Tag: 365 monologues

every trip is the same. it should be distilled into two or three days, really. even five days is more time than i need. because at first it’s cheerful, pleasant, meeting with family and friends, but after a couple of days of this, i am reminded acutely of how little i belong in this city anymore. i have no desire to seek out the old haunts. my friends, no matter how much i love and cherish them, are still generally doing the same things they always do. it’s nice but i’m different, which makes things difficult. i look at myself in the mirror in my parents home and wonder if i really even belong here anymore, or if my new home has taken me over, molding me into a new man. my thirties have started there, and likely will end there. i grew up and learned everything i need to know in southwest idaho, and now i am using those skills in portland, oregon. i am seeking my future there, and with every trip back home i am pushed back into the past. the past is good but the pull is not coming from that direction. i don’t really wish to relive my past, i wish to explore my future. i’ve visited the old house half a dozen times now. i’ve walked through paul’s grocery, i’ve seen the high school, wandered the boise state campus, talked to my old professors. people in boise live there because it’s comfortable, because they have roots there deeper than can be dug up. my roots i ripped out before they grew too deep and thick. now i have new roots. and that’s fine. but now, as i wait in the airport for my flight to arrive, to take me back to the present, i find myself simultaneously happy and sad, filled with love for my family and friends here, and sad and despondent that i can no longer be a part of it. this is why it’s hard to come back. but i do. i always do. and i always will.

is anyone in this fucking group going to acknowledge that we’re all lying to ourselves and to each other? every week we come in here with these stories and these promises about how we’re going to change our ways, and every week we come back with sunken eyes, gaunt cheekbones, and track marks. this isn’t an NA meeting, it’s a death cult. it’s twenty people who use this time to escape the inevitable. we’re all dying, we’re all fucking dying, we’re scratching our meth-addled faces, we’re shaking as we wait to be let out so we can get another fix … it’s a waste of time. we might as well just go now. even these fucking cigarettes are killing us. this is a room full of people who know they’re a waste to society and would rather ride the ticking timebomb among their peers than function in the real world. and i’m with you, 100% of the way. last night i got high. the week before i got high. if that 30 day chip was legit currency i would spend it on meth right now, no questions asked. because while we’re a family here, we’re not a family out there, out in the wild, and there’s a million things out there that want us to use, to get high, to die like sick animals in back alleyways while vulture people swoop down and use our death to make themselves look better. i don’t know how to change that. i guess that’s why i’m here, because i’m hoping one of us does.

fuck you, you grandiose piece of shit. don’t you come into my house spouting your nonsense. i took care of you, i raised you, i gave you a home and food on your plate and you repay me with this? all this … bullshit, this sense of importance, the suit and the sunglasses, the fucking … alligator leather shoes. and yet you come here expecting more, wanting more, from me, from this family. well you can’t leave and then drop by whenever you feel like you need a hug, you got it? you’ve already got your life out there in hollywood or wherever the fuck you live. you’ve got your groupies and your sense of entitlement all wrapped up in a nice pink ribbon, don’t you. think you could kick some of that our way maybe? i work two jobs to provide for this family. i work hard and i worked hard to raise you too. the least you could do is give me some goddamn money. i know you’re worried about me but i’m telling you i need that money for this house and these children, okay? all that stuff in the past … it’s gone. i’m clean, i’ve been clean for six months, i’ll go find the token if you want to see it. call my sponsor, i don’t give a shit. i’m clean and you’re still an asshole, now it’s your turn to turn your life around. the rest of us need it. desperately.

what did i get for christmas? well, i got two spindles, a barometer, twelve paper clips from three different countries, a teddy bear made out of leather (very weird), four wooden dowels, gonorrhea, a basket, metal throwing stars, not sure how many, three empty bags for ice, a driver’s license for an arabian woman named rashid, lingerie clearly not for me, a doctor’s note excusing me for being flatulent in class, a dog bathed in turpentine, oh and the car, i got a car, not a new one but an old 1977 ford pinto, a lemon, some surgical scrubs engraved with a porn studio’s logo on the back and also weirdly enough on the crotch of the pants, a board game called “don’t touch daddy in the shower”–looks homemade–four egg shells impeccably cut in the middle, and i guess the whites and yolks of those eggs in a small mason jar. i think that’s it–no wait i got a bag of coins, like a huge fucking bag of coins, and thirty-six gummy bears, six of each flavor. and a watch. oh two watches, a rolex and a watch whose hands are made out of bacon. not, i mean, real bacon, it’s kind of gross. but i think that’s it, besides the fur cologne and the bearskin toilet seat cover, where the bear head is just the top of the toilet lid, if that makes any sense. it’s kind of impossible to lift the lid at this point. kind of a pointless gift. anyway, that was my christmas, how was yours?

