Excerpts from a Survivor’s Journal I. (August 25th)
I thought it was strange that it would start raining— so deep into the summer as it was and such a scorcher. But the sunshower was a blessing—no one complaining about the wet t-shirts, no one upset that the torture had been stopped, at least momentarily. And while I reveled in the cooling reprieve, you e-mailed that foul cowardly message, ending an era. Despite the heat, my entire body began to shiver as I thought about how the sage Luddites warned of technology’s destructive tendencies and how it would be our ultimate undoing. More rain fell. Nothing left to do, I reasoned, but live like a hopeful jay with a red wound on its blue wing.
II. (September 17th)
Like a hopeful jay with a red wound on its blue wing could make me so late for work. Yeah right. Still, when the battered creature limping on its two determined legs appeared at my door, the grim sight of it stopped me cold. But it must have been nine o’clock already, so I can’t blame the fading bird struggling to escape my neighbor’s killer feline. The mangled jay chirped what I swear was the word “pity” as blood spilled from its punctured wing like so much wasted sherry. Across the yard, the cat glared at me while licking its eager claws. Noticing the time, I shut my door, stepped over the mat. III. (October 22nd)
The time I shut my door, stepped over the mat, then fell—hard, ego first—down the icy front steps, you laughed your rude ass off. To be fair, perhaps you didn’t notice the snow blushing or hear the crack of my surprisingly brittle arm against the indifferent pavement. But still, laughter? I’ll always remember that howl more chilling than any New England winter, even more painful than the break. Message sent and received. Now, as autumn leaves cycle through their emotional reds and yellows—it’s dying time again—I’m thinking of what falling teaches us, I’m thinking about the things I don’t miss about you. IV. (December 4th)
Thinking about the things I don’t miss about you— the onion-skinned alibis, your crass flossing in bed— I sift through some of the shinier thoughts instead: our sex marathons lasting from midnight until noon, lying bare-assed on the patio after, gorging ourselves on your infamous pumpkin cheesecake and mojito. Just folly in the wind now. L’amour est un oiseau rebelle. I still have your silk thongs and bookshelves, your cherished jazz cd’s, this gaudy scar just under my ribs. Funny, huh? Finally told my nosy therapist your name. Think of your glass as half-full, she insist- ed, imagine your life regaining its luster, its thunder.
V. (January 28th)
Ed, imagine your life regaining its luster, its thunder as you frolic through every hotspot in Milan and Paris, the unctuous travel agent gushed. But I had to pass on the idea since he couldn’t even get my name right and, more than any Euro-jaunt, I was starting to miss the soft rays of summer days, pearl-blue moonlight mild enough that we...I mean, “I” could sprawl out naked on the patio after dark. Alone at my bedroom window, I watched the brazen pigeons openly flout- ing a blizzard’s fury, the sadistic wind bullying long- dead leaves. I decided then to escape the frigid gloom by heeding the Caribbean’s lush call, its balmy song. VI. (February 3rd)
By heeding the Caribbean’s lush call, its balmy song tempting like a Siren’s mythical hex echoing “Come to me, shy sailor,” I was renewed and, before long, my devastated muscle thawed out after simmering daily in the water glistening there like liquid topaz. I squeezed in a tour of the St. Thomas ruins also: ling- ering patina of majesty on the sun-dappled flutings, the tamarind-heavy breeze whispering “relent” as it eased through the aged slats of louvered openings, every jagged edge smoothed by time’s rough hand as if to prove that the stalwart can maintain some grace even in the face of adversity and still stand. VII. (March 10th)
Grace, even in the face of adversity and still standing after guzzling down four guavaberry daiquiris, somehow kept her composure as we sighed goodbye at the airport in Puerto Rico. Or maybe her name was Caryn. Or maybe it was Jose. Whatever. My sojourn on those coddling islands was full of such unnamable joys—every crowd- ed beach and empty barstool another gleaming proxy for possible cure. On my reluctant return flight to Bean- town, the propellers’ growl replaced the fragile pleading of coqui frogs—yet another example of erosion, of how, as Achebe warned, things fall apart, despite all efforts to stop the song’s trembling notes from fading eventually. To stop the song’s trembling, notes from fading, eventually I let it all go. To fuel forward movement, I’ve gone back to snacking on soy nuts and self-pity. Now, in my bedroom mirror, I’m lip-reading intently as my know-it-all reflection scolds “Poor Pagliaccio with your painted moue, you put it on, you can always take it off.” So, along with my thinning hair, I’m brushing away regret. And, like my life generally, my lingering pang of guilt has very little to do with you: last fall, I left a desperate bluejay to face the certain doom of feline bloodlust. Brut-drenched, I must’ve smelled, to him, like rescue. My dear diary: faith may not be what we, what I thought it was. Strange that it would start raining. |
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James R. Whitley's work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in several publications, including Barrelhouse, Gargoyle, Mississippi Review, Pebble Lake Review, and River City. His first book Immersion won the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award. His second book This Is the Red Door won the Ironweed Press Poetry Prize and will be published in 2006. He is also the author of two poetry chapbooks: Pietà and The Golden Web. |