced in by a giant net.  Its neon orange sign reads “FENCES”.  No shit!  There is never enough parking in this city, and there is never enough space.  Or, there is too much space — and not enough humanity.

But then, again, no one ever promised this city would all make any sense.  No one ever promised for it — to be just.

And maybe, that is why it’s always so much harder to come back here, every time: Because we tread at the very end of our nerves, due to all the heat and strife, and some of us go way too far.

The white-haired man was walking slowly; and that was somewhat unusual, of course.  But then again, he was nearing that one police station in Hollywood, where quite a few of my acquainted restless souls have spent a night or two, after losing their minds a little.  Maybe he was someone’s DUI lawyer; or perhaps, he was delivering someone else’s bail.  As he neared the pedestrian walkway, with the quickly expiring countdown on the other side, he began to squint his eyes:  Eleven, ten, nine…

(And did I mention he was wearing glasses, with an elegant metallic rim?  Yep:  Definitely, an important somebody!)

“Ohhh…  Ohhh, nooo!” he suddenly began to cry, quietly, almost under his breath.  He wound up each word in a register unsuitable for a dignified, white-haired man, like him.

He stepped out onto the road and began to cross.  Seven, six, five…  He crossed right in front of my windshield.

“Ohhh, nooo!” He squinted again.  “They took my car…  Oh!”

I looked in the direction of his grief.  The curbs in front of that one police station, in Hollywood, were completely empty.  It was that time of the day when the rules demanded for us to give each other more space.

“They took my car…”  The white-haired man continued, and in the way he stumbled onto the pavement at the end of his walkway, I thought he was way too close to collapsing on his feet:  Way too close to his insanity — as he had gone way too far.  

“I can’t take this — anymore…” he wept.

It separated inside of me and dropped — some dark feeling that comes from suspecting that nothing in the world had promised to be just.  And that departure of my own hope scared me:  What’s life — without hope?

Someone honked behind me:  The light had changed, and I had to give them way.  I had to give them enough space to pass into the lives that stressed them out ahead.

 

“Don’t Let the Bastards Get Ya Down: Turn It Around with Another Round!”

I was saying, “Sir!  What in the world is going on here?”

I was leaving a store that specialized in selling some of the best (in others’ and my own opinion) technology, these days.

Normally, other people’s ratings don’t affect my opinion much:  I wait to make up my own mind.  With this particular store, however, that specializes in selling some the best technology, I’ve waited long enough to become its customer — and a devoted believer in its product.

So, I was leaving this particular store that specialized in some of the best technology, these days, when a man with a Portuguese accent caught up with me, in the doorway.  He was wearing a baby-blue polyester shirt, with white-lettered “Brazil” tattooed over his left breast.

I was in the midst of texting one of my artistic friends about my recent purchase (as of five minutes ago), when the creature patted my elbow:

“‘Scuse me, miss?” he said.

I turned:  He stood at my eye level (and I — was wearing flats).  Somehow, I must’ve gotten hung up on his height, because I forgot to respond.  The creature proceeded to tell me that he was working for the company whose product I had just purchased and he pointed to my cellphone.

Honestly, I couldn’t understand the gist of a single sentence he spoke.  Perhaps, there weren’t any sentences at all:  Just fragmented thoughts expressed with a hysterical tone.

“A scam artist!” I thought immediately and hid my recent purchase (as of ten minutes ago) inside my purse.  My cellphone hadn’t hit the bottom of my bag yet, when the mistrustful Soviet citizen in me was already on the forefront.  With a deadpan expression of someone who had been fooled way too fucking much in her life — and who had finally learned her lesson — I studied the hysterical creature, fussing at my eye level.

“May I see your phone?” he said to me.

“May you blow me?” I almost responded.  Yet, I obeyed the call of my grace and said:

“No, you may not.  Sir.”

The man in a baby-blue polyester shirt got immediately aggravated and reached for my elbow again.

“Please, step inside the store, miss!”  he slurred, with his wet mouth.  His further, fragmented explanations followed; yet still, I couldn’t understand the gist of a single sentence.

