"What About Dying?..." by David Ignatow

Lev Nikolaevich

FREEDOM IS THE CONTENT. INEVITABILITY IS THE FORM.

shhhhhhhh

- you and i made a pact
- only the good die young
- and when i dream, i keep my promises to you
- i really do
- you know my hate's everlasting
- and what a cruel god we've got
- follow me there

"And there the children of dark Night have their dwellings, Sleep and Death, awful gods. The glowing Sun never looks upon them with his beams, neither as he goes up into heaven, nor as he comes down from heaven. And the former of them roams peacefully over the earth and the sea's broad back and is kindly to men; but the other has a heart of iron, and his spirit within him is pitiless as bronze: whomsoever of men he has once seized he holds fast: and he is hateful even to the deathless gods."

ys plz

"Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear and vivid and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words!"

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

something gross happened pt. 2

Today, after helping Liliana load her newly-sanded-and-painted dresser into her Subaru, I went back into my apartment and into the bathroom. While I was in there, I felt something creeping and crawling on my exposed upper back and, assuming it was an ant, reached around to brush it off.

IT WAS A GIGANTIC BLACK SQUIRMY BEETLE. My instant reaction was to grab it and throw it against the wall. Its guts splattered everywhere.

SICK.

Maybe I do have super powers.

WR & PC

"Natasha was more calm, but not more cheerful. She not only avoided all external conditions of joyfulness--balls, promenades, concerts, the theater--but she never once laughed so that tears were not heard behind her laughter. ...And there were in her none of those former interests of life from the girlish, carefree, hope-filled life she used to lead. ...What would she not have given to bring back just one day of that time! But now it was over forever. Her presentiment had not deceived her then, that that state of freedom and openness to all joys would never return again. Yet one had to live."

"It comforted her to think that she was not better, as she had thought before, but worse, much worse, than everyone, everyone in the world. But that was not all. She knew it, and asked herself: "And what then?" And then there was nothing. There was no joy in life, and life was going by. Natasha clearly tried only not to be a burden to anyone or to bother anyone, but for herself she wanted nothing."

favorite film

(not my favorite scene, though)

swears

Between the ages of seven and nine, I used to play the name game in a very special way: I would make up names that ended in -oobs, -utt, -itch, and -uck so that I could say CERTAIN WORDS with impunity. If anybody overheard me, I planned to say, "I was just playing the name game, I promise!!!" Which obviously never happened.


(Joey reminded me of it two days ago when he asked his mother if he could swear at the kids who are bullying him at school. Even the way he seemed to relish saying the word "swear" reminded me of how enamored with them I used to be.)


In the fourth grade, I was kind of stuck up (even though I had no reason to be--I was not popular, pretty or rich), a goody two-shoes, and a big fat liar. In the middle of the school year, I moved to a rougher neighborhood in which none of these things were tolerated. I learned very quickly to swear, to appear tough by doing such things as spitting and making dirty jokes, and above all to be very blunt and disrespectful to pretty much anybody if I thought that person had "asked for it." People always seemed to be "asking for it" at that time in my life. CHILD OF DIVORCE ALERT.

By the beginning of fifth grade, I had become popular because I was very good at long division, cursive, telling ghost stories, and, more importantly, I could swear like a sailor and tell very dirty jokes like a truck driver. My specialties were innuendo and punning, especially in order to make people feel sheepish. I was a master of various fifth-grade versions of the "that's what she said" technique.

Anyway, in the middle of that school year, I moved back to the wealthier neighborhood, and returned to the school in which I had previously been a goody two-shoes. Instead of rejoining my old crowd of meandering girls, who were very boring to me at that point, I joined the boys on the wallball court because I had become very good at that game and wanted to stake my claim in this school after having been the best at my old school.

At lunchtime during my second day back, Lisa W. (who, incidentally, later became a swearing, drug-using, pierced-nipples badass in high school) approached me, along with the same venue of girls I used to call my friends, with eyebrows raised and arms crossed. She announced that so-and-so was mad at me for not saying hello. I remember that, at the time, I wasn't even sure I knew who she was talking about, so this seemed weird and kind of funny to me.

"Well, tell her to fuck off," I said, shrugging.

Lisa was absolutely APPALLED, but also impressed, I imagined. Her chin dropped almost down to her chest it seemed, and her arms fell to her sides. The circle around me was silent, and I was silent, waiting for them to either say something or leave me alone. Finally Lisa sputtered, "Mr. Shattuck (the principal) would not be happy to hear that," weakly threatening me. This made me laugh out loud.

