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bomethius · 4 years

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INADIQUIT: A STORY

Bomethius, inadiquit (2020) A full-length collaboration between Jonathan Hodges and his uncle, Dave Hodges

My uncle Dave and I have been close for most of my life. He used to dip my pacifier in Jack Daniels — to “strengthen my immune system” — and he taught me to eat ants in my Mormor’s (grandmother’s) pantry, play chess, shoot pool, and debate my Sunday school teachers.

Our relationship has always been equal parts silly and serious, and we’ve always seemed to understand each other. The distance that frequently separates adults and children never seemed to come between us. We often sat at the piano and plunked about until we were sufficiently bored with our ideas and then listened to Paganini or Chopin, mutually cringing at our ineptitude and mediocrity. We debated over philosophers, history, and theology. Above all, we laughed.

Things changed around my 14th birthday, though, when my family moved from Atlanta to Austin, Texas. My dad was diagnosed with cancer shortly after the move, and I started writing music to cope. After Dad made a full recovery, we took a road trip to Atlanta to see our extended family. On that trip, I listened to Chopin’s entire catalogue. The drive is about 17 hours, and Chopin wrote about 17 hours of music.

I sat down at the piano as soon as we arrived at Mormor’s house. It was Sunday, and Dave was over. After lunch, I showed him my ideas for a piece. We messed around and ended up finishing a draft together. About a week later, my friend dropped by and recorded it. The result was my first professional recording, “Improvisation No. 1,” which is the fourth track on inadiquit. Dave and I had ironed out the song’s structure, but the performance was mostly improvised — I had never played it that way before, and I’ll never play like that again. As it was last played and recorded seven years ago, “Improvisation No. 1” represents the first time I had something to say with my music.

Years went by, and I left for college. I only got to see Dave whenever we were in the same town. We exchanged emails and texts now and then, but we could never talk the way we needed to. It’s impossible to spend all the time you have with only the people you want to see, so we just accepted that and moved along. Each of us became a story for the other: I’d do impressions of my ridiculous uncle for my friends, and he’d tell his friends about his semiserious violinist nephew.

Before college, I released an album called The Dressing to My Salad with my good friend Nate Zivin. We wrote and recorded the whole thing on a whim in about a week and a half, but Dave really took to it. He showed it to friends and family, and a few people actually listened to it, which was pretty neat. Nothing serious came of the record, though; it was just a fun little thing that happened.

A couple years later, when I was halfway through undergrad, I released a self-recorded album called Gender is a Fluid and sent it to Dave. He was confused.

“What are you doing?” he asked me. “You’re a violinist, right?”

I told him I wanted to do more than violin. It was a short conversation, and Dave left scratching his head. Regardless, he kept up with my releases and periodically sent me listening suggestions. We started talking over the phone a lot more frequently — often about music that made us cry. Our conversations became a monthly event.

After I released Sweet Nothings and the reviews started to come in, I began to feel stuck. While the record did really well, considering I’m nobody, I wondered if I’d written Bomethius into a corner. The music was all so serious, and the laughter I’d always tried to maintain didn’t come through as much. I remember telling Dave I hadn’t had a new or decent idea in a while, to which he responded, “Here’s a stack of things you need to listen to.” I needed the next Bomethius album to be different. I needed to stave off all the Elliott Smith and Andrew Bird comparisons and prove to myself that I wasn’t just another sad minimalist.

As I was finishing my last semester of college, Dave called me to see if I had any interest in setting an old poem of his to music. It was called “A Mazing Tonic,” which he described as an initialistic acrostic that touched on his experiences with an hallucinogen called AMT. I jumped at the opportunity, and we hung up. (Here's that poem!)

I heard nothing from Dave for several days, which meant he was probably having second thoughts about showing it to me, so I badgered him until he gave in and sent me the poem. I spent three days reading the poem aloud — and wondering if it even needed music — before I began to set it.

A few weeks later, Dave called again to tell me he’d be coming out to Dallas for a business project and that he’d like to stay at my place. So, he came over, and three bottles of wine later, we’d unpacked our adolescence, early frustrations with the church, drug experiences, regrets, love for Kierkegaard, and discovery of a God who’s completely different from what we were told to believe in as children. It was an amazing night. I woke up the next day with a terrible hangover and the beginnings of what would become the worst case of laryngitis I’d ever had, but I was beyond excited.