Full-blown wrath was now heating up the contents of my scull, and I felt myself blush that horrific blood-red shade of the Soviet flag:  I was about to blow.  Still, I obeyed the call of my grace and shot an “S.O.S.” gaze to the sales rep guarding the door of this particular store that specialized in selling some of the best technology, these days.

“Why are they allowing for solicitors, here?” I thought.

But the face of the clerk, although indifferent at first, was now getting twisted into an expression of shock and slight disgust.

The grip on my elbow tightened.  I looked over:  The short creature was hanging onto me, like a pissy Chihuahua.  And there was something hateful, something very violent coming through on his face.

“Do you get laid much?” I almost asked.  Yet, I obeyed the call of my grace and said:

“Sir!  What in the world is going on here?”

More of his fragmented thoughts followed:  Something about receipts, and blue stickers; and something about theft.

“THEFT?!” I echoed.

A few curious or disgusted glances bounced off my skin:  This particular store that specialized in some of the best technology was packed due to a release of a new, better — best! — gadget, that week.  So, the scene unfolding between me and the short creature in a baby-blue polyester shirt was now getting plenty of bystander witnesses.

Had it not been for the tiny salesgirl with angelic blond curls and Scarlett Johansson’s voice dashing across the store, I suspect this scenario would not have turned out well:  The wrath boiling the contents of my scull was beginning to blur my vision and raise the decibels of my voice.

“Sir!” she said.  “What is going on here?”

Amidst the fragmented thoughts that the short creature began spewing out at the girl, I was beginning to hear my verdict:

You see:  Having obeyed the call of my grace, I had asked this salesgirl to email me the receipt for my purchase, so we could “save the trees”.  The creature in a baby-blue polyester shirt was a security guard, and this particular store that specialized in the best technology, these days, was going through the highest degree of theft, in its history.  Since I had no receipt to present to him, I became his obvious target for the day.

The two of them began sorting the situation out:  That same tiny salesgirl had sold me my recent purchase (as of twenty minutes ago), and she was testifying on my behalf.  It was her fault, she said, that she hadn’t followed through with some other procedure in the case of customers with altruistic intentions as mine:  Customers that insisted on obeying the call of their grace.

Apparently, she — was still in training.  And she was “SO sorry!”

The short male, still hanging from my elbow like a pissy Chihuahua, was quiet.

“Sir!  Please let go of my arm!” I slowly annunciated through my clenched jaw.

Once released, I scanned the faces of bystander witnesses.  They, along with the sales clerk guarding the door, had long lost all interest.  At that moment, utterly ashamed and disgraced, I could’ve blown.  Instead, I obeyed the call of my grace and walked out.

“A Rusty Heart Starts to Whine, in Its Telltale Time…”

“That’s just UNACCEPTABLE!”

He was foaming at his mouth, at the front desk.

A little man.

His face, red from a lifetime of terrible diet, was boiling with outrage.  Everything in the world seemed to have gone askew for him; and overhearing the routine of his ready complaints, I could tell this was not the first time he ever voiced his grief.

Quietly, I slipped past the heavy doors of this mountain spa resort and I lingered by the doormat.  I had come here for silence.  It wasn’t really the noise of all the others left back in LA-LA that I minded.  They could just go on and on, for all I cared, about their dreams and their sex lives.  About their dreams of better sex lives.  As a matter of fact, I preferred they went on and on:  It gave me something to write about, during the day.

But the noise in my own head was rattling my balance with an ache:

Survival.  Dignity.  Freedom.  Art.

“I DEMAND my refund — or you’re gonna have to talk to my lawyer!” the little man was getting carried away with the routine of his ready complaints.

I had always wondered what it was like to live one’s life by fronting.  It sucked, I recently thought, that we all had one hell of a time negotiating our boundaries with other people.  I wished it didn’t have to be so strained, so testy.  Couldn’t we just leave each other enough space and air:  Enough dignity?  Enough freedom?  But this clan of others that lived their lives by fronting: It must be miserable to be perpetually expecting some sort of injustice.