"Then you can tell him to fuck off, too," I said, and after taking a moment to stare them all down making sure they knew I seriously did not give a shit, I trotted away to play wallball.



That was probably the only time I was ever super cool and completely self-confident (except for this one time when I was casually chewing a straw while sitting on the bar divider at the grocery check-out, and I felt so cool that my Mom even noticed and asked, "Are you cool? At school are you a cool kid?" and then I mumbled "...no" and felt dumb again).



IN CONCLUSION: Swearing is something one can always relish as long as it hasn't been overused. Swears should never be overlooked when bolstering one's toughness or coolness, but this only true for grades 4-8. Once ninth grade is reached, swearing, specifically swearing to appear tough or cool, has the reverse effect, and should only be shouted at one's parents in order to preserve one's ability to relish the swears. I think at some point it probably turns around again because, at least from my experience, old people who swear a lot are the epitome of cool, as long as the swear isn't paired with some sort of racial epithet. In which case, it is sad and pathetic, and you want him to just be quiet and stop swearing so goddamned much, GRANDPA.

over me bright April shakes out her rain-drenched hair

Hey, did you know I'm a genius? Well, I am.

I'm a genius.

I'm also unique, and very special. VERRRY special.

I'm unique, very special, interesting, and likable. People like me, did you know?

Well, they do. Lots and lots of people like me. They say nice things about me, they think of my well-being, and they show me affection, just because! Just because they like me.

They mostly like me because I'm a super special unique likable and nice genius.

I'm also very creative. I'm just burgeoning with creativity and vision. That's why I'm so productive! I'm always producing very creative innovative interesting likable things. Like a genius would and should.

The best part about me besides being a likable creative genius is that overall I'm a very positive person. I hardly ever say anything negative. I hardly ever think anything negative! Judgmental thinking is so foreign to me that my experiences are not characterized by good or bad, pain or pleasure. I experience them as they are.

That's why I'm so very engaging. Both engaging and engaged. I live in the present moment at all times. I can't help but be alive! Every waking moment is magic is life is experience, new and fresh and wondrous.

Not only am I a creative genius, I am also a genius at life. Because I didn't even have to learn these things, they just came naturally!


And in the end, that's why I am so very happy.





Everything else is just pretend.

"Like" has virtually replaced "um" as a verbal crutch, at least in the U.S. and in mostly PG situations. Everything is "like," everybody is "all like," she "was like," he "was like." And I'm "all like" and it "was so like." But what if it weren't just a crutch, what if when we all said it, we really meant it? What if everything and everyone was really only "like" something, only approximating it, the shade of a coachman brushing the shade of a coach etc? It would be like a matrix of similes, our lives would be completely allegorical. Everything would resemble something, stand for something, but not actually be something. Like, for real.

dreaming

1. Do you often remember your dreams?
Yes, every single day, and I feel out of sorts if I don't.

2. Have you ever had a recurring dream? If yes, please describe it!
Most of my recurring dreams are from my childhood.
The most interesting one stars Egon from the cartoon version of Ghostbusters, only he's a live-action cartoon Egon?, with white hair and slimy green skin. The p.o.v. of the dream switches back and forth from somebody watching a television that is playing a newscast in which Egon is the anchor, to my younger self, who has been made to sit on Egon's lap.
He holds me tight while he talks about evil news stories, and sneers after every one as if it ends in a punchline. I know he is evil and I am in danger, but I am helpless, so I just sit there and cry quietly. In some versions, I would pee on him and he would melt like the wicked witch in Wizard of Oz.

3. What is your most memorable dream?
Truncated version: It was lucid, and it was of a woman convincing me that what was happening was indeed real, even though it took place in a dream. I was in a dreaming room, of sorts, and saw many people around me who were in a dream state.

4. Do you dream best if you sleep at night or in the daytime?
The daytime, especially the morning or afternoon.

5. Are you sometimes ashamed of your dreams? Why?
I once was, especially as a child. Now: not at all. Dreams are innocent, in my opinion, no matter how warped or grotesque they may seem upon awakening.

6. Have you ever experienced a lucid dream? If yes, please describe it!
I would say that a third of my dreams are somewhat lucid. I've only been completely lucid, that is, in control of myself as well as the dream, a few times, and it never went on for long because I would wake up from being too excited.

7. What language do you most often speak/hear in your dreams?
Most often, English. French appears semi-regularly, and sometimes Spanish.

