It seems my social networks are positively swarming with awkward people, shocking numbers of them. I cannot tell you how many times I've had the following sequence of conversations:
Me: Jane wants to come with us, too. Is that okay? Dick: I dunno. Jane is just so awkward. Me: Really? Dick, what do you mean? Dick: You know, she's... awkward.
(later that day)
Me: So I was talking to Dick about who's coming tonight, and-- Harry: Dick's coming?! Me: Yeah, is that a problem? Harry: Well, not really, it's just that Dick is so... Me: What? Harry: ...he's so awkward. Me: Oh really.
Man, just say it.
Say it, tell me that you have a hard time with so-and-so because you don't understand him. You don't know how to relate to him.
Explain to me that her entire background is different from yours; you are two very different people.
Say he doesn't communicate in a way that makes sense to you. Say he misreads your body language.
Admit that she's unconventional and you can't predict what she'll do next.
Say he's shy and quiet and seems to be on edge around people he doesn't know.
Tell me she says, out loud, the first thing that comes to her mind and people tend to find it offensive or strange.
Own your feelings, your opinions, your limitations and your discomfort. Go ahead and say you just aren't interested in any of the things he wants to talk about.
But do not, HEAVENS PLEASE do not waste our time by telling people that someone is "awkward".
Oh, you greet me with your soul-defrosting smile at the sunrise The glare is such that I can barely turn my eyes on you And you would lead me into all your bright and endless futures Though I'm compelled and haunted by my trusty point of view
The dim abstractions in my mind Are less convincing all the time The day is slowly burning out The light is trickling homeward now I smolder with the dying stars I want to know their tired hearts
To trip the light fantastic at the bottom of the ocean To turn away from hoping in my hopeless sanity I do not want to love them in a scientific fashion But come down with the madness that caused you to care for me
I see you give your light away But you seem brighter every day I think that you have got it bad By love consumed, completely mad I'm just as well as I can be Oh, get your germs all over me
If I came off put together, it was only by mistake I'm a ghost inside the armor, too well-fitted to escape So alone in this skin I am trapped in my sin Take me out, strip me down Say it straight to me now If I came off put together, that was part of my mistake Until you are my covering I'll never be okay
This is the next chapter to the story that has no name. The first chapter is here, if you'd like a refresher.
I want to get out of here.
I linger in the doorway for a minute or two, disoriented, trying to think. The hallway is so inscrutably black that it seems the same whether my eyes are open or closed.
How am I going to get out of here?
Now that I have begun to think about that, I cannot get it out of my mind. But I can't think of a decent answer to the question. There is no evidence of an exit, no bizarre green glow around a corner. I have no idea just where I am in the hospital. And I have no idea what I will do or where I will go if I find a way out. So I focus on a problem that seems more manageable.
My throat and mouth are so parched that my tongue sticks to them. My head is pounding. Despite the nauseating smell of the hospital, I am becoming increasingly preoccupied with the idea of getting something to drink.
I step over the threshold on bare feet. Nothing significant changes. The tile is stickier, probably recently mopped with too strong a solution.
With a clear and crazy-making image of a drinking fountain in my mind, I turn to the right and begin to walk, sliding my hand along the wallpaper for a sense of orientation. I imagine cold city water in my mouth and I feel better. Feverish anticipation distracts from the weight of anxiety in my stomach. I am noticing that my palm has become slightly numb from friction with the wall when my chest collides with a shoulder. My hands fly outward.
At first it seems that a siren has gone off between my ears. My own scream ends with an awkward gasp for air. The other person quiets down much more quickly and I lose track of him. He could be right in front of me. He could be running away, and I'm not sure I would hear it over the adrenaline thumping through my body.
What if I die in here?
Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm in a hospital and it's the middle of the night. I've probably just run into a sleepwalker.
Or something.
I wait a few more seconds and take a deep breath.
“Hello?” My voice surprises me. If a voice could be pale, thin, sickly and out of shape, that is how mine would sound. Instead of echoing from the walls, my question seems to disappear into a cardboard box.
My own heartbeat floods my ears as I wait. Then a warm, foul breath clouds my face and someone whispers loudly, “What are you doing in the hallway?”
Deirdre!
———————
The button was stuck. I pushed it again, watching the TV expectantly. When that didn't work, I inspected the remote control closely and tried dislodging the power button with my fingernail. The problem was, I'd bitten all my nails down to the quick. Using them was painful. And pointless.
