Descend to Ascend

9:45pm, it’s a Tuesday, the sun has gone now for hours, the chilling darkness encroached and dominated the light; a battle it rarely loses, the light just does a little better or worse each time. I waited for father’s authoritarian eyes to close, rejoicing that I could finally exhale fully, and made for the basement door. I call it “splinter board” the plain brown door has an impressively frayed bottom edge where small fragments wrenched themselves free because the door doesn’t open through its full range of motion; the bare, pale tile obstructs the door from opening any further. The light at the top of the stairs remains off, I’ve descended these stairs numerous times; the third from the top creaks viciously, avoidance is key, the 7^th is a trap step, second to the last, it produces a sinister groan that reverberates throughout the house. The concrete floor is cold and in the dark I shiver but for a moment, swiveling to my right around a lowly coffee table and a box full of miscellaneous items; a clipboard with nothing on it, a stopwatch, Spanish vocabulary cards. I wave my arm in the dark for a relatively small (or large depending on your position) washer tied to a string responsible for operating the lights over the workbench. There the preparation begins.

The workbench itself is a pale blue, far from brilliant, half a century of repairs, odd jobs, and tinkering has left the station battered and scarred. Its now littered with power tools, paint cans, and other miscellaneous instruments; none of which I happen to be interested in. Above the bench hangs two cabinets, side-by-side, the left holds nothing but a few hooks and clasps; the right holds what I seek. It looks like a showcase; two shelves, holding paraphernalia that looks like it belongs in a chemistry lab. Shimmering glass, flame producing torches, metal pieces, and plastic containers, which are stained from frequent use. A line up such as this, choices upon choices of which instrument to utilize, there is no wrong decision. I select a short, skinny beaker, a torch and a severely weathered Altoids mint tin. Opening the tin, a floral aroma wafts up warming my nose, there is a plastic bag inside the tin, and two small green flowers are inside.  The skinny glass container holds a blue chalice, into which the flowers are to be ground and placed.

Water occupies the bottom quarter of the glass tube, but the water level is not intended to exceed its current level, it has be destined to be unfulfilled, incomplete and the top of the beaker is open, further enforcing the fact that this is a lacking instrument. I crack the cellar window to the left of the bench; the sacrifice is strong and distinctive to the nose, slightly acrid. The green flowers are ceremoniously pulverized, their small petals curl around each other, forming a cluster, glistening in the light reflecting the gem-like flecks. The minced flower, resembling something close to a coarse powder, is scooped into the chalice, compacted slightly, and “topped off” the vessel is then joined with the tube. A small docking stem protrudes from the front of the beaker, the bowl inserts into the stem, a male phallic piece for the female chalice. This union denotes that the time for sacrifice has come.

The beaker sits on the workbench, stoic, it knows it is a tool, to be used and, in the event of failure to function properly, to be discarded and replaced. Torch in my right hand, I ignite the flame, holding it to the top of the chalice, placing my mouth over the opening, creating a tight seal, drawing thin breath. I extinguish the fire, leaving the flowers to glow bright red, fueled by my breath drawing vapors into the tube. The cylinder is now filled with a milky white/gray cloud, swirling about. I remove the bowl, now filled with only ash and set it down on the bench, simultaneously vacuuming the vapors out of the tube. The cloud is not fluffy, it is not gentile, it sweetly chars the back of the throat, the longer it is held in, the more it will lash back against its captor. I have underestimated, yet again, how retributive the cloud can be, coughing loudly, repetitively into a towel to muffle the otherwise deep robust hacking. I refill the chalice two more times, coughing less and less, as the vapors have settled down and acclimated themselves in my lungs. The tools are cleaned to a satisfactory state and replaced in their concealed showcase.

By now a sedative haze has enveloped every fiber of my body; my movements have become rounded and lethargic, my speech, if I had an accomplice, would undoubtedly be slow, deep and slightly raspy; my eyes have glazed and shaded themselves, even in the dull low lighting. Slide the window shut, and turn the lock, pull the washer down and extinguish the light. Unlike before my equilibrium has been tainted, and I grope in the dark for the landmarks that I so deftly outmaneuvered earlier. I remember the pattern of the stairs, 8, 6, 5, 4, 2, 1, as I ascend, I feel as though a weight has been lifted off of my chest, despite an ever so slight tightness within my ribcage, the sacrifice has been accepted, I’ve paid the tribute. The lights are already off, I would have forgotten them in any case; their being left on irked me far less than father who seems to be on a jihad to remain in as much darkness as possible, for as long as conceivably possible. I jostle the splinterboard from the tile that stops it from opening fully, closing it, not fully, letting it swing back, trivially ajar. The irony that I must descend in order to re-ascend farther to reach my summit dawns upon me, I audibly chuckle, feeling satisfied that the means have justified their end sufficiently enough.