8. Have you observed any themes that run throughout your dreams?
The strongest theme is elevators. Being trapped in an elevator that is falling or shooting upward at an extreme speed, or even an elevator moving diagonally or sideways. In the last five years, I've been able to save myself or fix the elevator with increasing frequency, but lately it's turned into saving myself only to witness the death of other people in the elevator. One time, the dream turned lucid, and I saved us all by opening the side wall of the elevator to a room of gigantic mattresses, and we all jumped from bed to bed, doing flips and having pillow fights.

9. Have you ever had a night terror?
Twice. They were awful and made me believe I was dying.

10. Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis?
No, thankfully.

11. Do you sleep walk now, or have you ever?
Never.

12. Do you keep a dream journal, or have you ever?
Yes, on and off, depending on how much free time (aka sleep time) I have.

13. Do you talk in your sleep, or have you ever?
Never, it seems.

14. Have you ever had a question answered by a dream?
Never explicitly, but more often than not I gain insight from dreams that would be impossible to see in waking life.

15. What do you think about dream dictionaries? Are they rubbish? Or do you believe they do provide some insight?
They're useful to pick up on cultural signifiers, but I don't think they can be relied upon to understand the entire scope of meaning in a dream.

16. Do you often tell people your dreams or do you mostly prefer to keep them private? Why?
If it wouldn't bore people (and it does!) I would tell everybody about my dreams. I usually tell people when they've appeared in my dreams but it only seems to creep them out. When I hear I'm in other people's dreams, I find it so interesting and exciting.

17. If you don't remember your dreams, do you wish you could? Or are you indifferent?
I often wonder if I hadn't had such vivid dreams from early childhood on, would I be just as interested as I am now? I know the vivid dreams came first, and then the interest, but the interest has probably ensured that my dreams stay vivid.

18. Have you ever dreamt of your own death?
Often

19. Have you ever dreamt of killing somebody?
Sometimes. They seem to be less about the act of killing and more about the subsequent realization that it can't be undone. Waking up is always such a relief.

20. Have you ever dreamt of being another gender?
I've dreamt of having boy parts and taking the male role in intercourse, but never of actually being a boy. In some dreams, somebody will reveal to me that I'm actually part boy (in one case it was Kurt Russel??) and it's always such a relief (an aha! moment), followed by the horror of what it means to be part-boy/part-girl in society and realizing I might always be an outcast.

21. Have you ever seen yourself in a dream played by somebody else? Who?
Once I think I was played by Molly Ringwald... This happens often, and it's usually hilarious, but I can't remember anybody else at the moment.

22. Do you ever go to sleep hoping you'll dream a specific dream, or of something/somebody specific? What/who?
I hope to dream of Sebby some nights, even if it will be a sad dream.
When I was younger, I would hope to dream of being beautiful, loved, and happy.

23. Do you believe dreams have meaning, or are they merely the decompression of your memory (or the result of some other purely biological process)?
I think dreams provide access to the mysteries of the mind (I believe there are still so many!), and at the same time, are a result of a necessary biological function of the brain.

24. Has a dream during the night ever changed your behavior during the following day? Why/How?
Haha, sometimes a dream I have can ruin a whole week! This is probably not a good thing... but oh well. I have dreams I call "Goodbye dreams" in which close friends and family are saying goodbye to me forever, and I'm crying so hard in my sleep that I wake up crying, and the funk persists for at least three days, on average. I hate those dreams!

25. If you could record your dreams and store them in the library, on the condition that any person could view them at any time, would you?
Without hesitation!!! Especially if it meant access to the dreams of other people.

word.

I LIKE BIG BOOKS
AND I CANNOT LIE

YOU OTHER READERS
CAN'T DENY

THAT WHEN A BOOK WALKS IN
WITH THAT LITTLE BITTY PRINT

AND A THICK SPINE IN YOUR FACE
YOU GET SPRUNG

CAN'T READ ENOUGH
'CAUSE YOU NOTICED THAT BOOK WAS STUFFED

DEEP IN THE JACKET IT'S WEARING
I'M HOOKED AND I CAN'T STOP STARING

OH BABY I WANNA SIT WITH YA
AND KNOW YOUR AUTHOR (autha'?)

