Hubris

I have noticed that we as humans are a very deprecating race.  It seems that we feel we have to destroy or tarnish something in order to claim it as our own.  Is our own carnal hubris so fragile that we must destroy something in order to exert ourselves over it?  Think about this; time and time again across time, culture, religion, etc. we damage something in order to claim it as our own.  When explorers traveled to new lands they would thrust their counties flag into the countryside to claim it as theirs; same with mountain climbers who are first to reach the peak.  Let’s narrow our focus to even just a personal level.  Is it not the same thing when a man claim’s a woman’s virginity; or when a graffiti artist tags a building?  When it snows and there is a freshly laid blanket on the ground why do we have this manic urge to be the first on to put our prints in it? 

A Soldier and the Atonement

I wrote this while my husband was deployed (soon after he was injured) and I came across it this morning.  I was really hating the Army this morning so this help put things back into perspective for me.       

           There is no argument over the fact that in this mortal life the greatest gift we have been given is the saving, graceful gift of the atonement; a sacrifice of love where our Brother gave his life to save us all.  No one else could give this gift and our Savior willingly took the mantel and burden of our sins upon his shoulders because of the love he has for each and every one of us.  It is through the power of this gift that we have been invited to try and be like Jesus and the Gods we are preparing to become.  Although emulating perfection in this lifetime is impossible, it is not unattainable.  Our test here is to follow Christ and I want to recognize a special group of people who are following in his footsteps whether they recognize it or not.

                As we know the atonement came at a great price that required a perfect life and a willing heart that was given freely to secure our freedom in the afterlife; similarly, our men and women serving in the military offer the same thing, but on a mortal level.  Just as Christ, they willingly offer their lives as payment for our freedom to defend and protect our basic, unalienable rights.  Although this mortal freedom takes more than one sacrifice, I am amazed at how many willingly dedicate their lives to this calling.  Christ did not sacrifice his life for glory or worship and neither do our soldiers.  This is a gift both Christ and the member of the military offer freely because of the love for their brothers and sisters and for the love of freedom.

                On Christ’s way to the cross he was spurned and hated, mocked and discriminated; yet, he stood steady in his task and his duty to follow through with the plan.  The soldiers in our military deal with this injustice as well.  Even after these valiant individuals gave their lives many are faced with people protesting at their funerals, belittling the gift they gave.

Sadly, the gift of the atonement is not believed in or accepted by everyone, but yet it is a gift that applies to all whether it is wanted or accepted.  Just as the atonement applies to the atheist, so does the military’s gift of freedom apply to the hard hearted and ignorant.  Although these men and women willingly give themselves to the cause of freedom some people accuse that they are war mongers looking for a fight.  However, the sacrifice given is a sacrifice for all.

The purpose for this comparison is not to give glorify the soldier; instead it is meant to show how these individuals serve as an example to the rest of us what we can accomplish in this lifetime as we too strive to become more like our Father in Heaven and to appreciate to the fullest the eternal gift of life given to us through Christ as well as the gift of freedom to enjoy life given to us by brave men and women who sacrifice daily for our behalf.

More Than Words

I got my degree in English Literature, so to me words are very important, especially the written word.  All my life words have been the way I have been able to define myself as I try to describe the words around me.  However, this week there we no words available to put into writing the emotions I was feeling.  As I cradled my sick baby I realized some things cannot be experienced thought story or text.  Some things can only be comprehended through experience.  I can try and describe in great detail the fear that continually set on the edge of my mind waiting to be voiced as I switch one cool wash cloth for another.  I could try and describe how you could feel the burn of the fever from the hot sweaty touch of his skin.  I could tell how we stripped him of all clothes and gave him multiple cold baths or how I rocked him for hours allowing him to whimper all the while because of his discomfort, but none of that would be enough.  There are no words to describe the utter inability in which I would be able to make him better.  And words can’t fully describe the feeling of aloneness as you already start fearing for the worst.  Words would do these emotions injustice with such a statement as it was just a high fever and a long night.  But the emotions, the fears, the memory play themselves in my head and heart more than any words could.  So for the first time in my life I can distance words from the “real”: the feeling, the emotion from the “unreal”: the attempt to make a snapshot of a life.   

