Pipedream - Chapter 1 - Incomplete

The first thoughts of my day are usually dreams. I can feel them inside of me, like woodlice in a stack of slumbering logs; they run through me, gnawing at the corners of my days and turning them strange.

These aren’t dreams of the future, no Martin Luther King Jr. visions of children holding hands with other children. These aren’t dreams the way people mean when they say, “I will achieve my dreams,” though sometimes those ideals make appearances too. Occasionally, I’ll thrash my arm into a wall of preteen laughter: my own unfortunate high school experiences merged with what I hoped an adult spin on things would look like. These are some of the worst.

So, in the predawn moments between sleep and wakefulness, I walk in a sort of sculpture garden, populated by the warped facsimiles of days gone by and the insect artists of dreams that made them. And warmth. And light. Pinpricks of stars nose their way through the blinds, drip into the pool of green around the alarm, and suddenly, I have ears, I have sound, I have real thought that belongs to me. And that thought mainly says one word:

“No.”

A hushed thing, one of brief defiance in the wake of despair. And so I become a swing of legs from the side of the bed, a sigh, a pair of rubbed eyes.  I've always clung to this time between sleeping and waking, as if it were some other place into which I could escape. But it's really just time passing. And why should I be so fixated on the passage of time? Days and nights? Months? Years? Maybe this is some vestige of my cataloging habits from the journaling days. Either way, it's tiresome. I convince myself in sleep each night that the morning will be something new and different, but instead it's only the same ring spinning over and over.

Brushing my teeth gives me time to wonder if I'm actually depressed. It's been easy for me to pretend these things were normal or temporary, but I'm not happy, and I should be. I have a nice house with an intact roof over my head, delicious food, a family who cares about me, supportive friends, all of the things that make people happy, right? But there is an overwhelming sense of dread hanging over me constantly.

At all times, I'm dreading something. Here I am now, tying my shoes, dreading the possibility that I'm out of oatmeal. Really. This is a real concern for me. When there turns out to be oatmeal, I'm dreading the cold outside and the frost on the windows. On the commute, I'm dreading all of the prep I need to do during my first hour. On weekends, I dread Monday; on weekdays, I dread ten o' clock when I'll have to inevitably go to sleep. Thats not normal, right? Shouldn't I be going to bed content? Pleased with the activities of my day?

But rather than focusing on dreams, desires, delights, all I can fish out of things are disappointment, despair, and this same dread. I always feel like there's something I should have done or could have done better or more. It's not a problem of positive thinking, because I'm much more positive than I once was, but trying to look forward to things instead only serves to remind me of all the time I'm wasting in the present.

And presently, I'm not only wasting my time, but the time of 27 bright young minds, all stuffed full with their own dreams and desires and delights, as well. Now that might explain some of the dread.

Musclememory - Chapter 1 - Incomplete

VAL:                When did you start wearing that hat?

ALEX:              What hat? Oh, this? This is just my hat. I always wear it. It’s like my thing.

VAL:                Yeah, but I’ve never seen it before.

ALEX:              Sure you have. We hang out like every day. You’ve seen it.

(PETEY shrugs)

VAL:                Coooool… well. Anyway… What do you guys wanna do? School’s starting soon. We should do something really fun.

PETEY:                        Oh! We should like…

ALEX:              What, play Zelda or something stupid?

PETEY:                        No. Zelda’s one-player. We couldn’t all play. We’d have to play something like Call of Duty or—

ALEX:              (punches Petey) Let’s go buy sneakers or something.

-AND SO-

ALEX:              Look at that girllll! She’s like the hottest girl I’ve ever seeeen! I didn’t even know they made girls like that. She’s like. She’s like God. If God were a girl. Otherwise that would be gross.

VAL:                Dude. You think you could turn the hormones down a bit here? Also. Lead us to the shoe store. I haven’t been here in a million years.

ALEX:              Well yeah. You’re like 25.

VAL:                I’m 24!

ALEX:              Whatever. You’re still old.