About a week later, I finished a demo for his “A Mazing Tonic” poem and emailed it to him. I heard nothing for a few days, and then he called me to say that he couldn’t stop crying the first time he heard the demo. We were both ecstatic. He shared some ideas for making the song better, and we hung up. After I finished a second draft of the song, I showed it to my roommate Travis. He asked me what we were planning to do with the song, and I said I’d probably just release it as a single. Over Christmas, I told him, I happened upon some old photographs of Dave and me hanging out when I was about 3 years old, and we could probably use those as cover art. Travis thought about this for a moment and then remarked that we should do an entire album together.

I got so excited I called Dave right then to suggest it to him. There was complete silence on the other end, and then he inhaled deeply — the way he does when he’s unsure about something — and finally replied with some hesitation. “Ok, I’m not going to say anything about this yet. Give me some time to think about it. My gut reaction is absolutely not, but I might just be scared. Let me call you back.”

He called me back fifteen minutes later. “All right, I’m in. Might just be an EP. I’d be surprised if we’re able to put enough material together for a full album, but I have to tell you that I’m in. Hold me to it. I know tomorrow I’ll hate myself for this. Tomorrow, I won’t want to do this.” As soon as we hung up, I immediately opened a Google Doc so we could start writing and discussing our album.

Dave has spent much of his life ashamed of his creativity. He might spend a few hours composing a piano piece, stop to take a break, and then come back to the piece only to be so completely disgusted with his efforts that he prints it off, sets it on fire, deletes the file, and reformats his hard drive. As hilarious as this sounds — and it is funny — it’s also terribly sad. A big part of this project came from the need to show Dave his ideas don’t have to stay buried and hidden — that he doesn’t have to be ashamed of what he can create.

As the project unfolded, Dave steadily grew to be more confident, and his ideas became stronger. It was a beautiful progression. Dave came into this project with some experience as a poet but not as a lyricist, so working with his lyrics was often challenging. The difference between good poetry and good lyrics is difficult to pin down, but I think it has something to do with the fact that, like a screenplay, you actually have to sing a song — whereas a poem is sustained by the words alone. I’ve never needed to hear Robert Frost read one of his poems. They’re already complete on paper. A good reading might add something, but it isn’t essential. Good lyrics only come alive when set to the right tune and sung. And that’s what I had to do on this album: I had to wring the music out of the poetry.

Neither of us can take 100 percent credit for any of the songs on this album. This album is a true, complete collaboration from beginning to end, and it was a joy to create something with Dave that captures our relationship, our personalities, and our experiences.

#newmusic #bomethius #theknewslyweakletter #inadiquit #context

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bearhatarmy · 5 years

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Here’s a hot take from conservative pundit and massive transphobe music fan, Ben Shapiro. Normally I would tackle the more serious topics Ben discusses, but this really felt like it deserved a response.

Though, if I wanted to take a more serious angle, I suppose I could make the argument that rap is a huge part of the black community’s cultural identity & heritage and by belittling it, Ben is insulting and diminishing one of a marginalized group’s main creative outlets that they use to communicate their struggles.

But that would be racist! Ben isn’t racist! He is constantly explaining over and over just how not-racist he is. Which is what all non-racists have to do.

This has nothing to do with racism and Ben has some solid FACTS explaining why.

HE LIKES JAZZ, OKAY?

AND OPINIONS ARE NEVER RACIST.

I GUESS.

EVEN THOUGH HE SAID IT WAS A FACT.

So, to be clear, this will just be a not-serious analysis about Ben’s totally not-racist FACT that rap is not-music.

Let’s get this not-party started...

You see, Ben is famous for his motto, “Facts don’t care about your feelings.”

He’s even leveraged his factual wisdom and made it into merchandise.

That’s a real thing people can buy. It even has 6 whole reviews on Amazon!

Beyond the Box rated it with 3 stars saying, “It's okay but small.”

(Aww, just like Ben!)

And Tim S. described the shirt’s fit as “Liberals are destroying the country.”

(I’m pretty sure that means it’s a tad itchy.)

Before I saw Ben’s factual tweet, I really FELT like rap was an amazing musical artform. It took poetry and made it musical. It gave people a new way to express themselves that didn’t require expensive music lessons or even instruments. A friend could just bang on a table while you let it flow. It made creating music more accessible. And as long as you had good rhythm you could participate. It FELT groundbreaking at the time.

The very first cassette tape I bought was Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. (I know that isn’t a great start, but I was like 10, okay?) The very first compact disc I bought was 2 Legit 2 Quit by MC Hammer. (Don’t laugh, he was the shit in 1991.) As I reached my formative years, I started listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, Beastie Boys, and House of Pain.