(disheveled, hasn’t bathed or changed clothes, paces around the room)

see, it’s, it’s not that santa claus doesn’t exist, it’s that he’s dead, and has been dead for centuries. i know what you’re thinking but please hear me out. i have evidence to back up my claim. you see that notebook i brought on the table? it’s all in there. i have poured through various books where the author writes about santa claus, books written from now until about the middle of the 16th century. books that mention him speak about him in much the same way we do, a jolly old fat man who delivers presents, but, see, but around the middle of the 17th century, there are a few years, particularly from 1608 to 1614 when all mention of santa claus ceases to exist. in fact in 1608 there is a book by a man, willem van deusen, he’s from denmark, see, and he specifically writes in his book, he specifically writes that santa claus has died. i, i wrote the book and the page number in my notebook in case you don’t believe me. then, for the next half decade or so there is no mention of santa claus, not in any of the books that i’ve read at least. and then … this is the crazy part. in 1614 a british author, simon miller, writes a book called “the life and times of jacob esterwhile,” it’s about a fifty page book, nothing huge, but in it a husband and wife construct the concept of santa claus that we know and love, for their daughter marjorie. in doing so, they buy gifts for her as though they were santa, AND they leave a plate of scones and a glass of milk for santa to eat once he’s arrived. this is the first known instance, again, in the multiple books i’ve read, wherein the idea that parents stand in for santa takes place. thus, in between 1608 and 1614, santa claus died and the western world scrambled to find something to take his place. without a new santa claus, parents were forced to buy gifts for their children on their own. i have all of this in the notebook, i really encourage you to read it, it’s … i mean this is my life’s work, this is what my life is, really. santa claus is dead, and all attempts to create a new santa claus have failed. until tonight.

it’s always quiet on christmas eve. i have the worse insomnia on this night, so i lay in bed and watch the six tv channels we have. every channel is either a choir singing, static, or infomercials. when i turn the tv off i am beset by the insufferable quiet, the soft drone of the heater pushing warmed air throughout the house. i live in the basement of my parents house. i am fourteen, cursing myself for being excited about christmas morning, trying to figure out how to stop my heart beating so that i can sleep and wake up early. my mother allows me to check my stocking when i’ve woken up, as i tend to get up around 5am to slink around the house and check the consistency of the christmas presents under the tree. the carpet is old, green, and shag, a holdover from the 70s. it looks like our living room was carpeted by skinning oscar the grouch monsters. the kitchen has carpet, the bathroom has carpet. only my parents room is bare floor. more holdovers from an era that loved carpeting.

in the basement i lie in the dark for what seems like ages. i try counting sheep but lose count a couple of times and get frustrated. i let my eyes adjust to the darkness. i watch the snow fall from the basement windows, the kind that are at the top of the room, three times as wide as they are tall. sometimes i crack the window open in the summertime and my cat sneaks out, leaping up and bypassing the metal screen. once i woke up and my entire bed was covered in aphids, don’t know how. once i put on headphones and heard a scratching sound, and when i took them off an earwig scurried out. i never wore those headphones again. when i still cannot sleep, i turn the tv back on, thinking that the sudden increase in brightness somehow helps my eyes “ache,” which in turn helps me sleep. sometimes it works.

i’m laying in bed, the soft rain patter above a lovely sound that often lulls me to sleep here. my excitement for christmas has long since abated, replaced by regular paychecks and adulthood duties. no longer do i wait for sleep while under covers–sleep tends to take me unawares these days. i’m grateful for it. but every christmas eve, without fail, no matter how tired i am, i can still feel a twinge of excitement, of the next morning, of the bright white snow that makes me squint when i look outside. it is a yearly reminder of my childhood, a yearly reminder to never forget where i came from, a yearly reminder to enjoy the silence.