As a final effort, I tried pushing the button as hard as I could.
“You have never been satisfied with anything I do!” a soap opera character told her mother. I would have to be content with switching to one of the other three channels. I sighed with great irritation, searching the remote for the appropriate buttons.
“What are you doing?”
I startled and looked to my left. A wide-eyed girl was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“Trying to turn off the TV,” I explained. “Who are you?”
“She told you to stop watching it?”
“No one told me to. I want it off, but the button is stuck. I can't get it out from under the edge. I don't know, maybe I... maybe I pushed it too hard when I turned it on.” I faked a little chuckle. “Are you gonna tell me who you are, or...?”
For a moment she stood there, squinting at me, then she shifted to the other side of the door frame and glanced around the room. “Deirdre. I live down the hall in one thirty-eight. On my break I noticed they'd started—”
“Your break? Aren't you a patient here?” I interrupted, hoping my question didn't sound too insensitive.
“Yeah. I leave my bed when the nurse is on her lunch break. I noticed yesterday that they'd opened this room, but there was nobody in it yet.”
“Opened it?” I asked.
“They opened the door and put the sheets on, and set up the TV and basically everything you've been enjoying this morning. They even gave you a plant, in case you hadn't noticed.”
I hadn't noticed. A catcus occupied a pot in the corner to my right. It resembled a very large and prickly watermelon; some of its spines were glowing with cold light from the window. “Wow. That's... weird,” I said, “It's cool, I guess, but I have to be honest... I didn't even know I was gonna be getting my own room until last night.”
“It's called hospitality,” came a response from the hallway. Deirdre's eyes became comically round, then she slid away, probably toward her room.
The nurse was a fifty-something woman of immaculate posture, wearing white scrubs and the smallest of smiles. She crossed her arms and watched me calmly, unblinkingly, and I wondered whether she was aware that she'd frightened Deirdre away— whether she'd noticed Deirdre at all.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” she asked. I welcomed the question because it broke the silence and freed me of the obligation to greet her. But I had no idea how to answer. Lucky? Sure, it was nice to have a place to stay, but I sensed that wasn't what she meant.
“Uh, yeah, I... sure. Well, no, not always, but... yeah,” I tried, hoping she would fill in the blanks for me. I wondered whether she'd overheard when I criticized the cactus.
She raised her eyebrows at me. I noticed for the first time that her eyes were a vivid pale blue.
“Careless, but lucky. You sustained a head injury last night, fell right into the coffee table. How fortunate that you happened to be in a hospital waiting room at the time.”
The nurse continued to stare, and though her face had not changed at all, I guessed she could see my surprise and embarrassment. My face burned. Oh well, I said to myself. At least she didn't know what I was thinking about her patronizing tone.
"Good night," she says quietly, "I love you," and then she leaves. An expanse of yellow light becomes a beam-- a slice-- a sliver-- a hair stroke-- and is finally soaked back into the hallway.
Between the sliver and the hair stroke, I lose confidence. I bury myself in the sheets and breathe carbon dioxide.
Silence.
When she tucked me in (twice) and sat down next to my knees, when she told me a silly story and bent down to kiss my forehead, when the base notes of her perfume filled the room--back then, the world was full of softness and beauty and grape jelly, and every curtain opened to a bright new adventure and a slow comforting rainfall at once--
Good night, good night...
I am alone, quite possibly forever. Maybe the nights wouldn't always be so bad if they didn't always start so well. I should go to bed all by myself.
I am suddenly aware of the sound of my own pulse in my ears. I strain to hear something from outside, something indicating my mom is awake and moving around. That she hasn't left, that she's talking to my sister or rearranging my brother's shoes by the door. Packing my lunch for school tomorrow. Switching on a lamp to sit down with a book. Keeping a watchful eye on wild boars and bad fairies that would break down my door and tear me to shreds.
Far flies the light...
After a while the upper half of my face emerges from the covers and, despite a growing sense of panic in my stomach, I attempt to use my night vision. I forced down seven and a half carrots at lunch.
Somehow, though, apart from the faint dusky glow on the window blinds, every single thing in my room is the same color. The one called "total absence of color". Which I hate. I really hate that.
But still God's love shall flame above, making all bright.
I'm not even tired, Mom. I can construct a flawless argument for springing up from the bed and locking the door behind me. I could just kind of chill with the grown-ups until morning.