I jump’d around. (squeeEEEEEee)

But as some of you may have noticed, most of my musical selections were very mainstream. You’ve probably also noticed that I am very... white.

To this day, even! I think it is a chronic condition.

My skin is near translucent due to lack of sunlight. I often say things like “indubitably” and “bloviate” and “I’m sure this chicken will be fine with minimal seasoning.” And at one point I owned the entire Creed discography.

I was in desperate need of a Hip Hop education.

Now using the official Rules of Republican Conduct™, if I want to talk about something with a racial component, all I need is a single black friend. This will absolve me of any consequences.

Interesting Froggie Fun Fact... I went to a mostly black high school!

Check this out...

That’s TWO black friends!

Shawn is the one teaching me a complicated handshake I instantly forgot. And Marcus is photobombing us in the back there.

I wish I could say our school was super progressive and everyone got along dandy. But in the mid-90s that just wasn’t the case. There were no major conflicts, but a lot of the white kids would sort of... self segregate. They’d all choose lockers in the same area. They’d sit in the same area at lunch and in class. And not a lot of them would interact with black kids outside of school.

That said, I did not get the segregation memo. I got along with everyone. I’m not saying I was some amazing colorblind trailblazer crossing racial boundaries at every turn. My locker was in the white section too. And I only had two black friends (not pictured) that I hung out with outside of school.

But I do think humor can break down a lot of barriers. And I used comedy to cross those invisible lines from time to time.

Do you remember “Yo Mama” jokes?

Like uhhh... Yo mama so old, her social security number is 1. Yo mama so lazy, she stuck her nose out the window and let the wind blow it. Yo mama so classless, she’s a Marxist utopia.

You get it.

Before school or before class, a lot of kids would have these competitions. They would face off with their best motherly insults and typically the person who received the loudest “OH DAAAAAAMMMMN!” would be declared the winner.

One day I just kind of decided to make fun of Shawn’s mama. After a few seconds of stunned silence I got the loudest OH DAMN of anyone and we were suddenly friends. And then his friends were my friends too. Our friendship didn’t go outside the school premises, but it was still a lot of fun joking around with them at lunch or when we were supposed to be doing homework.

Shawn and I started a sort of cultural exchange. He would tell me about all of the amazing music he was into. And I explained why Batman: The Animated Series was not a kid’s cartoon. IT WAS ANIMATION. Says it right in the name.

He introduced me to a wide range of artists of color. Old and new (at the time). We talked about Boyz II Men, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Prince. He introduced me to Mary J Blige who I follow to this day. And Aaliyah :(

He also told me about not-music.

Ya know... rappers.

I’ll be honest, sometimes this was challenging for me. I did not like or understand everything he suggested. I had a lot of racist baggage leftover from an all-white Catholic elementary school and my brain resisted for longer than I care to admit. But after seeing Shawn’s passion for this not-music, I became rap-curious and willing to keep an open mind.

Let me try to name-drop from memory...

Puff Daddy, Lauryn Hill, Wu-Tang Clan, Naughty By Nature, Snoop Dogg, Nate Dogg, Dr. Dre, Biggie Smalls, Ice Cube, and some guy named Tupac Shakur. You’ve probably never heard of him.

He’d even sneak a Walkman in his backpack so he and his friends could sample his latest acquisitions.

He’d be like, “Hey Ben, you want to listen to some Master P?” And I’d be like, “Sure! You wanna listen to Nine Inch Nails?” And he’d be like, “Naw, I’m good.”

Okay, so the cultural exchange could be a bit one-sided at times. But Batman bonded us all.

Admittedly, when I was at home, I still mostly listened to Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Stone Temple Pilots on repeat. And I do not listen to a great deal of Hip Hop these days. Mostly due to lack of guidance. I don’t have a Shawn in my life anymore. (But that Cardi B Money song was crazy good. And I’m not just saying that cuz the video had boobs.)

Shawn was able to get me to a place where even if I didn’t like what I was listening to, I understood why other people enjoyed it. I really learned to appreciate rap and many of Shawn’s suggestions made an appearance on my super rad 90s Winamp playlist.

Sometimes when I was having a bad day, it was nice to have a good day to fall back on.

So when I was very whitely bobbing my head to the beat of that communal Walkman, I didn’t think my friends were stupid. I didn’t think I was stupid. I didn’t FEEL stupid.

But facts are facts. And my feels about facts don’t matter.

