Imagine a world where time moves backwards. It is dusk; the dust swirls and dances in the last remaining shafts of sunlight that stream in through the giant bay windows illuminating the cluttered attic. What had once been a brightly lit library and favorite reading spot is now a musty storage space for brown boxes marked with the likes of “Connor’s stuff,” “Kitchen,” “Garage Sale,” and “Winter Clothes.” This house is old, as it settles the floor boards creak like aching joints and the groaning echoes of the rusting pipes fill the lonely rooms before the house falls back into silence. The shafts of sunlight in the attic grow smaller and smaller and the house swells with the pain of the silence. Loud noises from the front yard catch the attention of the house. A large yellow moving truck with “MOVE MORE: ESTATE MOVERS” printed in large, ugly green letters backs slowly up the cracked and aged driveway, stopping just short of the garage. The movers spring lightly from the cab and with minimal effort begin unloading the truck’s contents. The house watches, interested, as treasured items such as bikes, a lawnmower, tools, boxes (similar to those in the attic) and furniture slowly spill out of the yellow monster in the driveway. From the driveway and garage appropriate items are moved into the foyer, and the house relishes in the sound of the movers’ voices filling the gaps and dark corners where there has not been human noises in a very long time. When everything has been stacked into nice piles in the foyer and the garage, the movers lock up and return to the yellow truck. There is a slamming of doors and the angry roar of an engine, and the truck with its movers is gone. The house is once again thrust into silence, but this silence is different. There is a hum. Change is coming. The house can feel it. The movers are soon followed by a couple in their mid 40’s, Connor and Rebeka, and their teenage children, Ben and Amy, who shower the house with light and voices. They move about from room to room removing sheets from antique furniture and emptying the boxes onto shelves and bookcases. Pictures hang on the walls and the carpets are rolled out onto the sun bleached patches of hardwood flooring; it is like placing pieces of a puzzle together. Everything fits. A massive bed is placed in the empty master bedroom on the second floor and the bare shelves soon become cluttered with knickknacks and souvenirs collected over the period of a long and happy life. Next to the bed are the shiny metal instruments which measure and maintain the life of the old lady, Abigail, who sleeps there.
December 21, 2010: My name is Rod Earl Meara, and some strange things have been happening to me lately. Maybe all the drinking I did in college has finally hit my memory, but wouldn’t I not be able to tell if it was? In any case, today I was going about my daily routine – a grande, sugar-free vanilla latte from Cindy at the local anti-Starbucks, when the letters on my New York Times “jumped” off the page and ran out the door. I was so startled by this, that I squeezed my scalding hot latte, and winced at the pain. I opened my eyes, and there wasn’t any stain, or pain for that matter. I am sitting now at The Insomniax Café, writing this all down, before I forget it.
December 22, 2010: Today at work I stopped typing amidst a disturbing thought. It struck me that the entire morning had gone by, and not one of my colleagues had come into my office. Weirder still, when I walked past Barb’s desk (my receptionist,) her blue New York Giants umbrella rolled off the desk and after me. It was like a movie where the person being followed turns around and the follower stops moving, but is somehow closer than it was before. I screamed out for somebody to come quick, but music came out of my mouth, “Death of a Martian” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. After that time kind of slowed down, everything step I took towards the door to my building seemed to take a year. Finally before I could get to the door, my foot caught in a pothole, and I passed out from the pain.
December 23, 2010: I am spent the night at work; everyone else is gone for Christmas and my penthouse felt cold despite the thermostat setting of 70º. Instead of driving, I decided to fly back in. I mean why waste my money on gas anymore if I could just spread my arms apart and fly like Superman? Plus cars are dangerous. I am thinking about flying to a beach somewhere, it would nice to be warm for Christmas, and also cool to show off my new method of getting around.
December 24, 2010: Flying south was interesting, believe it or not I saw Santa Claus, he said I shouldn’t bet on the Giants making the Super Bowl this year. The guy was friggin’ skinny! Mrs. Claus must have him on a no-carb diet or he got a stomach-staple. I can’t remember what he said when I asked. Costa Rica is warm, but I didn’t know they spoke Chinese here. Well it sounds like Chinese, I’m not sure. They all look the same too, how can you meet any new friends when there are no surface details to set them apart and make them approachable?
December 25, 2010: The Christmas trees on the beach are all lit up, and the snow is falling steadily. I spent just last few minutes staring at the ocean. I have decided to push this flight thing to the limit and see if I can find some people elsewhere. Maybe a different planet? Or maybe I’ll just keep flying until there’s nowhere else to go. I took a last good look at the snow-capped mountain that rose from the waves, our planet was so cool but there could be cooler ones out there. I’ll write again once I get to Pluto.
