Summer warmth on the Oregon coast doesn't linger past dark. It's not freezing, buy the air is wet, heavy, and never still. The grass is slightly damp but it feels safer sitting. My back is against a tree and I am alone. The chill on my skin is in a sharp contrast with my innards. The extremely cheap vodka and orange juice makes me feel like my digestive tract should be glowing. But it's dark under the trees and no one is near to even watch me sip from my canteen.
It is night and I am listening to howls and screams. The other teenagers are set loose for one last wild hunt before a snack and bedtime. They are supposedly playing capture the flag or something. I didn't pay attention at the evening worship meeting slash briefing. All I could think about at the time was how to ditch my counselor and friends so I could have a little piece of the dark to myself. Fortunately at a christian camp no one checks aluminum bottles brought from home for booze. I've learned I can get away with a lot if I let them keep their illusions about me. Oh sure, I dress like a bad kid, but it's obvious I am just going though a rebellious phase. I am a pastor's kid after all. I am polite to adults, and talk about Jesus just the way I should. I even know to switch my language from overt bible talk to more hippie friendly terms if the youth worker has facial piercings or doesn't shave her legs.
I am sitting, and not really thinking, more just feeling. It's been a very long week. One that I even mostly enjoyed. I can feel myself slowing down, really letting it sink in that for the first time in days I am not in view of several hundred kids and our adult minders. I can finally relax my face back to it's neutral state without anyone pestering me about how I look "sad" or "angry". I have no idea what they're seeing, but if I don't fix it I'll wind up with a small group of concerned girls expecting me to cry and share my deepest feelings. Calculating up a feeling that is vague, fairly glum, authentic enough but not actually close to my reality is tiring. And I've never been good at making myself cry on command, unfortunately. Nothing makes "nice" girls feel better than making someone cry and then telling them they are beautiful and Jesus loves them. Which of course solves all problems. The girl in crisis is then fixed and happy again, and the nice girls leave knowing they have done good in the world.
I'm drinking, but not to get drunk. I'm mostly doing it because I can. Because I like the taste. Because I love the feeling of doing something that has no consequences if not caught, and worlds of annoying shit if I am. The screams and shrieks are getting quieter. I don't know if it's all winding down, or just drifting away. It doesn't matter, I am tucked away back towards the hills and the forest in an odd corner no one visits at night. It is so dark I can barely make out the difference between the bushes and the grass a few feet away from me. The tree behind me smells nice and piney, the air is thick with oxygen and water. I have plants on all sides of me, a narrow path leading towards a larger clearing.
I can feel my outer emotional layers peel away. The gossip, the grudges, the interest in boys and video games, the insecurities. All of it just melts away. What's left is a hard steel core. I know who I am. I know what I am and I know that no one else does. I know exactly how far I will allow adults to control me. They all have their outer layers on and they see just what they want to see. As long as I can keep them seeing that image of me I am safe. I know that given the proper motivation I am capable of anything. I am also clueless as to what I actually want to be doing. I can't seem to fear flunking school like my classmates do, and I sure as fuck don't fear god's wrath the way my camp mates do.
And then my ruminations are ended when I hear the bell. There is a huge old church bell in the middle of the grounds, it is the signal to end the evening melee. I cap my bottle, stand up and head in. The closer to the light and noise I get, the more pieces of my mask come back together. The cold steel inside gets coated in layers of teenage life. I think about my friends, my enemies, who is dating who, what my clothes look like, all the usual stuff. My feet crunch on the gravel path and the laughter and shouts are converging around me. I hear something familiar behind me so I turn, and when I see my counselor I smile.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Door
There is a room, perhaps a sitting or living room. Comfortable overstuffed furniture. hardwood floors, windows letting in warm sunlight. Bookshelves against the walls, cabinets with fine china and display pieces. There is also a girl. She sits on a chair holding a book, all her attention soaking into it's pages. There is only one door, a large oaken thing in the wall behind the girl. It is solid in a way that speaks beyond construction, it's elderly finish scratched and worn.
If you were standing in the room trying to entertain yourself, you would most likely find your gaze wandering the shelves, or perhaps settling on the sole human occupant. She is quiet and still, not only her attention claimed but seemingly her entire awareness. You look past her at the door. It is in fact still a door. Shut tight, old, solid. You gain the impression that it is locked. Your eyes drift away again. Why are you here? Are you waiting for some appointment? Is there really nothing better you should be doing? You attempt to look for a book, perhaps something as enrapturing as the girl's, but your eye glazes over the collection, the titles indistinct.
You look to the girl wondering if she will ever even move enough to turn a page. Maybe she is just a slow reader. The door, you noticed, is slightly larger than normal. Both wider and taller than one would expect. You pull your eyes away to once more attempt to see if anything remotely interesting is near you, but you wind up staring at the door. It is truly huge, the top of the frame meets the ceiling. Why would anyone make such a large door? It looks inches think and must weigh a ton. You contemplate trying to open it, but an uncomfortable squirmy feeling rises in your gut. An old door like that no doubt makes an awful racket, and you don't like the idea of disturbing the stillness.