You see, Ben Shapiro is known for being a master debater. You can find videos of him CRUSHING LIBRULS WITH LOGIC. Or DESTROYING FEMINISTS with TRU FACTS. Perhaps even DEMOLISHING SOCIALISTS with STATISTICS.

His big Harvard brain is pretty relentless when it comes to DESTROYMOLISHING The Left.

He’s great at taking standard conservative talking points, couching them in academic speak, and peppering them with dubious facts that don’t always hold up to scrutiny after the fact. Some might argue he cherry picks his opponents and the subject matter, creates scenarios where his point of view will be well received, and uses bad faith tactics to give the appearance of the upper hand.

But that would be speculation and this post is all about FACTS.

And Ben’s facts are too powerful to dispute. I doubt anyone is up to the challenge. Not even a transgender woman with epic makeup, glorious costumes, creative lighting schemes, and a degree in philosophy could take him to task.

It’s just... unpossible.

*cough* Contrapoints *cough*

Sorry, had a froggie in my throat.

SO... let’s see Ben defend “rap isn’t music” using his fancy debating skillz. It took him 6 years to come up with this, so I’m betting it’s bulletproof.

OH I SEE.

He plays CLASSICAL music.

CHECKMATE, RAPPERS!

Ben Shapiro DESTROYGASMS Hip Hop with UNDERWHELMING TWEET.

If you’ll allow me to expound his logic, being a classically trained musician makes you more specialer than a regular musician. It makes him an arbiter of what is and is not music. I forgot that classical musicians were automatically given that power.

I know Ben only ever presents facts, so I’d like to take him at his word, but I think I’d like to see this music master perform something. Just to be sure he has the proper classical credentials to make these bold claims.

Here is a music video he produced for The Daily Wire. Clearly a high budget homage to one of the most thrilling television themes in recent history.

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Did anyone else feel like they were watching 3 robots play the blandest arrangement ever conceived? Or was that just me? SUCH ENERGY.

I will say, those special effects were... something.

And Ben really PWNED CNN. I’m sure they felt that slice all the way in their Atlanta headquarters.

Ben, if you’re reading this, that video was totally funny in the way you intended. People are definitely laughing with you and not at you. I didn’t cringe even a little.

But does this prove that Ben is a proper CLASSICAL musician? With all the power and privileges that entails?

Does he have the authority to judge musical worthiness?

Despite his robotic performance, I suppose he did hit all the correct notes and everything.

Is music like facts? Does music care about your feelings?

I think what we need is a comparison. Something we can judge Ben’s performance against in order to gauge his level of classical musicianship.

This is Tina Guo.

She is a Chinese-American immigrant from Shanghai. She moved here at the age of 5. She probably was able to sneak in because there wasn’t a border wall yet. She is taking the jobs of American classical musicians. Probably why Ben isn’t in a top-tier symphony orchestra as we speak.

Tina is a cello prodigy who was trained classically. She attended the USC Thornton School of Music for professional cello studies on a full scholarship where she studied under Nathaniel Rosen and Eleonore Schoenfeld--some of the most influential cellists of the 20th century.

She also made a huge splash on YouTube casually playing Flight of the Bumblebee as a teenager. No biggie. I’m sure Ben can play that too.

Oh, and do you remember that badass Wonder Woman theme written by famous composer Hans Zimmer?

That was her playing the lead.

Now for the comparison.

Watch Librul Immigrant DESTROY the Game of Thrones theme that she arranged ALL BY HERSELF without the help of a BIG STRONG MAN.

youtube

I don’t know.

I think that was a smidge better than Ben’s version.

What do you folks think?

So here is the dilemma.

We have two CLASSICAL musicians who are at nearly identical skill levels...

HOWEVER... after some investigation...

It’s possible Tina Guo thinks rap... might be music.

*GASP*

THE EVIDENCE

One of her favorite ways to practice improvisation is to jam along with Hip Hop tracks she finds on YouTube.

Now, conservatives like Ben LOVE dictionary definitions. It’s their go-to debate tactic when trying to legitimize the idea of racism toward white folks. So let’s use the dictionary really quick.

When I looked up what this “jamming” word meant, it sent me to “jam session.” I was shocked by what I found.

Musicians? MUSIC? But those backing tracks she practiced to were used for rap non-music. BEN I AM CONFUSED.

I think I need to dig deeper.

After scouring the internet for almost 2 minutes I was able to find something even more shocking.

