The Poisoned Ink Well

Sunday, December 01, 2002

And later after I had my dream, I was sweeping the hardwood floors in my parent's house, and out of the corner of my eyes, I watched as the Challenger exploded on the screen of the color TV, and I stopped and marveled for a moment at being witness to their deaths, as I swept out cobwebs and dust, and then Reagan came on, and we cooked macaroni and cheese for dinner, and we sat on the couch, and propped our feet up on the brass and glass coffee table, at the center of my known universe, and we ate quietly, and watched and listened as that president gave us, yet another one of his cliché laden speeches.

The national and global stage looked so tiny to us, that year, inside of that 19 inch box, with it's exploding spaceships and doddering, old, gray haired presidents, as we gave away clothes (suits, ties, and dresses), put their favorite memento's in boxes, and boarded up our parent's houses for the final time and said good bye to each other.

I can remember a time in between those funerals when me and some friends went out and we lay in the high grass and dry mud of the Mississippi River Levy (before the casinos) and we smoked weed and watched the tug boats and traffic on the bridge and I thought about doing a slow dive into the murky waters (climbing to the highest girders of the bridge and doing a swan dive into the river) and I stood up and threw chunks of dirt instead, aiming for the barges, that lumbered up and down the river like slow moving dinosaurs; and we talked about life, and friends, and family, and we vowed not to have funerals at all (for ourselves), “ they were just a waste of time and money” and we returned home and drank Yagermiester out of the bottle and sat on the back porch and ate homemade pecan pie, and I fell asleep in a chair, and I dreamed about nuclear war. I watched as the bomb dropped over the water, and in my sleep, I could feel the impact, and I could feel myself burning, and I closed my eyes tight, and I prayed in my dream, and I felt the red heat searing against my lids, and I awoke to the afternoon sun shining in my face.

{Please, excuse the suicidal ideation. I like to call it whimsy and as a side note; I have had friends who worked on the river and they said that whenever they saw a jumper that they would motion them down and yell "JUMP YA DUMBASS" at the top of their lungs, so no way way could I ever face the indignity of going over the bridge; it would make some people in that town, too happy!}