Numbers

When I was a child and had a hard time sleeping I would lie on my side and watch my digital clock.  It was probably around the age of twelve I realized that some numbers looked more feminine while others looked masculine.  I had forgotten all about this until I was up late last night having a hard time falling asleep and I posed the possibility of assigning genders to numbers to my husband.  Although he thought it was silly he played along.  Out of nine numbers we only disagreed on one.  I doubted this was just common thinking or a coincidence so I then asked my best friend to do the same thing; her answers were also almost identical to what my husband and I had agreed upon.  She even asked her three year old daughter whos answers were very close to our own.  It was at this point I realized that to me the feminine numbers were the curvy ones while the males were linear.  Now intrigued with the social implications this held, I posted the same question to several Facebook friends.  Although there were a wider variety of answers, it seemed pretty clear to me that we have been conditioned at a very early age to what is “feminine” and what is ‘masculine” and the numbers in greatest dispute were 5 and 8.  Five has both the curves and the linear, making it debatable and 8 although all curve does not fit the desired feminine our society wishes to portray (dumpy), thus making it male to some and female to others.  How interesting that something as inanimate as numbers can be assigned gender based on shape.  Do we unconsciously do the same thing to people?  Do we judge a boy for have feminine features or judge a girl for looking butch?  Is this something that has spanned time or is it only cultural or locational?  Does the definition of male and female change over time?  How are we perpetuating this unconsciously?  Numbers, silly numbers….what do you see?  Here are my personal answers
1: male
2: female
3: male (although curvaceous it seems distant like it is holding its arm out)
4: male
5: female/male
6: female
7: male
8: male (also curvaceous, but to me it looks like a short, fat man)
9: female
I also realize that my reasons for 3 and 8 seem sexiest, but that’s my point.  Why at the age of 12 was I able to apply such judgements?

Another beginning to another story

Brooding and broken, she rested her hands and head on the railing of his crib, looking in on him as she always did when she couldn’t sleep.  If she couldn’t make her life what she had wanted, how could she guarantee she could give him a good life? She felt the tears clogging her eyes again, but she refused to acknowledge them, not when her sweet, beautiful boy lay sleeping in her sights.  How had she become so blessed and so cursed?  He was in every way her miracle, the key linking her here to responsibility, honor and duty.  Otherwise, would she not still be with his father, living a life where you are seeking the next pleasure, the next fix.

She hadn’t intended on getting pregnant and when she realized she was she didn’t take it very seriously.  How could she when all she had known for years was based on fulfilling her own selfish desires?  It wasn’t until she felt him kicking that someone had finally knocked some sense into her.  Upon waking from her ostentatious living she realized how alone she was and how ephemeral her life had been.  She needed stability; she needed to take care of this baby.

On nights like these where the cravings hit her the hardest she felt pulled because half of her hated who she had been; that had been the point of rejecting that life, but at the same time, she missed it.  She felt as if she was still that person who had only put on a mask of adulthood.  Sometimes she imagined friends, co-workers and neighbors could see through it all and every day she waited for someone to pull of the mask and show her for what she really was.  Her heart rejected that life, but her body craved it.  She feared her toddler could see the two people inside her constantly fighting and that frightened her.  Would she ever escape it all?

The girl who cried wolf just got mauled by a bear

She is beautiful; she seems to always get what she wants.  She exaggerates all accounts and her life is a fable in which one must sort out the truths from the inaccuracies she peppers her stories with.  She is passionate and every experience is moving or traumatic.  So when she told me her husband hit her, I took it with a grain of salt and made sure to suggest the logical things like call the cops, leave him, etc. without ever really believing it happened.  She played the perfect wife and mother: doting, charming, compassionate and exuberant as always and again she spoke of physical injustice done against her.  I knew she too was guilty of the same, so in hopes of remaining aloof I offered my sympathies and told her to give him space and get away, but she talked of impossibilities.  Her theatrics lessened and I started to see the girl who was so used to crying wolf for attention, making something out of nothing.  When she called me this morning this girl I saw was scared and shaken and was no longer playing games, there were no wolves, only a bear and she needed help.  Her husband had been arrested for domestic assault and battery because she finally decided enough was enough.  I wasn’t there to fight or scare of the bear but let her know her heroics in facing this challenge was not only accurate, but admirable.  I felt low.  Low that she had to face this alone.  Low, because I had believed she had been making nothing into something when in reality she made something into nothing.  Next time, if anyone calls wolf, I will run to their side, because even if there isn't a wolf, there is a lonely, lost shepherd.