Here is LIBRUL CLASSICAL SNOWFLAKE IMMIGRANT FEMINIST MUSICIAN sharing the stage with a CUCK NON-MUSIC RAP ARTIST.

That kinda looks like Tina Guo... and LUPE FIASCO.

*DOUBLE GASP*

And I’ve double checked this... it seems this Lupe fellow is definitely a rapper.

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

I mean, she has her cello. And he has a microphone. But it’s a FACT that rap isn’t music. So I guess they are doing some experimental anti-music performance together.

ANOTHER SHOCKING IMAGE HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION AFTER ANOTHER 12 SECONDS OF GOOGLING.

What the heck, Tina?

Why are you, A CLASSICAL MUSICIAN, on a stage with Common? Another rapper!

I’m a little worried that Tina might be stupid.

Ben’s FACT clearly states if you think rap is music, then you are stupid.

And not only is Tina playing music near a rapper... I’m pretty sure she is playing music WITH a rapper.

That’s like... double stupid.

I really don’t know what to feel about these facts I’ve uncovered.

These FACTS kinda FEEL like bullshit.

At least I can take comfort in the absolute fact that Ben Shapiro is a solid 5 feet 9 inches tall. It gives me comfort knowing he can ride any roller coaster he wants.

Sick burn, Ben. Though you’re kind of implying that when Milo sees you he is giving you blowjobs. I’m sure you’re fine with that implication. It’s not like you’re homophobic or anything, right?

The important thing is that everyone knows how you’re a big boy. Two inches taller than Napoleon!

I mean, it would be silly to lie about such a thing so easily disproved, right? And there is nothing to be ashamed of if you are a shorter individual. My mom is short I think she’s the best!

So I’m confident you are 5′9″ as you have stated.

I CAN’T FEEL ANY MORE FACTS, BEN.

MY SOUL CAN’T TAKE IT.

You know what... screw it.

I’m going to make it serious.

Not liking rap isn’t racist.

Telling people they are stupid for liking rap is super racist.

And being too stubborn to apologize for a 6-year-old tweet compounds that racism.

Liking jazz is just the musical version of “I have a black friend.”

Not understanding that rap is a cultural staple vital to the black community and then comparing it to frickin’ Titanic makes it profoundly racist.

And... *takes a deep breath* continually defending a shitty 6-year-old tweet as recent as last July, even though you could probably just apologize, blame it on youthful ignorance, delete it, and never have to deal with it again, just because you can’t ever admit you ever said anything wrong...

Well, that just makes you look...

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storiesofasort · 7 years

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Violent Justice of 20XX [Preview]

So I purged this sideblog, for certain reasons. Anyhow, I’m now working on something quite long, as far as chapters go at least. Decided to gib a small preview. I have more done, but if I posted all of what I currently have it would be revealing too much as preview. Anyhow, to give a brief description, it’s a mostly comedic story inspired by various stuff. From crazy action movies to other things such as sci-fi and crap. You’ll see. Still a work in progess, so hopefully most horrible errors will be taken care of. Doesn’t help english ain’t my native language. Anyway here:

James Johns, also known as JayJay by his fellow coworkers, holds a highly respectable position at the city hall. Yes, a job of great importance only he could pull off with such diligence. It is a true test of skills which not many can brave. The path of a “Janitor”. If not for him, the entire building would be a filthy mess, with trash littered on every floor. However, some of you might say:

“Hey! That ain't no hard job!”

Though ignorant, I cannot blame you for being this way. Only those who have ever worked on such a prestigious post, will be able to truly appreciate its importance.

In any case, this Monday finally came time to close up the city hall, as usual at 8:00 pm. Part of this usual routine for JayJay is exchanging pleasantries with the freshly arriving security guards. This time something felt off. Thirty minutes passed since eight, yet the night shift guards have yet not arrived. After five more minutes of waiting, JayJay decided he's going home. Though before that he had to leave the keys for those slowpokes. With a big sigh he moved his tired and old bones towards the first floor. The hallways of the city hall always looked tacky to the old janitor. All painted purple, with green stripes here and there. Truly a poetry to bad taste. Still, no one wanted to shell out money for a new coat of paint. Shame, for JayJay believed firmly that red with green stripes would brighten the mood of this place. Or at the very least his own.

Two knocks at the door to the security room, no answer. Three more knocks, still nothing. Tired and clearly without patience JayJay storms inside.

Only to find that the guards are dead, their faces mutilated. It took him a brief moment to process the entire bloody mess he is looking at, but once everything kicked in he screamed at the top of his lungs. Which honestly, might have been a bad idea.