three weeks. that’s all it takes. hell, it only takes a day, really. for us it was three weeks, going from a seemingly normal life to fear and sadness. it’s like a hollywood story, really, with a happy ending, but the type of happy ending where things have changed. people have changed, one person physically, and the rest of us emotionally, mentally. none of us are the same now. none of us can go back to where we were before. we now have the scent of death lingering under our nostrils. and it’s okay. it was a wake up call after all, a jostling of our consciousnesses into the present. no more dwelling on the past or fretting about the future. we are all consciously here, now, aware of every waking second, aware of our breathing, aware of one man lying in a hospital bed, hoping desperately that his guts will start working again. embarrassment flies out the window–we’re all hoping he’ll fart. what a fucking insane hope is that to have.

it’s the christmas present nobody really wanted, but the one we got: a clean bill of health for a good man. the question still remains as to why an omnibenevolent being (if one exists) would give my brother colon cancer and then miraculously not have it spread. the prayers people leave for him are good natured but so strange … did they devil give him cancer? how does this work? it all is very odd, very hard to sift through, and likely a point of contention in my brother’s own head, much less the rest of us. i think truthfully that it is just a mutation of cells, and that when you think of cancer like that, it becomes less existentially and theologically scary. god didn’t do this to you, nor did the devil. it’s just biology, and biology in this case somehow kept the tumor from spreading.

life is amazing that way. we are made of trillions of tiny things, who themselves are made of trillions of even tinier things, and those tiniest things are little more than fluctuations in the basic building fields of the universe. did god or a god create them? who knows. science doesn’t care; they exist, that’s all science knows. and that’s where science and religion can agree, i think. when broken down to its fundamentals, the basics of physics exist simply because they do, because when the void is acted upon, it reacts in four fundamental ways. these fundamental forces exist because they do, that’s all. in religion, god exists because he does. when broken down, everything is a tautology, and that, i think, is the most fundamental mystery of them all.

so, in a very fundamental way, my brother’s cancer existed simply because it did. forces acted upon him and he was forced to react or be consumed. this is the absolute most basic way the universe works. it’s a beautiful thing.

i don’t know what’s out there that i can use to give you the strength you need, but i will use it. i don’t know where to find the strength i will give to you, but i will look. i can’t guarantee this strength will be useful, or that my hand holding on to your hand will be beneficial, or will heal you, but i can guarantee that i will do whatever needs to be done to give you as much help as i am physically, mentally, and emotionally capable of giving. i may live like a hermit in my room, alone and in the dark, but that’s only because i am saving up and building interest on moments like this, moments where you will need my stoicism to help steer the ship, or a quiet presence to help you sleep at night, or simply a body with eyes to watch your children as you recover. these are things i am willing to give you, miles i am destined to travel if such a need should occur. fortunately, you are surrounded by a sea of love and compassion from such a variety of people that my help is not immediately necessary. but should it be, remember: i am here, quiet and calm, ready to use every fiber of my being to help.

darling, i’ve been closed off from people for so long i barely remember what they look like anymore. you might as well be an alien to me right now. i stare at the ground, i shuffle my feet in the grocery aisles, i shop at walmart at 3am so i’m guaranteed to not run into anyone i know. this is my life. it’s not pretty but it’s what i’ve got after seventy years of living. when i got whiskers five years ago she became my best friend, this little tabby cat right here. when i would come home from an errand or whatnot she would be the one to greet me, with no malice, no need for anything except food, love, and a place to sleep. i liked that. so i got another cat, lenny, and another, frank, and then before you know it i’ve got a whole family of kitties, and they’re having kittens and so … i guess you could call me a hoarder. but if you take these cats away you’ll be taking away my entire life. i don’t do anything else, i don’t go anywhere, now that i’m retired. i just tend to these cats, and that one, the dead one you found, well, i’m not sure how that happened but i can assure you it is not normal. it is not normal at all. probably just had an illness or something.

i just want you to know that, though. that if you take these cats you’ll be taking my life away from me. you’ll be sentencing an old woman to death. you think i’m being cruel to these animals but i think you’re being cruel to me. and who is more important? truth is: we both are. we’re all important. and i don’t want to die alone. i want to die with my cats. so unless you bring the police in here to drag these cats out, i respectfully will have to ask you to leave.