Forest

The dark forest lies impervious to time, or so it seems as a dark heaviness continually clings to the ground.  The old trees hide their secret, hidden in the forest floor.  This forbidden secret lies undetected but upon every one’s mind as they traverse the dark condensed foliage.  One feels the presence of something more, yet it slips behind every shadow and brush of the breeze.  The darkness, silence, and heaviness suffocates, gripping the sky as it pushes to bury the forest in their darkness…a secret lies where light cannot reach.

My Life in Story Form

Do you ever pretend you are writing the story of your life?  Creating dialogue in your head for the conversation you wish to have or creating your own soliloquy on the monotony or chores or the deep passion you hold for your husband.   Do you pick out some new detail to describe in some incremental abstract way to try and add meaning to something that isn’t there?  I do.  It has become this weird desire to paint my life in words, as if my story is worth telling and my revelations and reflections are striking.  For example, I was baking and it struck me how the flour looked in contrast to the beep blue of the bowl.  This is the thought that followed:

She was not fully unaware of the art she was mixing.  Such vivid hues, aromas, and tastes could stir several people.  It awed her how she could send even herself into a trance by the smell of the cinnamon which transplanted her to her youth, a smell that often lingered in her mother’s home.  Were these the same spices her son would remember?  She tossed her head as if shrugging her shoulders, moving on to the next thought.  The flour she has just added to her mixture struck her as beautiful and clean.  She smiled as the white played a stark contrast to the deep blue mixing bowl she was using. Almost like snow falling into the sky.

Free Thinkers

All of our lives we are encouraged to think outside of the box while this twisted dichotomy exists when we are however, taught to conform.  The public and even private school districts teach us in one uniform way, making us educational automatons.  This complacency results in mediocrity, stunting our society as a whole.  How many “free thinkers” are there?  Instead our culture has become a social network, trying to fit in with one another rather than an industrial or innovative one.  Why are so few taught to question things?  Why are we so content with allowing things to be because “that’s the way they are?” What passion is left when we simply accept all we are told? 

My husband and I were talking about this in regard to freedom.  My husband is a soldier in the United States Army and he has already spent a year over in Afghanistan trying to help the populace gain their own independence and freedoms that have been denied them.  He talked of the difficulty in helping these people when they had no desire to change their situation when they were used to living the ways they had been taught.  I brought up the fact that our society is not so different, although the comparison lack because ours is less severe. How free are we though when we are taught to conform; when our social settings and media influence most modes of thought?  When we function as a homogenous blob, only breaking away into self when our own selfish needs are wanting to be met.  Now I obviously do not thing this applies to every person, but sadly a large majority of our populace.  I guess in the end all I am advocating is question everything! Seek what stereotypes you perpetuate and find out if this truly is who you are or if you have been nurtured or conditioned into such actions.  Learn who you are so that you can learn to think differently from others, but back up what you have to say with educated, thought out material

you voyeur you!

I have come to realize that blogging is really just a playground for the voyeurs and exhibitionists at heart.  I will admit to both.  The other day I had thought about scrapping the blog altogether because I felt as though no one was reading it and then I realized I was indeed an exhibitionist; let me explain.  You see I started the blog as an outlet of emotions I felt could only be expressed in writing, so I decided to start this sort of online journal/portfolio of pieces.  So here I share some of my most personal and inner thoughts and all the while I am hoping people are reading…watching what I am saying and doing. 

I also plead guilty to voyeurism as well.  I skim from blog to blog trying to find something that excites me, hoping to look in on something unexpected and private.  I look to vicariously live through them in hopes of inducing a similar sort of pleasure in my life.  So if you happened to stumble across my blog and you wish to see something different I hope you found it. :)

Pain

There in the dark it beats

Pounding, breaking me down.

Harder, faster and unrelenting it torments me.

Sharper than a knife’s point

And heavier than lead

It pounds.

Unseen, but ever present it remains

Hidden in a catacomb, similar to the darkest cave

It beats me,

Some days it overpowers, some days I do,

It pounds within.

Incomprehensible to all,

Except to those who have also experienced its

Unrelenting reminder of power.

So I grin and bear it with a smile

Yet dark it remains, as it

Pound in me.