I really could.
I...
Fall asleep.
Maybe my vision is distorted, but God, it seems your moments of reassurance are sporadic compared with the hours and hours when I don't know what you're doing. But you keep coming back, leading me to believe that you never actually left.
I sink down to the suburb A dead weight in my chest Approach the house behind the curve Where I was dispossessed Into a new reality I came up from the depths But it would be the end of me To let myself forget
The sun could not get past the ice I'd never seen a world so dark The water froze across my eyes But it could only reach so far The basement would have taken me The winterkill would be my death Had you not plunged into the sea So Jesus, let me not forget
Romans 8:2 Because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.
The operator on the line informed me darkly "I believe an elephant is living in your home" Wanted to believe that she was only joking Wisely laughed and said to her that I was very much alone
I put down the phone and I picked up my book A tail brushed my browbone but I didn't look
Oh my goodness, this is rich My brain must be a giant itch 'Cause all I do is scratch my head Is it my fault that hope is dead? Excuse me as I utilize My hands to cover up my eyes I killed the moment, dunno why I hope I get a second try
You were sitting lonely in the back of the room I was just too cool for that and mostly insecure You sat right across from me but I stared through you Squeezing past the elephant, I made it to the nearest door
Oh my goodness, this is wild I am like a feral child Just lead me to a clearing where Your presence doesn't make me scared I'll get the phone, I'll call my house I'll pick it up and call me out Inform me of my elephant And I will learn to deal with it
Yes, we could talk and enjoy the buffet But I feel a little too ugly today
Oh my goodness, this is rich Watch how fast I hit the bricks Is there a place where I can go To flee a giant animal? Excuse me as I utilize My hands to cover up my eyes I killed the moment, dunno why I hope I get a second try
Matthew 25:45 'When you refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing to help me.'
Dear whoever fails to post signs with street names on them:
I do not like you. Not even a little.
In other news, I have been working on my story again and I decided that it would be good to add music. To enhance the experience, you know. So with each chapter I plan to include a song that either 1) captures the emotion of that part of the story or 2) embodies the idea behind it. One or the other.
We feast on our atrocities And even silence is a thief We vandalize our dignity And speak in knives like enemies I felled you like a giving tree Don't read it like a tragedy Don't be surprised at suffering And please don't turn those eyes on me Please
Proverbs 12:18 Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.
You nurse as many grudges as your chances to obtain them. Your heart still bleeds from carving up the holes where you contain them. You bandage till you're paralyzed with blacklists that you keep. Your anger blocks the airways till you're fighting just to breathe. I can't live in your paralife. I'm dying to get out. I'm sickened by your chronic diarrhea of the mouth. You'd grieve the casualties if you could use your calloused eyes. But all your tears are for yourself, and so, for now, goodbye.
Proverbs 27:3 Stone is heavy and sand a burden, but provocation by a fool is heavier than both.
You've thrown out your metrics and all expectations you had. The world is too big and the sane are the same as the mad. The wind in your curtains is singing you nothing but jazz.
A sucker for chocolate but never know what you might get. You'll stand up and take it, and nothing's too much for you yet, 'Cause God is the one thing you know you can always expect.
You've torn out the pages that hold all your fears about fate. The unconcerned current will carry them far from the lake. Or they might just get lodged in a dam and dis int e grate.
Romans 5:4-5 Character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.
You said a promise is a promise is a promise I broke it apart and the inside came out I said that some of them Just aren't worth keeping I know that you heard Do you see what I'm seeing A thousand little lies have spilled on the ground
Reminds me we're both scared that everything's like this The sound of the seams giving way underneath Or is that the ocean Eroding my eardrums The waves have no rhythm At least I can't hear one I hope that our God can still speak them to peace
The crickets all hush for a waterfront conflict A stranger dismissed from the gate at the shore A shadow slumps down And descends with the water When the sunrise walks into The dark of the garden And darkness can swallow the living no more
Genesis 8:1 God made a wind blow over the earth, and the waters subsided.
This is a draft!! And I may never finish it. Mom: Do you think this could be the start of a good short story? And yes, it is highly metaphorical.
Any sane person startles to the realization he has woken up here. It is the insane who sit back and call for applesauce. But after I push myself off the bed, dropping the mouthpiece to let it dangle, I am not sure where to go. I have no idea what to expect. My trachea could collapse, for all I know. I might die now.