Still though:  I was fascinated.  So, I lingered by the doormat.

A couple of drinkers hanging at the bar shot their confused glares in the direction the front desk:  They would’ve been much more interested in getting involved had they not drank too much free wine at a tasting earlier that night.  Or maybe, just like me, they had come here for silence.  I couldn’t see the bartender.  The lounge was empty.  And the only other civilian caught in the avalanche of the little man’s outrage was the nighttime clerk, at the front desk.

I had seen her early in the morning when I arrived, and she graciously allowed for my early check-in.  Her kind smile reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite remember.  A cloud of curly strawberry-blond hair framed her freckled face, down to her collar bone, and it suited her well.

It suited this place, to where many had come for silence:

Compassion.

“How late is your spa open?” I asked her, at the time.

“It’s open 24/7,” she responded.

I looked up, puzzled.  I had already arrived here with gratitude, and this was causing me a bit of an overload.  She smiled kindly, reminding me of someone I couldn’t quite remember.

“We’re all adults here,” she said.  “Right?”

Now, she was sitting in her chair, looking down at her desk calendar as if meditating.  I realized this entire time the little man had been screaming on an old-fashioned, ivory phone mounted onto the wall.

He, by now, was a goner:

“You know what?!  I’m gonna call THE POLICE!”

The nighttime clerk noticed me, lingering by the doormat, and she smiled kindly.  Bingo!  She reminded me of someone who had helped me once through a transition in LA-LA (of which I had many, in between my needs for silence).

I nodded at the nighttime clerk.  It sucked, I thought, that she was having one hell of a time surviving the avalanche of other people’s entitlements.  And I wished it didn’t have to be so strained for her, so testy.

I smiled, kindly:

Compassion.

“LOOK!” the little man — that poor lost soul! — was now screaming out every word.  “I’VE DONE THIS BEFORE!”

But of course:  Everything in the world must’ve gone askew for him; and overhearing the routine of his ready complaints, I already knew this was not the first time he ever voiced his grief.

“Excuse me?” I said to his wife — a woman a stocky stature — who was blocking the stairway with three giant, overstuffed pieces of luggage, while she lazily scrawled through her BlackBerry messages.

The woman looked up.  I had expected a scowl.  A boiling outrage.  Instead, she looked at me with such a sheepish apology, I wished it didn’t have to be so strained for her, so testy.  And she smiled at me, ever so slightly.  Ever so kindly.

Suddenly, I remembered:  I had seen her earlier, at a seafood restaurant right above the roaring ocean.  All the windows of the place were flung open, and not till later I realized there was no ambiance music to distract us from silence.

It seemed we had all come here — for silence — from the noises in our heads:

Survival.  Dignity.  

Some of us didn’t live our lives by fronting.  Some of us were still prone to gratitude:

Freedom.  Art.

And especially those who got caught in the avalanche of outrages by little men and women — by the poor lost souls — still deserved our:

Compassion.

“Been Waiting for a Long, Long Time — Just To Get Off and Throw My Hands Up High!”

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay!  This morning, I did wake up mellow and all.  I even meditated before brushing my teeth:  Staying flat on my back on a mattress notorious for having less give than my floor, I stared at the ceiling and counted my breaths.  In — hold — out:  one.  In — hold — out:  two.

Maybe I should take the hold out.  In — out:  one.  In — out… Shit!  It feels like I am about to hyperventilate.

Okay, I better hold.

Well, that didn’t work.  My breathing has been suffering from a bit of shortness this month:  Rent is due in a coupla weeks, and if you ever dwelled in LA-LA, you know that in the last weeks of August, the town goes dead and its army of freelancers and independent contractors are better off leaving town — or they go homicidal with despair.

Still in bed, I switched my tactic.  On my notoriously firm mattress, I assumed the position of an upside-down starfish and I recalled hearing a successful man point out the main recipe for his prosperity: GRATITUDE — he said last night.