The Montclair Times Reported on December 26, 2010:
Montclair Native, Wall St. Executive, Rod Earl Meara Dies After 5-day Coma
After sustaining serious injuries in a car accident on December 21, 2010, Mr. Meara slipped into a coma that night. Mr. Meara apparently was attempting to complete the New York Times crossword puzzle in his vehicle, when, onlookers say, he swerved to avoid a large pothole. Mr. Meara lost control of the car and he struck a pedestrian (Ms. Margaret Chu) before crashing into Downtown Music and Variety. Ms. Chu is in critical condition, but doctor’s predict that she will pull through. Mr. Meara was unmarried, and died at the age of 42.
They told me that it was going to be a big change, but isn’t change all around us? I, personally cannot live without change. In fact, the only thing constant in life might be change. I spent years in isolation searching for truth, years going up and down those mountains. Without other human beings for days, I had plenty of time for reflection and realization. Will I ever find truth? They say that it’s about the journey, not the destination. I was given no direct guidelines for his quest. The ambiguity made it very difficult to do it correctly, but it also made it difficult to do it wrong. Absence is nothing, yet it can mean everything. Absence can make you appreciate what you take for granted, or make you realize what you don’t need. Time is a very powerful idea, but I realized that it was just that: an idea. Being up in the mountains for so long, I had lost track of time. There was no use for it. If I wasn’t keeping track of time, then who was? There was no one around for days. And if no one was keeping track of time, then did it cease to exist? They say that only about twenty or thirty percent of what you communicate is verbal. Perhaps the tone of your voice? But what about before language was invented? How did humans communicate? They say that animals can sense when we’re happy, sad, angry, that horses can feel when we’re tense and uncertain. So are we then somehow communicating with them? Was I somehow communicating with this mountain and its creatures?
Looking far off into the distance with the wind sweeping through her hair all was silent except that question spinning through her head, “Do I jump?” She felt as though she was just wandering throughout her life. Not knowing whether or not she was coming or going. All she knew was that she couldn’t do it anymore. Knowing that she couldn’t do anymore all she wanted was a way out but had no direction in finding it.
Even though she did not know how to escape her monotonous routine, she had plenty of opinions, rules and expectations that were presented to her on a daily basis. The authority figures all sought to control her. They called the shots. They tried to teach her. They wanted to mold her. To make her into whom she was supposed to be. They wanted her to be who they expected. They wanted to see the person who society deemed appropriate.
She wanted to break free of the powerless environment that followed wherever she went. She tried to talk, but the words would not come out. She tried to write, but the page was always blank. All she could think was that words were meaningless. She needed to find a voice, but what would speak to her oppression? What would break down the walls that have enclosed her from happiness?
How could she go against all that had defined her? It was clear that her oppression was not the result of one relationship or a single area in her life, but rather a conspiracy to slowly suffocate her. Instead of encouraging her individuality, they wanted her to conform. Instead of allowing her to be independent they wanted to monopolize her, control her, and keep her from flying.
These feelings, these revelations, were not emotions that suddenly flooded her. They had plagued her, her entire life. They were her life. She waited patiently. She tried to change. She tried to appease them. She failed. She didn’t fail because she didn’t succeed in their world. She failed because she had failed herself, she had lost herself.
Losing herself, failing, she couldn’t admit that this was her reality. She couldn’t come to terms that this was her life. Standing on the cliff she with the clouds slowing passing overhead she saw her way to fly. She saw her reality turning into her dream. Her sorrow would shift into happiness and failure into success. Standing there it was if the decision had been made for her. The open air, the wind whispering her name, and the clouds looking like soft pillows were inviting her to lay her head down on them.
It was at this time that she decided to take one last look around before she took a deep breath, her last breath. No one was there. The sun was bright, glaring into her eyes the scenery turned into outlines as she stepped off. As she was falling she heard a voice. This voice was not her own but it was familiar. As she got closer to what she thought was the ground the voice got louder. She then slowly opened her eyes. She was blinded by bright lights and then the outline of her mother standing above her, saying her name, talking to her with a loving tone. The light began to fade and the picture became clear. She had awoken in the hospital, apparently awakening from a deep sleep having survived a long fight.
Imagine a world where time moves backwards.