Forever pounding, biting,

Reminding me…

It tries to kill me, slowly,

Yet, I beat still

                                                 And I, I pound it.  Unseen.  Pain.  Me.

Other Mothers

I have a son who is almost yen months and already I have learned I really do not enjoy talking to other women with children.  Let me explain.  I know I do not know everything about parenthood and I will readily admit any and all of my flaws, which are many, I assure you, but there are those women out there who seem so pretentious.  For example the other day I was at a baby shower and a lady commented on how well behaved my son was.  I thanked her for her compliment and assured her it had nothing to do with me, but was rather due to his temperament and went on to explain that although he is more temperamental while teething he was is no way extremely difficult because I had not had to stay up all night rocking a screaming child like many friend have had to do.  Then some woman listening in on our conversation made the snide comment, “oh just wait.”  Now I will admit I am probably making more of this this is was intended or needs to be, but that simple phase indicates 1.  I do not know what to expect from my child 2. My child will be this horrible 3. This implied that this woman knew more than I did.  I happened to know that this woman also only had one child and while her child was a little older the kid was of a different gender and temperament.  This one incident alone is not the issue; I seem to come across this fairly regularly that if there are so many “expert moms” out there then how come a majority of our youth are still learning more from their teachers rather than from their parent and how come the family is still becoming more and more of a rarity.  I am not saying I am blameless either…I am sure I have done something similar, but now that I am so annoyed with it, I have decided to put my foot down.  I will call women out when they make such comments and refrain from speaking in a similar tone.  Advice is fine, but the snide belittling is uncalled for wholly unnecessary!

Raw emotion

I am happily married, but I have never seen anything as beautiful as her.  When the hot, emotional tear swelled from her eyes and rolled across her walnut skin I was enchanted.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but when I saw the beauty of such natural and raw emotion I wanted nothing more than to take her into my arms and kiss her eyes and cheeks.  I wanted so badly to press her to me, feeling her sob in my comforting arms.  Instead I clumsily caught her tears with my chubby fingers and brushed the stray hairs from her face.  I guess this could be called motherly instinct, but she is older than I and it just feels so different.  I try not to give away my feelings and calmly wish her goodnight when it is time for her to go, but as she leaves I can’t help but wonder if she is thinking the same thing too.

Sigh

Today is one of those days where everything seems to rub me the wrong way.  My emotions are all over the place.  Honestly, I would relish a hot bubble bath and a good cry.  What do I have to cry about though?  Lately I have felt like such an automaton, storing away emotions and reactions to just get through the day and I feel as if that dam is hitting its limits.  The kid is screaming again after telling him no; double sigh. But I feel guilty and annoyed with myself for even being put out by this.  Does everyone have these bi-weekly slumps?  It’s weird because when I have all these emotions flooding my mind I feel like a different person a collage of personalities that spring on me every other second and I just want to feel like myself again.

Primary

Beat, beat
   yellow: despair
      I run, a coward

Hum, hum
   blue: tranquility
      A peace in a hue

Smack, smack
   red: assault
     An appetite unquenched

Shh, shh
   white: depravity
     Stark cold, rushing in

Wishing I Was an Indian Princess

Fifth grade.  I guess you could say I was average, although, like everyone else, I wished I was above average.  Most days though, I often felt less than average feeling inadequate as I compared my short frame to the other kids in my class that loomed and towered over me.  My long white-blonde hair was sensitive and rather than torture myself with pony-pails or other hair styles, my long hair often fell loose and ratty around my pudgy face.  I hadn’t thought much of it before, but now that my sister Sunshine was a middle schooler, she often informed me on how un-cool I actually was.  My sister liked to prove this by quickly pointing out my lack of friends.  I didn’t understand how my one best friend, Cassie, was not enough.  I began to question myself and what I was supposed to look like and be like. 

            I often talked of these new concerns with Cassie, but she would always reassure me by telling me Sunshine was just trying to be mean to me.  Cassie was the oldest child in her family and she told me how she would say similar things to her younger sister.  I thought Cassie knew it all; she always seemed to know what to say and had an answer for everything.  Cassie and I had known each other since second grade, and that’s like forever.  We were both excited that we were in the same class this year and spent every second we could together.  Although Cassie and I had a lot in common, she had a hard time with the fact that I hated to read.  She would often give me books and tell me to read them, but I felt that was a waste of time.  I would much rather be outside on my roller blades or riding my bike.  Cassie didn’t like sports and she often tried to convince me of the travelling possibilities that a book offered.  Whatever.  Despite this disagreement, we were still BFF (Best Friends Forever)!