He ran as if all the fatigue from today's work disappeared. Once he got to the stairs, he felt as something very heavy latched onto his back, knocking him off balance right onto the hard steps. He only lost a few teeth, though he could not get up due to the sheer weight of whatever the thing on his back is.

A voice spoke to him, a robotic one. The kind of voice you usually only hear in movies. Cold, loud and screechy. Devoid of all emotion.

- DO NOT MOVE, HOOMAN!

- Oh God! Please help me!

- SILENCE, HOOMAN! YOU WILL LEAD US, HOOMAN! LEAD US TO MAYOR ANGELA ANDERSON'S OFFICE, HOOMAN!

- A-anything! J-just please don't kill me!

- VERY GOOD, HOOMAN! WE WILL RELEASE YOU NOW, HOOMAN! IF YOU TRY TO RUN, HOOMAN, WE WILL KILL YOU! UNDERSTOOD, HOOMAN?!

- Yes! Just... don't kill me.

With this, the weight from his back lifted. Terrified, JayJay slowly turned around until he finally beheld his deadly assailant.

* * *

- “Another day, another lack of a dollar.” - Thought Nathan as he poured himself a cup of hot coffee.

Turning on the radio, he sat down at the kitchen table, reaching with his hand across it. Only to notice something is missing from his usual morning equation. The newspaper isn't there. Nathan let out a loud groan, because he knew what this meant. Especially since it's him who always picks it up when it's delivered. He took a big sip from his cup, got up from the table and with a slow march he went towards her room. Without even so much as a knock, he slammed the door open to find exactly what he expected. Marcellina, the woman who is Nathan's “co-worker” as well as roommate, laughing loudly with tears in her eyes. All while reading her favorite comic strip in bed. From his morning newspaper. Nathan merely rolled his eyes in disbelief. Upon slightly calming down her laughter, she finally noticed he's standing above her with a disapproving glare.

- Oh. Sup, Nate? I take it you want the newspaper, huh?

- As always, you know me too well.

Without waiting, he tore it away from her hands and walked out back to the kitchen without saying much more. Marcellina sat on her bed for a moment, contemplating something, until she sprung up from under her bedsheets. Unlike, Nathan who wore a silvery bathrobe every morning, she preferred to walk around in her black wool pajamas. Putting on her slippers she also went towards the kitchen where she found Nathan already well-immersed in his morning news. She ignored him however, grabbing a small bowl from the cupboard and pouring some milk into it. Opening another cupboard, she noticed that there are only two bags of cereals. Regular brand and honey brand.

- Hey, Nate! Where are my chocolate ones?

- Yesterday I noticed they were a month past their expiration date. I threw them away.

- Shit.

- I suggest you'll eat the honey ones fast, or they are going to expire too. I don't need you puking your guts out in case we'll get a contract again.

- Okaaay, daaaad!

With that said, being the rebel she is, Marcellina grabbed the regular ones and poured a lot of them into her bowl. She then made her way towards the sofa that stood in a small space between their rooms and the kitchen and turned on the flat screen TV which hanged on a wall. After a longer moment of munching and switching channels in order to find something which is at least a bit interesting (by her own standards) she eventually turned it off in frustration.

#Violent Justice of 20XX #VJo20XX #story #preview #story preview

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thepaintedbrain · 7 years

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“Strait Is The Gate, Narrow Is The Way”

To the left of the door was a wall of shelves. A large plasma screen TV hung in the middle, which I always set to the indie music channel. There was a stainless steel sink that I didn’t use and it seemed like one of those weird design choices that no one used. The bathroom was small, with beige tiles lining a shower in which i sometimes slept, hiding behind a locked door. Often, during the night, the nurses would notice I wasn’t in my bed and was instead huddled on the floor of the shower. “Get back in your bed,” they admonished. Scared, I would creep outside and find refuge on the couch in the common room. I made my bed every morning, as a bonus to show the doctors that I was functional. The floor of the room was tiled cement, cold to the touch. Since we weren’t allowed shoes with laces or heels, we all walked around in sea-foam green hospital-issued socks with rubber on the bottom to keep from slipping. There was a large window in my room with a view of the buildings in Westwood. Sometimes I looked out the window at airplanes, predicting which ones would arrive at their destination without exploding. Happily, it was usually all of them. There was a plastic and vinyl armchair in a depressing shade of teal and pink plastic where I sometimes sat as I read the same New Yorker article, over and over, laughing at each snarky nuance. But one night, lying on the single bed in my private room in Four West, I could hear the Princeton Skull and Bones organizing upstairs.