ReplyDeleteIt is dusk; the dust swirls and dances in the last remaining shafts of sunlight that stream in through the giant bay windows illuminating the cluttered attic. What had once been a brightly lit library and favorite reading spot is now a musty storage space for brown boxes marked with the likes of “Connor’s stuff,” “Kitchen,” “Garage Sale,” and “Winter Clothes.” This house is old, as it settles the floor boards creak like aching joints and the groaning echoes of the rusting pipes fill the lonely rooms before the house falls back into silence. The shafts of sunlight in the attic grow smaller and smaller and the house swells with the pain of the silence.
Loud noises from the front yard catch the attention of the house. A large yellow moving truck with “MOVE MORE: ESTATE MOVERS” printed in large, ugly green letters backs slowly up the cracked and aged driveway, stopping just short of the garage. The movers spring lightly from the cab and with minimal effort begin unloading the truck’s contents. The house watches, interested, as treasured items such as bikes, a lawnmower, tools, boxes (similar to those in the attic) and furniture slowly spill out of the yellow monster in the driveway. From the driveway and garage appropriate items are moved into the foyer, and the house relishes in the sound of the movers’ voices filling the gaps and dark corners where there has not been human noises in a very long time.
When everything has been stacked into nice piles in the foyer and the garage, the movers lock up and return to the yellow truck. There is a slamming of doors and the angry roar of an engine, and the truck with its movers is gone. The house is once again thrust into silence, but this silence is different. There is a hum. Change is coming. The house can feel it.
The movers are soon followed by a couple in their mid 40’s, Connor and Rebeka, and their teenage children, Ben and Amy, who shower the house with light and voices. They move about from room to room removing sheets from antique furniture and emptying the boxes onto shelves and bookcases. Pictures hang on the walls and the carpets are rolled out onto the sun bleached patches of hardwood flooring; it is like placing pieces of a puzzle together. Everything fits. A massive bed is placed in the empty master bedroom on the second floor and the bare shelves soon become cluttered with knickknacks and souvenirs collected over the period of a long and happy life. Next to the bed are the shiny metal instruments which measure and maintain the life of the old lady, Abigail, who sleeps there.
The Thinner Line
ReplyDeleteDecember 21, 2010:
My name is Rod Earl Meara, and some strange things have been happening to me lately. Maybe all the drinking I did in college has finally hit my memory, but wouldn’t I not be able to tell if it was? In any case, today I was going about my daily routine – a grande, sugar-free vanilla latte from Cindy at the local anti-Starbucks, when the letters on my New York Times “jumped” off the page and ran out the door. I was so startled by this, that I squeezed my scalding hot latte, and winced at the pain. I opened my eyes, and there wasn’t any stain, or pain for that matter. I am sitting now at The Insomniax Café, writing this all down, before I forget it.
December 22, 2010:
Today at work I stopped typing amidst a disturbing thought. It struck me that the entire morning had gone by, and not one of my colleagues had come into my office. Weirder still, when I walked past Barb’s desk (my receptionist,) her blue New York Giants umbrella rolled off the desk and after me. It was like a movie where the person being followed turns around and the follower stops moving, but is somehow closer than it was before. I screamed out for somebody to come quick, but music came out of my mouth, “Death of a Martian” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. After that time kind of slowed down, everything step I took towards the door to my building seemed to take a year. Finally before I could get to the door, my foot caught in a pothole, and I passed out from the pain.
December 23, 2010:
I am spent the night at work; everyone else is gone for Christmas and my penthouse felt cold despite the thermostat setting of 70º. Instead of driving, I decided to fly back in. I mean why waste my money on gas anymore if I could just spread my arms apart and fly like Superman? Plus cars are dangerous. I am thinking about flying to a beach somewhere, it would nice to be warm for Christmas, and also cool to show off my new method of getting around.
December 24, 2010:
Flying south was interesting, believe it or not I saw Santa Claus, he said I shouldn’t bet on the Giants making the Super Bowl this year. The guy was friggin’ skinny! Mrs. Claus must have him on a no-carb diet or he got a stomach-staple. I can’t remember what he said when I asked. Costa Rica is warm, but I didn’t know they spoke Chinese here. Well it sounds like Chinese, I’m not sure. They all look the same too, how can you meet any new friends when there are no surface details to set them apart and make them approachable?
December 25, 2010:
The Christmas trees on the beach are all lit up, and the snow is falling steadily. I spent just last few minutes staring at the ocean. I have decided to push this flight thing to the limit and see if I can find some people elsewhere. Maybe a different planet? Or maybe I’ll just keep flying until there’s nowhere else to go. I took a last good look at the snow-capped mountain that rose from the waves, our planet was so cool but there could be cooler ones out there. I’ll write again once I get to Pluto.