Aha! I’ve suspected that much.

Gratitude is habitual for me, and this year I’ve had to practice quite a bit of it:  Somewhere in the transition to my life of a self-published writer, a self-taught blogger; to the high-wire act of a freelancer and the truly delightful experience of single-girl-dom that crashed onto my head unexpectedly, in the midst of all that, via an abrupt decision by my partner to depart — summoning my gratitude has been crucial for keeping tabs on my sanity.  ‘Cause I’m an angry little girl who’s got one hell of a spirit in her — and way too much to say!  And if not channeled toward crossing oceans and conquering fears, that wrath could easily metamorphose into a cancer.

Face down, on my notoriously firm mattress, I began making a list of all the things for which I felt — or could feel — grateful.

Well, let’s see:  There is health.  And, then…

“But:  WHY?!  Why is this child screaming at the top of her lungs?”

I noticed the shrill sound earlier this morning.  I had to:  It was the very reason for my being awake.  With intervals filled with other mellow sounds of my neighborhood — the jiggle of an ice-cream cart and the remote hum of a drill — this little girl had been screaming as if she was being exorcized, at the start of the day.

And it wasn’t really a cry of pain:  Past that I could NOT have meditated.  Instead, it was more like a holler to test the strength of her throat, to flex her lung power.  She would start out low, as if cooing; then unexpectedly wind it up, switch the registers until it would sound like a piercing shriek meant to break glass and porcelain coffee cups — or maybe even hearts!  And just as unpredictably — she would go quiet.

But back to my list of all the things for which I felt — or could feel — grateful:

Well, there is health.  And then…

And, then, there is this one hell of a spirit of mine!  I don’t really know where it comes from:  Perhaps, I’ve inherited it from all the other angry little girls that preceded me, in my family.  It has been tested by life:  Through generations, we have encountered enough shit to squash it down; to not survive, to retreat.  Instead, every angry little girl would get more fired up:  And that wrath would force us to cross oceans, to conquer fears, to make up new dreams and pick-up new adventures; to get past the unexpected changes; to shrug off our partners’ abrupt decisions to depart and to move on to the next, bettered versions of ourselves.

And we would scream.  I’ve heard my motha do it:  She would start out low; then unexpectedly wind it up, switch the registers until it would sound like a piercing shriek meant to break glass — or maybe even hearts.  And she would NOT get quiet for hours, for days.  It would be like a private exorcism, at the start of every day, by a madwoman desperately trying to keep tabs on her sanity.  And if she didn’t give that wrath a voice — it would metamorphose into a cancer of regrets and resentments.  So, she screamed.

As I also scream, nowadays, behind the wheel of my car, driving through downtown at midnight, with all the window rolled down.   

The angry little girl screamed for hours this morning.  She continued to holler, at intervals, as I finally got up from my notoriously firm mattress to do my work; then to hustle for more work in this dead town, at the end of August.  She hollered as I cleaned my place and tied up all the loose ends with the disciplined routine of my single-girl-dom.  She shrieked as I left the house for my morning run, and I could hear her for miles, until I finally switched on my iPod.

When the shortness of breath kicked in again, later in the day, I began making a list of all the things for which I felt — or could feel — grateful.  There was health, of course.  And then, there were things.

But if I visualized those things, the images didn’t last.  They popped like rainbow-tinted bubbles, and each idea of gratitude was replaced by the faces of the other angry little girls in my family who have guided me with our collective one hell of a spirit.  Then, there were the faces of those I had chosen to make up into my own family:  My angry people, my unstoppable comrades, my fellow spirits.  My most valuable possession, they are — the reason and often the source of my prosperity.  And if I look at it like that:  I’m a very successful woman, already.

Still, that’s no reason to stop summoning the gratitude, at the start of every day.

And when that doesn’t work, I can always give voice to my wrath and start screaming:  to flex my strength, to hear the echos of my power, and to get to the other side of it — and to always overcome.  Otherwise, the wrath would metamorphose into a cancer of regrets and resentments.  So:

It’s better to scream.