What Eye Wish I Could See

           I rolled up my air mattress, tied the convenient carrying case closed and hefted it onto my left shoulder. Who knows, maybe it’ll be worth the trouble. I had no problem sleeping on a chair, couch, floor, etc, but if I were to have someone to accompany me to bed, well, comfort, in that case, would be paramount. I had spoken to one girl Steve had assured me was interested, blonde, and “wild”; her partying was notorious. My brother, Josh, and I got a late start to the city of brotherly love; St. Joseph’s University is technically within the city limits of Philadelphia, but just two blocks from campus is affluent Lower Marion Township. We wound down route 31, expecting to hop onto 95 and head straight into the city, but a multi car collision only 1000 feet beyond our entry ramp forced us to endure nearly 30 miles of suburban boulevards and county roads, riddled with lights; separated by what seemed like mere inches, stopping incessantly, constantly. We had a concert to get to, an appetizer to the entrée to be served the next night. The last time we visited, we threw a party with our friend Stephen, the likes of which haven’t been seen since.

We reached our destination and attended the unimpressive, school-sponsored concert; Mike Posner, a flash in the pan artist. He was late to his set, and left early, I didn’t know many of his songs, and his “enthusiasm” did little to hold the thin crowd’s clearly divided attention. We left the auditorium with the prospect of a party not too far away. We procured refreshments, and walked next door to a party that was in full swing. The house was brimming with students, drinking, chatting loudly around a large table dedicated to no less than 6 simultaneous games of beer pong. Our trio descended the nearly vertical staircase to the basement; house music was pounding the airwaves, rendering speech ineffective. The bass thumped, jostling my vision, strobe lights flickered and rendering our vision slowed, capturing frames in slow motion. I asked a girl to dance in between songs, she obliged. We waited for the next song to start; it began slowly, our bodies moving in accordance with the rhythm. The tempo began to increase, her back to me, she gyrated and shimmied, keeping beat we; moved seamlessly. Half way through the song, she turned to face me, said thank you and left. I saw her later dancing with another guy, their affection lacked the quality of stealth, I gathered they must have been in a relationship of some kind; I did not venture to speculate further on the matter. Josh and Steve suggested we retreat to his house to procure more beverages and return later. However, after an encounter with the Chairman, we reevaluated our previous plans and settled in for the night, not wanting to exhaust ourselves out before our premiere evening. The anticipation of meeting this mystery girl was growing exponentially; sleep was elusive until the wee hours of the early morning.

Saturday afternoon was spent preparing for the evening’s festivities, acquiring the necessary supplies, two kegs of and a few gallons of liquor to create a beastly punch that, if not enjoyed carefully, has been known to lead to some early exits from unsuspecting partiers. We prepared ourselves, dawning our sharpest threads, making sure to look extra fresh. I chose black denim jeans, and a yellow button-up shirt that had a checked pattern with white lines. The lines shone brilliantly, basking in the black light in the basement, the DJ replaced the unflattering fluorescent, soft white bulbs, with the edgy black lights that illuminated anything white. I felt bad for the overweight kid with dandruff in line waiting to fill his cup at the keg, there was no chance at hiding the avalanche of skin cells littering his shoulders; it helped little that he was wearing a black shirt. An hour after the party started, it seemed that the drones had sent word back to the colony about a buzzing party, droves of young people came flocking, and at $5 per person, they were shoving money in our hands faster than we could hand them their cups. And then it happened, I went into the foyer to ask Stephen a question, he was talking to his main squeeze, Mia, I greeted her warmly. She walked in, and behind her, walking through the door was the most incredibly beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on. My breath was caught in my chest, and for more than a split second my heart seemed to halt.