MY HOMEBOYS TRIED TO WARN ME
BUT THAT PLOT YOU GOT
MAKE ME SO HORNY

OOH, BOY, THE RUSSIANS
DOSTOEVSKY, GOGOL, TOLSTOY
WELL TEACH ME, TEACH ME, ABOUT YOUR MORAL STORY

AIN'T GOT NO PREQUELS
TO HELL WITH FREAKING SEQUELS
IT'S LONG, STRONG, AND THE STORY'S BARELY STARTED

I'M TIRED OF MAGAZINES
SAYING LIGHT READING IS THE THING
TAKE THE AVERAGE LIBRARIAN AND ASK HER THAT
YOU GOTTA PACK A HARDBACK

SO PATRONS (YEAH), PATRONS (YEAH)
HAS YOUR LIBRARY GOT THE STACKS? (YEAH)
TELL 'EM TO SHAKE IT, SHAKE IT, SHAKE THAT HOLD REQUEST

BABY GOT BOOKS

something gross happened.

Real gross.

I was rubbing my eye because it itched pretty badly and I dislodged some gunk, which I assumed was the culprit, out of the inner corner.

Examining the source of itchiness, I found it was a dead bug. It probably flew into my eye when I was riding my bike home, which means I didn't get it out until two hours later. A dead bug was in my eye for two hours.

I believe I am entitled to super powers for this.

dumped

Deciding I wouldn't be that pathetic, spaced-out straggler at closing time ("M'am... we closed ten minutes ago") as I had initially planned, I left only ten minutes after he did. I felt half alive, as though only half of me was functioning or willing to acknowledge life, as I walked down to the first floor of the coffee shop, out the door and toward the subway.



"So, basically, it's too hard for you to love me," I'd graciously summed it up for him.

A pause.

"I mean, yeah... I guess so," he agreed, reluctant to accept my phrasing. --Fuck euphemisms, I remember thinking. --Make him admit to what he's really saying.

This was after at least forty-five minutes of my questioning, which had begun as a level-headed attempt to get him to realize he didn't actually want to leave me but quickly turned into begging and pleading ("I can get better! I can work on things! Don't you want to try just once more?"). The stuff of humiliation.

The reality of what he was doing dawned on me along with the realization that, while I had been beginning all my sentences with "Our relationship is..." all along, he'd been replying in past tense, "The relationship was..." Not only in past tense, but already completely detached from the situation. No longer "ours" but "the." That thing. That thing he had decided isn't worth it. Isn't something worth salvaging, like an old animal with too many ailments, not worth the effort, the hope. If somebody could have taken a photo of our relationship right then, it would have been me sitting next to an empty chair with my arm around it, smiling like he was still next to me.

After determining when I'd pick up my stuff (Thursday, at one, while he's at work) we sat in a long, heavy silence that gave me a headache. Still, I expected that any moment he would rescind his decision, which was, admittedly, the main reason I asked him to meet me after work to "talk," my clever code word for "make up."

All throughout my shift, I'd imagined the feeling we'd have once he decided to stay so we could "work on things." I imagined how we'd hug and I'd feel light again, my stomach fluttering with happiness, flying away, escaping from my open smile, tickling my teeth, my uvula, which would be trembling from the chorus of laughter we would share. We would be relieved, excited for new times. We would think, "Well, that was a close one."

I gave this moment one last chance, one last opportunity to prove to me that it could happen. I hoped for it so hard, like my mind could rearrange my reality with enough concentration. I felt the force of my hope right then could literally move his mouth, make it form the words, "I love you enough to try this again."

"Do you have anything else you want to say to me," I asked, staring at him.

"Well, I love you... and... I still care about you, even if that isn't what I should say. I don't regret anything we had together. All of the times we had are very special to me."

"Not special enough, " I let myself say.

He didn't argue.

He asked me the same question, I wonder now if it was out of courtesy or if he really wanted to hear what I had to say when he knew exactly what it would be. I told him I love him and I think he's making a mistake. And then he said goodbye, and left. I didn't stand up or even let myself watch him as he left. I sat there, staring at the drink I had ordered when we walked in, the drink I assumed would be finished by the time we would leave there, together, hand-in-hand. Instead it had just sat there, the ice melting, condensation running down the sides of the clear plastic cup.




Later, outside, I walked toward the intersection with my eyes focusing on nothing. Just as I stepped down from the curb or maybe just before, a man leaning against the wall said to me, "It'll be aiight, shortie." I paused a moment before deciding not to look at him because I knew I would cry, and instead crossed the street, my lip trembling as wind blew my bangs back from my forehead, exposing whatever distorted expression on my face to all those waiting cars.