"I might die now," I say out loud to myself. Something inside replies, Respirators are a promise not worth keeping. I agree. I choked on the tube when I woke up. Stupid respirators.
I seem to be alone. All I can see are the digital numbers and glowing red dots that surround my bed. All I can hear is the whirring and quiet beeping of machines. There has got to be a window in this place.
I hiss through my teeth as I remove the last tube from my left arm. Not really fond of opiates either, or anesthetics, or whatever it is. Stupid drugs.
Where is my night vision? I take a few steps forward. On the third one I meet with the edge of a table. My brief tactual exploration reveals nothing but a short plastic cup full of liquid, doubtless some kind of juice. I pick it up, sniff it. It actually smells like alcohol. I consider for a moment.
My throat is quite dry...
But not that dry.
After more shuffling around, I discover a door. It is smooth and cold with a bit of peeling paint here and there. I clutch the handle and lean against the wall, because I am beginning to realize that I have been dizzy since I woke up. Then I open the door slowly.
I am overwhelmed by more darkness, as well as a caustic, vaguely floral smell and the memory that accompanies it.
———————
“Yes, what do you need?”
That was an unusual greeting from a receptionist.
“I was wondering whether I could... well, I need a place to stay. Just tonight.”
“And what can I do for you, sweetie?”
I wasn't sure how to answer her. I'd just told her what she could do. Was this a trick question?
“Uhh... well. Could I stay here for the night? I realize you guys have, like, your rules and... everything, but it's a hospital and I thought maybe if I stay here in the lobby it won't be much of a problem.”
I was flustered by how eloquent I wasn't. I had thought hard about what I would say just before walking into that foul-smelling building, but all my thoughts seemed to have melted together into a lump. I had to wrest every word from that lump.
“You're from this area,” she stated.
She had caught me off guard. “Uh, no... I'm not, I live—”
“All right. Then we'll have your signature right here, it'll give us permission to take emergency measures should anything happen to you.”
I took it from her hand and had barely begun to read when she said, “Don't worry, sweetie. It's for your protection.”
Ashamed at my rudeness, I laid the paper on the counter and signed my name.
I have a history of second-guessing almost everything I feel and think.
Guess what? Life sucks when I am like that.
So now think about the old shirt that you won't throw out because it has become so comfortable. Or the black silhouettes of trees outside my window, the latest great food you discovered, the sound of piano music, the damp smell of dirt and new leaves in early spring. I mean my nephew's tiny feet running across the carpet. My nose frozen from walking out in the cold, my fingers thawing when I return, the neon green numbers on the microwave, and the shadows cast by a series of lampposts outside in the park.
Remember the handwriting of the people you love, their voices, their faces, the ways they move, their unique ways of being in the world. Think of the exhilaration of being chased in a game of tag, the relief and mad joy of being fully forgiven for hurting one of the people who mean the most to you.
I mean how it feels to be in my grandparents' basement with my little brother. I mean my older siblings joking cryptically with each other. I mean the act of breathing, late afternoon walks, the heat of the sun on your face, the pleasure of a gardener as he works, the woman who greets you when you walk into Wal-mart, the arms of a father rocking his baby, and that person in your life who somehow makes everybody feel welcomed and important.
I mean deep shades of blue-violet and pastel pinks and startling reds, the bright expressive patterns on an African tunic, stars in a clear black sky. I mean the reassurance, as I fall asleep at night, that God is with me, deeply in love with me, and listening hard as I pray for a fresher heart.
Lately, stuff has been getting under my skin and I am not doubting it. I will not suspect that the feeling is only the temporary emotional side effect of my perception-- not when something so huge is going on. I will not shrug off the fantastic presence of beauty when I meet it (that is to say, when I meet Him).
It seems cruel to load a couple of theoreticals onto someone with no effort to give them substance. So I wrote down some examples of beauty I have known. I hope you can relate to them. But I realize that no one sees exactly the same things as anyone else. If you have anything you want to add, I would be more than happy to see it in the comments.
Like petulant frost in the passion of June If I were a bird I'd sing slightly off-tune I can't be a bottle of watered-down wine A half-open door till I make up my mind A firefly dim and contained in a jar Don't let me be someone with half of a heart I know you'll arrive by some time yesterday That's just a bit longer than I want to wait
Matthew 5:8 God blesses those whose hearts are pure, for they will see God.