            I was an okay student.  I did pretty well actually, well except for spelling and reading.  I knew how to read, and read well, but apparently I just wasn’t reading enough. My teacher was disappointed that I did not read although I could read advanced books and understand their meanings.  My teacher would often pull me aside and try and point out books she thought I would like, but I was never interested.  In fact, I actually got upset that people were trying to shove all of these books down my throat.  Apparently I wasn’t the only student with this dislike of books, and my teacher, Mrs. Wooldridge, said she was not going to give up on me or anyone else in the class.

            It was about half way through the year when Mrs. Wooldridge announced that since we had finished our math unit, we would now have an implemented reading time; and yes, I groaned at this.  She surprised us by saying that instead of us reading, she would read a book to us.  I guess that would be okay; after all, being read to is better that having to fill out math problems.  Mrs. Wooldridge continued to say that she would be reading Naya Nuki (Naya what)?  It was at this point that a huge smile crossed her worn, aged face as she announced that after we have read the book, the author himself would come and speak to us.  A buzz began to roll over the room.  I had never met an author before.  I was pretty excited, authors are famous aren’t they?  I have never met anyone famous before.  I guess this whole designated reading time wouldn’t be too bad after all.

            At first reading time bored me.  The book was about some Indian girl picking berries or something with her friend Sacagawea.  I had heard the name before, but it didn’t mean much.  In fact most of the time I just watched my teacher read.  I thought it amusing how her lips would curl over certain words.  Her eyebrows moved like caterpillars dancing whenever she got excited about what she was reading.  The wrinkles on her face lifted and sagged with each new expression.  To me that was way more interesting than picking berries.  I began to think about where I would ride my bike that afternoon when I heard Mrs. Wooldridge voice get louder and louder as she talked of an Indian attacking the girls picking berries and how they were pulled by their hair from their hiding spots and placed in front of their captors on their saddle. 

            I sat mesmerized as she talked of abuse, pilfering, and murder.  My heart thumped as she told the tale of the brave Naya Nuki, a girl my age, who bore this captivity and punishment.  I was upset when my teacher stopped so that we could go get lunch.  Something had happened that had never happened before.  I wanted her to keep reading.  I wanted to know if Naya Nuki would be able to escape the way she had been planning.  For the first time in my life, I cared about a character in a book as if she were my friend; as if she was me.  My mind raced around the story wondering if I would be able to get out of a camp in which I am being held captive.  Would I have been able to have stolen and hid the knife as well as Naya Nuki had? 

            I walked home imagining I was Naya Nuki and that I must hurry for the imaginary captor behind me might decide I was traveling too slow and leave me for dead among the wilderness; known to me as the empty playground.  I did my bathroom chore scrubbing and sweating as I cleaned the bathtub and toilet and thought of the torture I must endure before I too could plan and execute my escape.  I slept in my warm bed and thought what it must be like sleeping in a warm buffalo hide.  I went to sleep quickly dreaming out my adventures as an Indian princess.

            Before class started I talked with Cassie about the book and how wonderful the adventure was.  Although Cassie didn’t seem to appreciate the book nearly as much as I did, she was still excited to hear that I liked the book.  We talked about our wishes to be little Indian girls out among the thickets picking barriers and being captured by an enemy tribe.  We began to pick out the boys in our class who were mean to us and labeled them as our evil captors.  I had trouble focusing on school work that day as I waited, like Naya Nuki, to be reunited to the things I love.  Although Naya Nuki tried to get home, I waited as patiently as I could to continue on this new adventure with her.

            Finally, it was reading time again.  I ran to the blue plastic chair we sat around while Mrs. Wooldridge read and waited to begin my adventure again.  As Mrs. Wooldridge’s voice began, slow and raspy at first, but rising and growing with the story as it began.  I returned to the wilderness of Montana as Naya Nuki climbs the tree to escape the dangerous black bear that had smelled the food she was carrying.  I sit stiff as if I too might fall from the tree.  My heart pounds like the sound of the drums that welcome the adventurous traveler back into their folds, honoring with the name Naya Nuki: girl who ran.