I knew it was them because for one, the vent was directly over my bed so I could hear them and also, they let me know that they were getting ready. I lay in wait, trying to estimate what was going on. On my bed, staring at the vent in the ceiling, I could hear Web’s entire faction of Skull and Bones preparing. Clad in hooded brown robes neatly tied with black ropes, they surrounded the vent upstairs looking downward into my room. I couldn’t catch on to their legal system but clearly, a trial was taking shape and I was the one on trial. One by one, I heard marbles drop into my vent, a secret code for the brotherhood to keep track of my crimes.

And then it commenced. People from my past appeared in a circle, surrounding me. Slowly, more past friends gathered in a circle upstairs. Everyone was there, Mandy, Morgan, Scott, Steve, Marius, Katie, Shanah. My life was on the line. I lay awake listening to them argue my fate while Skull and Bones took note. Marius, the skater I had a crush on in high school, now a filmmaker, was impressed with my progress. I was doing great in Four West, I would be better in no time. But, I hadn’t wronged him. On the other hand, Marisa was livid. I had told someone of her father’s dying of AIDS without permission. “Who does that?” she hissed. And down came another marble. Skull and Bones stirred about the room above me, exchanging nods and glances. “Do you understand now, Tilly? Do you see?” I stirred on my bed. I was often plagued by my memories during the day. If my mind took a turn, I would cringe at a stupid thing I said, or a weird thing I did. But this memory had not been one of them. In fact, that was what made me feel this trial was so real. I wondered if it was something like the judgment people stand in when they die? Aren’t we supposed to stand trial before god and his angels? Is this a quick abbreviation of my otherworldly trial? I wasn’t sure what my fate would be, and so they continued. Marisa forgave me. And so we continued.

Ilya from elementary school appeared. How could I have told his new girlfriend about his father’s dying of AIDS before he broached it himself? “Sure you introduced us but you had no right to tell Erin about my dad.” And another marble dropped into the vent. Morgan came to my rescue, “Anyone would have done the same,” he said. Scott chimed in, “This isn’t her fault.” Ilya forgave me.

I couldn’t understand how they knew. I hadn’t thought about those trespasses, I never even understood that they had happened. And out of the blue Skull and Bones had me on trial for committing ethical crimes of consciousness? How did they know? Who told them? Mired in my past, I couldn’t understand how everyone but me seemed aware of my crimes. Usually, I am the one beating my breast. No one need remind me of mistakes, but obviously, I wasn’t the only one who suffered.

Years before my first breakdown, around the time of the millennium, I traveled to Europe, alone. I was psychotic, but no one knew it yet. The millennium was a special year for Catholics in Italy, It was time for the much anticipated Jubileum. Religious pilgrims flocked from around the globe to hear the Pope say mass. Also, this was a rare occasion when the doors to the holy sepulcher were opened and through which, if walked through, all sins would be forgiven. I entered through the immense door, staring up at an imposing room of marble and light, facing Bernini’s beyond compare. Transfixed, I was sure all my sins were forgiven in that moment. And Bernini, a god among men. If I made it this far, my life would only get better.

Then, Jennifer came up to bat. “You slapped me,” she said. “Remember? You found out I was sleeping with Manny and you slapped me. We were sitting on the lunch benches in our senior year at Pali High, and you knew I was dating him and you slapped me for sleeping with him.” “Manny made you smoke crack,” I countered. “He was a gangster in the 18th Street gang and he gave you drugs and you not only took them but you slept with him, too. I was trying to be a good friend. I was trying to wake you up.”

Years later, Jennifer would find me on Facebook. Saddened, I apologized profusely for the slap, for not being a good friend, for trying to mother her. And she, she didn’t remember the slap. She had no recollection of it. She, instead, remembered that I brought her into my home, gave her a safe place to sleep, invited her to all the parties I went to. She thanked me for being a good friend.

Sometimes, I feel like no one thinks of me as the kind of person to cause hurt. And, since they don’t think of me that way, they simply forget when it does happen. It’s like the time I walked around with a beer in Chicago. I passed a cop and he didn’t say a word. But I knew he wouldn’t. He simply didn’t think of me as someone who would break any laws. I’m a small woman, one to be trusted.

At the next point in the trial, Skull and Bones had gathered enough intel about me and were ready to close the proceedings. I would move on to the next level.