The figure before me was enveloped in a radiance that cased others to pale in comparison, just by existing. Her golden hair cascaded down just below her narrow shoulders, framing a soft, round face. She had eyes like sapphires, so sharp; there was no pain when they cut through me, inspecting every element of my existence, searching through me. Her hourglass figure was accentuated by the low-cut black and gray dress she had on, it had long sleeves, and resembled more of a large shirt than a dress; but with the lethal black heels she wore in combination indicated that she knew exactly what she was doing. My mouth struggled to formulate a greeting, a word, a sound; I was stricken and could only manage a meager “hello”. I asked her name, praying she was the ethereal being I was destined to meet; it was Meredith, this was, in fact, not the young woman. My next introduction was to my pre-arranged acquaintance, I learned her name but remembering it became difficult after half a dozen or so drinks, combined with my cognoscente infatuation with her friend. I knew she was in a relationship, the strength of which I desired to test; I composed myself enough to attempt to spread some charm on the dazzling beauty. We, i.e. the group of 6, spent the next few hours drinking, dancing and conversing, I may have been laying on the “game” a little thick, but I saw no glory in standing on the sidelines. The rooms began to sway, the floors unleveled themselves, words slipped and slid on their way out of our mouths as we ushered our equally intoxicated patrons out the door, and began sloppy discussions of where to relocate for the after party. Stephen stayed sober so he drove back to Mia’s apartment with 7 others in the passenger and back seats; Josh partied a little to hard and had to duck out early that night, he stayed at Stephen’s house. We arrived at the apartment building, quite literally tumbled out of the small Japanese compact and merrily swaggered into the house.

The girls’ apartment was spacious; a small kitchen with mountains of dishes and assorted cutlery in the sink melted into the living room sparsely adorned with a white couch/love seat set, and television, which outlet down a hallway to the bedrooms in the back. We sat at the kitchen table and continued to drink, shots of Evan Williams whiskey seared our throats, the penalty for not bouncing your quarter in the shot glass quickly enough. I lost the second, and fifth rounds, hanging in there with my companions. But Mr. Williams distilled a powerful tincture, a bad string of games later and I was 4 shots to the wind, fading fast. My 5^th straight loss, I was getting sloppy and I knew it. I stared at the 1 oz of amber liquid in the glass in front of me, slowly picked it up, inhaled, and closed my eyes.

The next thing I knew I was slowly swaying with Meredith in the middle of their living room to some slow, mellow jazz. She had her head against my chest as we rocked, my arms were wrapped around her, holding her closely to me. She looked up, smiling, and wiggled out of my embrace, beckoning me to follow her. She took hold of my hand; her small fingers guiding me as we sashayed down the pitch-black hallway. With each step I could feel my heart pounding harder and harder that by the time we reached her door, I could hear it slamming into my chest. We entered, the only light in the rooms was streaming in through the lone window from the full moon outside, casting a shimmering light-blue hue on everything it touched. We embraced; she leaned up on her tiptoes and ever so delicately brushed my lips with hers. Again I lost my breath, stammering to inhale. I picked her up, her legs serpentined around my waist, locking behind my back, I kissed her deeply and she kissed me back with equal fervor. We laid on the bed, squirming together, trying to get closer than too close. We burrowed underneath the blankets and sheets, intertwining our bare bodies, twisting, uniting. We rocked in unison, rhythmic, harmoniously as the pale moonlight began to glow. Our breathing became rapid, our touch, electric; the glowing morning light began to stretch across the floor and onto the bed casting it in a blinding golden light. For a third time my breath was stolen from my lungs, and I felt suspended in a forceless void, every synapse in my entire body firing at one simultaneous culminating moment, I closed my eyes.

When I opened my eyes my, it felt as though an elephant was sitting on my head, a classic trademark of a night spent drinking. There was an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to me, and a pool of clear liquid on the floor near where my face had been; I assumed it to be drool. I shuffled to the couch, sunk into its plush cushions, absorbing the rapidly growing dejection slowly beginning to simmer in my fuzzy prefrontal lobe. The pieces of a disappointing puzzle began to align themselves; I rolled onto my back, staring at the off-white ceiling. A mop of golden locks drifted into my field of vision, followed by two cerulean rings and an angelic “good morning”. I smiled and croaked a morning salutation, remaining on my back. Stephen and Mia emerged from the back and we conferenced over herbal hangover cures, collectively piecing together the previous evenings events. But the puzzle was missing pieces, but I feared that those additions might have been elaborate projections; I felt incepted. I didn’t want to make sense of the situation, I wanted to go back into that pale blue light and sway in the shadows with the angel of my dreams

11/1/11, repetition, etc.

action, launched upward higher, higher, until the chains of gravity bring the sphere hurtling downward. the sphere's reflective surface projects its surroundings onto itself, only danger. The sphere is destined to crash, bound and rebound, to be battered. The sphere is held in its cage by the sentinels; masters of this cruel prison. Their sole purpose is to confine its prisoner for as long as possible; conceivably an eternity. There is escape, but to reach it, the sentinels must be evaded, their unflappable vigilance renders escape all but hopeless. The sphere traverses the expanse of its dungeon for a lifetime, then, without warning the first  sentinel fails to thrust the sphere back into its cell, the second rushes into support, but only clips the twisting mirror. The mirror shines black as it descends through a void, the end is near, freedom, escape. Game Over.