            I sat mystified.  I was Naya Nuki.  I had made that travel with her and felt honored to have finished the book in one piece.  The long ratty blonde hair of mine in my eyes turned to the silky black hair of the Indian princess I was becoming.  My chubby short frame I knew would help hide and survive the long nights without food.  All of the sudden, the things that had been bothering me seemed to make me who I was.  I was an Indian princess and enjoyed the way I looked.  Cassie was my Sacagawea, honest and true in all that she was. 

            Now that we had finished the book, I looked forward to our meeting with the author.  I was told that if we bought the book he would even autograph it for us.  I was looking forward to getting an autograph, but I was more excited about owning a copy of the book. 

I was ecstatic when the day came to meet Kenneth Thommasa.  I walked excitedly to the library, where we were to meet him.  I hoped that he would notice how much like Naya Nuki I was, or felt I was.  We sat Indian-style on the floor as we listened to him tell us a little about the story I already knew so well.  He then said he was going to give a free book to the girl who looked most like Naya Nuki.  I felt sure I was going to get it, after all I was an Indian, who had survived all Naya Nuki had, or at least I felt that I was capable to do all that she had.  I waved my hand furiously with all the girls around me, begging that he chose me.

Needless to say I was devastated when he picked Christina.  I was angry.  Christina has a beautiful light brown skin, with long flowing black-brown hair and chocolate brown eyes.  She was already beautiful enough; she didn’t need a free book too.  I was sadly brought back to reality.  I realized my pale skin and yellow hair were not the adornments of a beautiful Indian girl.  Despite this sad reality, no one could take away my experience.  I had used my babysitting money and bought the book that had changed me. After buying the book, I walked timidly across the library and up to the author and watched as he signed my book: To Cherish, Kenneth Thommasa.

Mrs. Wooldridge didn’t give up on me.  She noticed my interest and found books that fit my liking.  I read Island of the Blue Dolphins, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIHM, the whole Laura Ingles series, chocolate Fever, and many more.  I became an avid reader, reading everything I could get my hands on.  My favorite books were one of brave Indian girls, but I learned to appreciate most literature. 

Every time I walk into my library of a meager 500 plus books I can’t help but look at my signed copy of Naya Nuki and remember the adventure that changed my life.

A communal dance

Came across this in my journal. so I wrote it a while ago, but I still like it :)

The fire and wood connect like a newlywed couple on their first night.  The fire licks the wood, tempting it, testing it out.  It curls itself around the wood, hugging it and taking it in.  The wood cracks as the fire dances around it and I feel I shouldn’t watch as the wood begins to burn from the inside out.  The fire never stops as it moves over the wood, up and don they move, up and down I watch the flames flicker.  The wood takes the liquid movement of the fire and it seems as if they begin to move together, as one.  The woods hard brown skin is replaced with a soft gray, accepting each touch of flame.  The wood is transformed, never again to be the same.
 The fire’s energy if fading and the wood’s luster is dull: they collapse into one, putting each other out, leaving behind only the remnants of their night together.

Life as a metaphore

No matter how hard I clean

My life remains a dirty house.

I polish up on philosophy and history,

But there is always too much to polish.

I try to vacuum out the dirt,

But a curse word always lingers in my mind;

the same way dirt lingers in my couch.

I wash my experiences with optimism

Yet, like windows, I always seem to view the grime.

Just as a load of dirty dishes clutters my sink,

So do the hours of television clutter my mind.

An eternal process, cleaning.

                                                 Always cleaning, trying to make things shine.

Short story: A lose Tile

       Today is another day of work.  Today, tomorrow, last week, it doesn’t matter which day because every day is always the same.  I walk into the pitch black room and fumble for a light behind a stack of files.  The blast of cold air stings my face and the light now on, reflects off the white metal file cabinets, hurting my eyes.  I walk to the worn desk that had been faded by many years of use.  I place my lunch in the drawer that smells of old wood and stain; by noon the drawer will smell of my spaghetti lunch.  I grab a large stack of thin, somewhat translucent, yellow receipts and the faded file sorter.  I sit down at an old swivel chair that no longer swivels and begin the monotonous task of alphabetizing the stack of papers.  My fingers often slide right over the papers making it hard to grasp them enough to separate.  I often have to lick my fingers in order to separate the thin sheets, filling my mouth with the slight taste of paper.