You take a look at the girl. Her face isn't so much blank as it is focused, intensely focused. Which is odd for someone who hasn't made any progress in her novel. You also realize her eyes aren't moving. She is just sitting stone still and staring at the page. Startled by this, you look around the room searching for the cause of her odd behavior. There are books on shelves, the chair and the girl, and the door. The floor is cold and bare, the sun must have been hidden by clouds. You are hit with a sudden creeping unease. Weren't there cabinets? Another loveseat, or perhaps an end table? No, there are only bookshelves. You shoot your eyes back to the door, wondering if it has changed. It is the same. You feel it has always been that way, and it always will be. And yet... it seems taller than you recall. And maybe slightly closer to the girl? You stare at the door, boredom replaced with an itching suspicion. Why is it locked? You are certain it is. Why does it feel.... insistent? It exudes a feeling of having been closed and ignored, forgotten for so long now. But it is a door, a thing designed to allow passage from one space to another. Why would it exist, if it was not meant to open? At the thought of it opening your innards clench with dread. You do not know how you know this but there is indeed something behind that door. And it is angry.
The girl is on the bare floor now, you have no idea where the chair has gotten to. She still clutches her book, desperately staring through it into nothingness. The though makes you sick but you know that she could open the door is she wanted to.
The shelves are gone, the walls empty. There is a door and a girl, but the girl is almost frantically pretending that the door does not exist. You, however, are all too aware of the damn thing. Whatever it keeps away is tired of being confined. It is tired of being ignored. It is tired of watching the world happily ignore it. It doesn't just want out though, it wants you in.
The room is cold, floor bare, walls empty. The girl is on the floor staring at a wall three inches from her face. You get the sense that the girl has been here as long as the door, however many countless ages that might be.
You feel the precarious balance in the now tiny room, and you are terrified. The oonly thing you can do is close your eyes, and then open them. Nothing changes except the girl is now staring directly at you.
And in that instant of eye contact (or after? before?) the room is different. The sunlight coming on the windows is warm, the girl back in her comfy chair reading a book, bookshelves and cabinets decorate the room. The door is just a door, no more ominous or notable than anything else here.
If you were standing in the room trying to entertain yourself, you would most likely find your gaze wandering the shelves, or perhaps settling on the sole human occupant. She is quiet and still, not only her attention claimed but seemingly her entire awareness. You look past her at the door. It is in fact still a door. Shut tight, old, solid. You gain the impression that it is locked. Your eyes drift away again. Why are you here? Are you waiting for some appointment? Is there really nothing better you should be doing? You attempt to look for a book, perhaps something as enrapturing as the girl's, but your eye glazes over the collection, the titles indistinct.
You look to the girl wondering if she will ever even move enough to turn a page. Maybe she is just a slow reader. The door, you noticed, is slightly larger than normal. Both wider and taller than one would expect. You pull your eyes away to once more attempt to see if anything remotely interesting is near you, but you wind up staring at the door. It is truly huge, the top of the frame meets the ceiling. Why would anyone make such a large door? It looks inches think and must weigh a ton. You contemplate trying to open it, but an uncomfortable squirmy feeling rises in your gut. An old door like that no doubt makes an awful racket, and you don't like the idea of disturbing the stillness.
You take a look at the girl. Her face isn't so much blank as it is focused, intensely focused. Which is odd for someone who hasn't made any progress in her novel. You also realize her eyes aren't moving. She is just sitting stone still and staring at the page. Startled by this, you look around the room searching for the cause of her odd behavior. There are books on shelves, the chair and the girl, and the door. The floor is cold and bare, the sun must have been hidden by clouds. You are hit with a sudden creeping unease. Weren't there cabinets? Another loveseat, or perhaps an end table? No, there are only bookshelves. You shoot your eyes back to the door, wondering if it has changed. It is the same. You feel it has always been that way, and it always will be. And yet... it seems taller than you recall. And maybe slightly closer to the girl? You stare at the door, boredom replaced with an itching suspicion. Why is it locked? You are certain it is. Why does it feel.... insistent? It exudes a feeling of having been closed and ignored, forgotten for so long now. But it is a door, a thing designed to allow passage from one space to another. Why would it exist, if it was not meant to open? At the thought of it opening your innards clench with dread. You do not know how you know this but there is indeed something behind that door. And it is angry.
The girl is on the bare floor now, you have no idea where the chair has gotten to. She still clutches her book, desperately staring through it into nothingness. The though makes you sick but you know that she could open the door is she wanted to.
The shelves are gone, the walls empty. There is a door and a girl, but the girl is almost frantically pretending that the door does not exist. You, however, are all too aware of the damn thing. Whatever it keeps away is tired of being confined. It is tired of being ignored. It is tired of watching the world happily ignore it. It doesn't just want out though, it wants you in.
The room is cold, floor bare, walls empty. The girl is on the floor staring at a wall three inches from her face. You get the sense that the girl has been here as long as the door, however many countless ages that might be.
You feel the precarious balance in the now tiny room, and you are terrified. The oonly thing you can do is close your eyes, and then open them. Nothing changes except the girl is now staring directly at you.
And in that instant of eye contact (or after? before?) the room is different. The sunlight coming on the windows is warm, the girl back in her comfy chair reading a book, bookshelves and cabinets decorate the room. The door is just a door, no more ominous or notable than anything else here.
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