VAL:                Grrr! (chases him)

PETEY:            Careful Val! He’s an athlete!

-PJETER TOOK HIS TIME-

-walking-

-looking in a window-

-picking up change for the hot girl-

-getting her phone number-

PETEY:            Oh hey. You guys found it! Guess what! I talked to that girl! Her name is Ashley and I got her number! I’m gonna text her right now!

ALEX:              You- wha- but- how- but- This is your fault!

PETEY:            (to himself while texting) I really liked your hair clips. Where do you go to school?

VAL:                Oh come on. It’s not my fault Petey’s a ladykiller. Let’s just pick out some sneakers.

PETEY:            I want purple ones!

PETEY: So how’s your love life, Val?

VAL: Oh… you know… been better, been worse… I don’t think Lee and I are gonna last much longer.

ALEX: Yeah. ‘Cause he’s a total douchebag.

VAL: He’s not a douchebag.

PETEY: Yeah, Alex! I like Lee!

ALEX: Why? He’s boring as hell, he thinks he’s better than everyone else, and he has that stupid little dog that he talks to all the time. I don’t understand how or why you put up with that guy for six months, nevermind three years.

PETEY: But Alex, they love each other.

ALEX: Bullshit. That guy’s mad annoying. He just wants Val to stay home and take care of him. He can’t even do his own dishes.

VAL: I have a hard time remembering the last time you did the dishes, Skender.

ALEX: Shut up. I hate it when you call me that.

VAL: All right, Alex. But I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t really know that Lee is all that bad… I just know that I’m really unhappy. And I don’t know who else is out there… maybe it won’t be anyone better than Lee at all. Maybe I’ll never find anyone. I’m already 26. I smoke. I work all the time. I hang out with little punks like you. I’m kind of out of shape… I’m falling apart.

PETEY: No! Val! You’re awesome!

ALEX: There are tons of good guys out there. You just need someone who actually has a job, who doesn’t expect you to do everything for them, who knows how smart you are, who’ll defend you… just… someone who deserves you… someone who’s not Lee.

PETEY: Like Sam!

ALEX: What?! That guy? That guy’s a loser.

PETEY: No! I like him!

ALEX: You like everyone. Sam’s a total wuss.

VAL: Guys… Don’t you think I have a say here? Sam and I… we’re just… it’s not gonna happen.

PETEY: Yeah… but you guys are totally perfect for each other! Remember how you guys met?

ALEX: I remember it. It was totally lame.

Suckerpunch - Chapter I

Cellphone:      bzzzzz bzzzzz             bzzzzz

SAM:               grrrmmmrrrrrrr…

Cellphone:      click.

SAM:               Hello?

LUCY OS:        SAM. So, you’re alive. That’s positive. I’d started to think you’d just become one with that disgusting bed of yours.

SAM:               What? What time is it?

LUCY:              Four p.m. Dude, nobody’s seen you in a month. What the hell.

SAM:               A… what?

LUCY:              A month! Are you at home?

SAM:               What day is it?

LUCY:              It’s the Fourth of July, honey.

SAM:               But… What?! It’s… JULY?!

LUCY:              See, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Listen, where are you, I’ll come over.

SAM:               Uh…

Lucy probably couldn’t remind me enough. Again, again, again, please remind me again. At the time, I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that it had all happened without my noticing it. Something had happened, it must have, to get me to a place like that. I just needed to remember what it was. Almost more than I needed to forget.

LUCY:              Dude, you moved back in with your parents after graduation.  Do you not remember this?

SAM:               I don’t know. I graduated?

LUCY:              Shut up. Of course you graduated.

                        --gradpic--

SAM:               Oh yes. How could I forget that riveting ceremony.

LUCY:              I can’t believe you haven’t unpacked yet.

SAM:               I’ve been… uh… busy.

                        --THIS-- (sleeping)

                        --IS-- (eating ramen)

                        --ABSOLUTELY-- (watching anime)

                        --UNTRUE-- (crying while writing poetry)

LUCY:              You’re like the fattest, saddest, old man in the world.

SAM:               You’re the fattest… old… shut up.

LUCY:              Will you please get dressed? We’re like a million hours late for the party and you smell like the basement of an internet café.

SAM:               I smell great and you totally love it.

LUCY:              I hate you. Seriously.

New places helped. Like if I could get enough memories replaced fast enough, things wouldn’t be so rough anymore. I was a celery stalk in a cup full of food coloring: tired of being pallid and green. I was new and fresh and ready to be dyed any color the world could dream up. I wanted crimson, indigo, gold. Stains were unimportant.

AND SO AT THE PARTY

SAM:               So what is this place exactly?

LUCY:              Dude, I keep telling you, it’s

--THE WHATEVERITWILLBECALLED—

Remember, I always invited you to parties here in college, but you were always “busy”?

SAM:               Raiding makes me… busy…

LUCY:              Well I’m glad you’re finally coming with. Will misses you tons.

SAM:               Oh yeah… Will lives here.

CLIFF:             Ladies! Happy America Day!

LUCY:              Hi Cliff. It’s nice to see you too.

SAM:               I’m still not a lady…

CLIFF:             Well come on in, guys. The band hasn’t started yet, but there are a million people around.

Sam! What the hell, man, what are you doing with your life?

SAM:               Do you want the full version or the cliff notes?

LUCY:              Trust me, you want the cliff notes.

CLIFF:             Well, with a name like that, how could I resist?

SAM:               Okay. So. I mean…

-

BROKE UP WITH X.

SLEPT FOR A WEEK.

DIDN’T SLEEP FOR A WEEK.

THESIS.

GRADUATED… SOMEHOW.

MOVED TO PARENTS’ HOUSE.

-

SAM:               And then. You know. Stuff.

LUCY:             You forgot the part where you got so drunk at your thesis defense that no one could understand you.

-SO DRUNK-

VAL:                That was the best part! All you did was yell obscenities.

SAM:               Hello VAL.

VAL:                Didn’t you miss me? -hug-

SAM:               Suu-RE!

VAL:                You know what I missed?

SAM:               What?

VAL:                Beer!

SAM:               Sigh.

CLIFF:                         Wait. So. Say again—you’re single?

SAM:               Well, yeah. Have been for about a month now, I guess. At least that’s what Lucy’s telling me.

CLIFF:                         Whoa. You don’t say. Well then—

LUCY:             No Cliff. Doooon’t flirt with him.

CLIFF:                         Aw LUCY, come on, have a little more faith in me than that! I was gonna say he should talk to Jenna. She finally broke up with her Asian lover. You guys would be super great for each other.

SAM:               Is Jenna that girl who came with you to our house last year?
CLIFF:                         Yeah. Remember? We watched movies with you guys. Neither of you spoke to each other like you were in some kind of emotional bubble. You don’t remember that?

-shot of Jenna and Sam on couch, looking awkward.-

SAM:               I remember a lot of rum. And paper mache. And maybe someone blonde.

LUCY:             Sam doesn’t tend to remember much from any of his finals weeks.

CLIFF:                         Well, keep your eyes open dude. You write poetry and she reads more than anyone I’ve ever met.

SAM:               Maybe we could like… trade books! Do you think?! I have a chapbook in my pocket, and—

VAL:                Take a breath, kid. Don’t scare her.

LUCY:              Haha, oh Sam. You should totally go for it. Go have some casual sex. It’ll be good for you.

CLIFF:                         I’ve gotta go get ready to play, but you guys should totally, like, make out or something. Whatever you breeders do.

LUCY:             Cliff, we do the same thing everyone else does. I keep telling you, life on the other side of sexuality isn’t really all that different.

CLIFF:             But it’s grooooosssss.

-Lucy and Cliff wander off-

VAL:                So where is this girl? Are you gonna do it? Is she hot?

SAM:               I don’t know, Val. I’ve only met her once… I guess. I don’t even know if she’ll remember me.