            In hopes of drowning out the boredom I turn on the radio.  A familiar beat of the eighties fills the room.  I now file to the beat, listening to the sound the paper makes as it rubs across the page behind it creating an additional melody.  I work now in rhythm, almost escaping the tight room of five large isles filled with files, a windowless prison.

“Morning.”                                                                                                                             

My filing is interrupted as my co-worker Gary enters.  He walks looking as if he is hunched over, yet he is stiff as a board, slightly bent at the waist.  I watch him as he runs a hand over his buzz cut while at the same time placing his lunch in the same drawer as mine.  I guess now the drawer will smell of spaghetti and tuna.  I observe that once again he is in nice tan pants and a button up shirt that looks like all the other ones he owns.

“Morning” I reply, as I look again at the work in front of me.  Gary and I are decades apart in age, so we work quietly next to one another, without much to say, of course only making the day linger on all the more.  I try to ignore his lack of social skills as I once again return to my work.

As soon as I finish with my stack I am dismayed to find a new stack, freshly copied waiting for me at the door.  The pages are still warm and fill the room with the smell of paper and warm ink.  My fingers slide over the still warm pages, making it difficult to separate.  This stack I decide can wait to be alphabetized.

I begin to walk up and down the aisles placing the papers in the coinciding folder.  I think how this job could not get any duller when I hear loud crash two aisles over.  Gary is probably kicking the chair out of the way that I had left in the aisle.  I guess I should apologize for forgetting to do that before I went home yesterday.  I decide not to though; after all he has done the same thing to me.  I ignore his outburst and continue pacing the aisle, pulling out files, inserting a single sheet of paper, and re-inserting the file into its proper alphabetical place.

I finally finish my stack, a small accomplishment to have it done.  I look around and notice Gary has not alphabetized anything else.  I grow irritated at his increasingly slow pace and decide I should go ask him if there is anything I can do besides alphabetize.  Maybe I can offer to put things in their files and he can alphabetize.

“Gary” I call out now that I have a plan of action.  I wait a few seconds before I say his name louder.

“Gary” I repeat as I begin looking down the rows for him.  He better not still be mad about that chair, after all he has done the same thing to…

As I turn the corner my mind goes blank as I see Gary sprawled on the floor lying in a puddle of his own blood.  My first instinct is to scream, but I try to think of how a person should react.  I realize I should see if he is breathing.  I try to act on this thought but my feet are numb and heavy, unwilling to step forward.  I close my eyes to try and get the image out of my head.  I take a breath and step forward.  I open my eyes now and it seems as if my body has decided to take over for me.  My body seems to work of its own accord as I kneel down next to him and take his pulse.

He has a pulse but it is weak.  I survey the area around him and just now notice the ceiling tile lying scattered around his immobile body.  This wouldn’t seem like much except for the blood that pooled around his head.  His clean shirt and pants were spattered with the dark red color of his own life that I realize is slowly seeping out of him.  Such a thought panics me as I begin to look for the cut in order to stop the bleeding.  I place my hand on his head feeling the warm stickiness of his blood that now covers my hand.  It all seems surreal as I watch my now scarlet red hand move his hair and feel for a cut.  My fingers move over his head so smoothly it almost felt as If I were touching the warm papers freshly copied.  I have to close my eyes as the sight makes me sick.  I feel as my fingers move.  All I see is the blackness of my eyelids, but I finally feel a gash.  Somewhat relieved I have found it I quickly place my hand over the area and apply pressure. 

Trying to calm myself I survey the scene again and notice that he has bled enough that his shirt is now absorbing the blood.  It seems to be flowing everywhere; I can’t help but think that it is as multitudinous as the files in the room, surrounding me.

I know I need help and begin to scream.  I only pray someone can hear me over the thundering air conditioner.  I wait for help and watch his pale face hoping for any movement.  I imagine I see the flutter of an eyelash but I realize my eyes are once again closed and I can’t see anything.  Or at least I shouldn’t see anything, but even my eyelids seem to show me blood.  I scream for help again as panic grips me again.

I must have passed out because I awoke in an empty office covered in dry blood.  I had paramedics around me and an oxygen mask over my mouth.  I was instructed to breathe deeply, which I did.  I was told I was alright.

I knew I wasn’t when I looked down at my blood stained hands.  How could I be alright if I had Gary’s life on my hands?