The Montclair Times Reported on December 26, 2010:
Montclair Native, Wall St. Executive, Rod Earl Meara Dies After 5-day Coma
After sustaining serious injuries in a car accident on December 21, 2010, Mr. Meara slipped into a coma that night. Mr. Meara apparently was attempting to complete the New York Times crossword puzzle in his vehicle, when, onlookers say, he swerved to avoid a large pothole. Mr. Meara lost control of the car and he struck a pedestrian (Ms. Margaret Chu) before crashing into Downtown Music and Variety. Ms. Chu is in critical condition, but doctor’s predict that she will pull through. Mr. Meara was unmarried, and died at the age of 42.
December 28, 2010:
WOW! What a flight!
All alone in the mountains
ReplyDeleteThey told me that it was going to be a big change, but isn’t change all around us? I, personally cannot live without change. In fact, the only thing constant in life might be change.
I spent years in isolation searching for truth, years going up and down those mountains. Without other human beings for days, I had plenty of time for reflection and realization. Will I ever find truth? They say that it’s about the journey, not the destination.
I was given no direct guidelines for his quest. The ambiguity made it very difficult to do it correctly, but it also made it difficult to do it wrong.
Absence is nothing, yet it can mean everything. Absence can make you appreciate what you take for granted, or make you realize what you don’t need.
Time is a very powerful idea, but I realized that it was just that: an idea. Being up in the mountains for so long, I had lost track of time. There was no use for it. If I wasn’t keeping track of time, then who was? There was no one around for days. And if no one was keeping track of time, then did it cease to exist?
They say that only about twenty or thirty percent of what you communicate is verbal. Perhaps the tone of your voice? But what about before language was invented? How did humans communicate? They say that animals can sense when we’re happy, sad, angry, that horses can feel when we’re tense and uncertain. So are we then somehow communicating with them? Was I somehow communicating with this mountain and its creatures?
On the Edge
ReplyDeleteLooking far off into the distance with the wind sweeping through her hair all was silent except that question spinning through her head, “Do I jump?” She felt as though she was just wandering throughout her life. Not knowing whether or not she was coming or going. All she knew was that she couldn’t do it anymore. Knowing that she couldn’t do anymore all she wanted was a way out but had no direction in finding it.
Even though she did not know how to escape her monotonous routine, she had plenty of opinions, rules and expectations that were presented to her on a daily basis. The authority figures all sought to control her. They called the shots. They tried to teach her. They wanted to mold her. To make her into whom she was supposed to be. They wanted her to be who they expected. They wanted to see the person who society deemed appropriate.
She wanted to break free of the powerless environment that followed wherever she went. She tried to talk, but the words would not come out. She tried to write, but the page was always blank. All she could think was that words were meaningless. She needed to find a voice, but what would speak to her oppression? What would break down the walls that have enclosed her from happiness?
How could she go against all that had defined her? It was clear that her oppression was not the result of one relationship or a single area in her life, but rather a conspiracy to slowly suffocate her. Instead of encouraging her individuality, they wanted her to conform. Instead of allowing her to be independent they wanted to monopolize her, control her, and keep her from flying.
These feelings, these revelations, were not emotions that suddenly flooded her. They had plagued her, her entire life. They were her life. She waited patiently. She tried to change. She tried to appease them. She failed. She didn’t fail because she didn’t succeed in their world. She failed because she had failed herself, she had lost herself.
Losing herself, failing, she couldn’t admit that this was her reality. She couldn’t come to terms that this was her life. Standing on the cliff she with the clouds slowing passing overhead she saw her way to fly. She saw her reality turning into her dream. Her sorrow would shift into happiness and failure into success. Standing there it was if the decision had been made for her. The open air, the wind whispering her name, and the clouds looking like soft pillows were inviting her to lay her head down on them.
It was at this time that she decided to take one last look around before she took a deep breath, her last breath. No one was there. The sun was bright, glaring into her eyes the scenery turned into outlines as she stepped off. As she was falling she heard a voice. This voice was not her own but it was familiar. As she got closer to what she thought was the ground the voice got louder. She then slowly opened her eyes. She was blinded by bright lights and then the outline of her mother standing above her, saying her name, talking to her with a loving tone. The light began to fade and the picture became clear. She had awoken in the hospital, apparently awakening from a deep sleep having survived a long fight.