(behind Sam and Val, Jenna walks in. She tries to stand in a natural position and gets ready for Sam to turn around, but she keeps changing the way she’s standing and eventually falls over.)

VAL:                I think she’ll remember you. Here. Have a beer. Chill out. You’re stressing me out with all the cigarettes.

SAM:               Thanks, Val. It is good to see you.

VAL:                It’s good to see you too, Sam. I—

DAPHNE:        (on stage) Good evening you disgusting wads of used up dreams! You’re in Worcester Massachusetts and we’re Skeleton Crew!

-Song-

Death and me

Most kids don't think about death much when they're little, but I did. I thought about death the way most kids think about candy. Or video games. Or 3:15 on school days. But sitting on the bathroom floor, fingernails torn off at jagged edges so the tips of them dragged between the tiny grouted tiles, cool and quiet and smooth like clean drinking glasses, I'd close my eyes and pretend. I'd drift into a coffin; I'd imagine the blackness around me closing in slowly at first, and then more and more quickly.

But that wasn't right either. Because when you're dead, you can't see blackness. And so I'd try to reason it out: then what do you see? Space, maybe! No, that didn't make sense either. No eyes, remember?

Ideas about God just made it worse. I'd never had any benevolent, bearded patriarch in my life. My dad's father died when I was six months old, and my mom's was more of a bounce-you-on-his-knee-and-teach-you-how-to-fish kind of guy. So where was this strange "father" figure God coming from? No way.

I'd like to say that my beautiful, child-like mind figured out the mysteries of the universe in that bathroom, on those 1950's floor tiles. However, the best I ever did was to terrify myself into a stupor with which I was usually only confronted after particularly horrible nightmares. I would rush out of the bathroom at top speed, searching for any other living soul in the house to save me from the terror of this impossibility: existing without existing.

Pipedream (Preface)

The term “quarter-life crisis” sounds like alarmist drivel, but even without the “crisis”, it’s alarming enough. Getting out of anything should mean freedom. Getting out of jail is a good thing, right? So why not getting out of college? Getting out of your parents’ house? Getting the fuck out of Dodge?

That last one used to be my favorite, when I was but a sixteen-year-old angst factory. Like I knew anything about Dodge. At some point, I looked it up; discovered that the phrase came from Gunsmoke, of all things, a radio and television duo of shows that ran from the 1950s to the 1970s. Entertainment that tried to evolve with the times, but just ended up getting sucked under by disco and hair bands and yuppies, leaving this ridiculous phrase about a wild west town behind.

Are we seeing the connection here? Maybe I need to spell it out for you a little better. Take my parents’ garage, for instance. That place is filled with relics from my vast expanse of adolescence, like soil strata in zero-grav: everything old floats to the top eventually, where it doesn’t need to be touched, where it will sit until I have my theoretical children. Up by the rafters, on a makeshift shelf of old cabinet doors and warped two-by-fours, a plastic pony on wheels, complete with faded painted bridle sits next to two dollhouses in pink and purple paint, wrapped in clear sheeting, stacked beside cardboard crates of elementary school papers and projects that I’m sure I spent months of box-lunch scented anxiety on. 16 feet up in the galvanized scaffolding hovers the tomb of my yearbooks, photographs from disposable cameras of sleepovers and best friends I haven’t spoken to in years, drawings of Pokemon, ticket stubs from high school musical productions, costumes, art projects I lost interest in, notebooks of love letters and bad poetry and maybe a few good poems too. And then there’s the final layer, sitting on six inches of stacked scrap lumber, the sad building blocks of something resembling a hope chest, pieces of a life begun, but not yet planned or realized. A toaster, a twin-sized down-alternative comforter with holes chewed in it, boxes of books from grad school, salt and pepper shakers, an assortment of thrift store cookware.

So why don't I go back for it? Why don't I go back for the pieces of my life, all of the quips about Dodge that I left tucked in journals and the seams of old stuffed animals? Well, I guess that all depends on whether or not it fits into the new me, right? Yeah, right. What new me?