In a flash, I lay back in bed and an image of the room above flashed in a brilliant white light. This is death, surely, I thought. But it wasn’t. When I awoke, the trial was over and I wasn’t sure it ever happened.

Save for now, I could see people in green X-rays. President Obama, Phil’s mother, Susan, my grandmother and deceased aunt Ruth. There was another dimension, they assured me. “One in which we get to watch over you,” Susan said. My bedroom wasn’t safe. I could be raped there by another patient, by a male nurse. No one would know. I was terrified of sleeping there alone so I had a strategy worked out. First, I would sleep on the floor of my room, behind my bed so no one would see me. But if anyone figured it out, I would run to my bathroom, lock my door and huddle on the floor of the shower, fully clothed, in case I had to fight someone off or make a run for it. In the shower, I would tuck my knees in and try to fall asleep, unsuccessfully. Quickly, I would switch position to relieve my muscles. Then a nurse would come in and make me get out of the bathroom. I would get in bed and get out again when the nurse left my room. I headed for the hallway. There, in fluorescent green X-ray, Susan Davidson and Barak Obama assured me that I would be okay. They were watching over me. I huddled by the escape door that led to the other ward, Four East, a door that was locked and couldn’t open. Next, I headed for the common room sofa. Often my friend Nate was in the common room, gesticulating wildly and yelling loudly. I not so secretly thought he was acting that way on purpose because he wanted them to give him a shot of sedative to shut him up. He could have been dangerous. Sometimes, during the day Nate and I sat in the common room, eating ice cream and talking about Tori Amos. Nate was working on a Ph.D. in poetry at University of Michigan. When he got better, he decided to go back to school to complete his studies and disappear from my life, forever. I gave him a tiny hot pink origami crane to remember me by. I told him it would bring him good luck.

Three times a day we were let out to the big terrace for a break. It was a new modern terrace with tall glass walls overlooking the medical plaza from four stories up. At night we could see the romantic view of high rises down the street lighting up like a box of jewels. I could see all the way down to Wilshire, where I used to work, in another life. I looked down at the cars in the roundabout. Which ones are the ones that were there for me? I couldn’t tell. Web told me he’d watch over me and even visit me. But, I couldn’t see him and our communication was breaking down. He said he would show up for visiting hours, that I would know him when I see him, but he never did. I knew why. His family would never approve. I’m a big step down for them. Sure, I come from a good family, but they’re blue bloods, the beautiful educated. When I did see Web, he was wearing a grey hoodie and jeans, standing a devastating six foot three. There are some types of men I can’t say no to, and he was all of them in one. But on those breaks, we would connect and he reassured me we would be together soon. I would be discharged, I would rehabilitate, and he would come for me. “When you wear your cobalt blue silk pencil skirt and silken white top with your yellow and black Lanvin purse, I will come for you.” Our secret song was ‘Knife’ by Grizzly Bear. That’s when I would know he was there, and on cue, I would search the room for him.

Once, when my sister graduated college from Berkeley, the family traveled there to celebrate. Web followed me there. I would spend the better part of the day jogging, knowing everyone was watching me. Web’s white VW van followed me everywhere. He was so in love with me and all his friends were supportive. I would be the one. Then, the family headed to Camino for Ofri’s graduation dinner and we sat around the table. I, barely eating, couldn’t carry on a conversation with anyone. I was basically untreated and schizophrenic and I wasn’t on clozapine yet. We sat at the camino, sharing appetizers and then it happened. “Knife” by Grizzly Bear came on. But I, I couldn’t bring myself to look around. I didn’t lift my head, I didn’t turn to survey the crowd. I sat, mute, deaf and blind to everything around me.

Tilly Oren is a new Painted Brain contributor. This is her first appearance in Painted Brain News.

from “Strait Is The Gate, Narrow Is The Way”

#“Strait Is The Gate #Narrow Is The Way”

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thepaintedbrain · 7 years

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At the next point in the trial, Skull and Bones had gathered enough intel about me and were ready to close the proceedings. I would move on to the next level.

Tilly Oren is a new Painted Brain contributor. This is her first appearance in Painted Brain News.

http://ift.tt/eA8V8J

#IFTTT #WordPress

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thepaintedbrain · 7 years

Link

At the next point in the trial, Skull and Bones had gathered enough intel about me and were ready to close the proceedings. I would move on to the next level.

Tilly Oren is a new Painted Brain contributor. This is her first appearance in Painted Brain News.

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes