she had always been a computer geek, even before it was fashionable. from early days of commodore 64 and moving up to a 128, she thought her calling had been answered with the first pc. then came modems and bulletin boards and games. then came aol. then came aol chatrooms.
she was addicted. people laughed. they couldn't understand how somene could sit alone in a dark room for hours typing words on a computer screen and reading the sordid tales coming across in the darkness. she poured out her soul, telling of her pain and lonliness... her inability to meet people in the real world who could be as honest with their feelings as the people she was meeting online. she felt comfortable in this new world. she didn't have to worry about what impression she would make or if she would stutter or stumble trying to get the words out. she could be witty and fun and pretty and wise.
she could be sexy. a vixen. a woman a man would desire enough to want to leave his wife for. it wasn't all good. she loved her partner and didn't want him to hurt. she didn't know how to get what she wanted without hurting him. it was just the computer, wasn't it? it wasn't like she was seeing someone in person. these people weren't real. this affair wasn't real. it couldn't be. it was like writing a story only the characters were alive and talked back to her. virtual reality compassion.
she tried to explain to her partner that the people she'd met in this dark world were helping her to deal with her tradgedies. there were people in thie darkness that had suffered, too, and were able to relate to her sadness. he couldn't understand. to him it was just a box full of lies.
one night he saw someone signing off. they said 'i love you' to her... and she replied the same. he was deeply disturbed. how could you love someone you'd never met? did she want to meet them? did she want to have an affair? did she want to leave him? no, she replied, and meant it. they only had small pieces of her - he had her heart. she tried to explain how easy it was to offer love and compassion in the void, but he could only relate to the reality of her, sitting in front of him, fading away as though turning into a ghost of herself.
she put the computer away. she cancelled her account. she quit with the pulling of a plug. she mourned for the friendships in the darkness that she would never find again. she opened the blinds and let in the sun. she started to live again.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
blood
they were poor, but not in the living-on-the-street-in-the-car poor. they were living from day to day scraping pennies together from minimum wage jobs in a maximum wage town. they were young. scared. married three years with two children to show for it. people would look down their noses at two babies who were two years apart, but because the first was a premie they looked even closer in age. popping them right out, aren't you? fucking like bunnies, her father said. remember, the pill isn't 100 percent effective. no lie.
when they only had one baby, they'd moved out of town because a man decided she was stalking material. they moved into the country into an old farm house with no appliances and oil heat. the oil company needed money up front to fill the barrel. it was winter. the back porch became the refrigerator. the electric skillet her mother gave her for christmas became the main form of cooking. his family gave them a hotplate. there was an old ringer-type washing machine off the kitchen and a line to hang the wash. the heat was kept low and they lived in the front room next to the wood stove. she'd go out into the cornfields every morning and pick up corncobs to burn.
they moved back into town when spring came and they could no longer get by without a refrigerator and he was looking into a new job and the second baby was coming. they got by.
the babies were growing. babies food came first. sometimes his parents would give him a ten dollar bill. it helped. her parents thought that would spoil her, that she had to do it on her own. lots of people die on their own, right dad?
her period was late. oh, god, we can't do this again. we don't have enough money to keep the two children we have fed and clothed like they should be. they can't live on love alone. we agonize. we weep. we know it isn't a good thing. we know we are going to feel damned for life. we just see no other way. adoption? no. she knows if she sees the child, and who can bear a child for nine months and not see it, she will never let it go. better it go to god now. she fears she wouldn't be able to eat properly and keep herself healthy enough to go to full term. she knows how terrifying it was to have a child born early and not to know if she would make it or not - and if she did, would she be okay.
they don't do it in this town. they must go across the state. three hours to think about what they are doing. the money they are spending that they can't afford, but can't afford not to spend. there is mandatory counseling. yes, she lies. yes, i'm fine with this. yes, i can live with it. yes, i want this. yes. yes. he lies too. yes.
they take her and she feels a sense of deja-vu. like birthing her babies. she's foggy. she hears voices, but doesn't follow the conversation. she hears the awful suctioning sound and imagines the tearing of little limbs and the soundless screaming of a perfect tiny mouth. the blood. the blood. her vision is red. she isn't supposed to hear them. it's a boy.
she's gone on to have beautiful children under happier circumstances and with the financial ability to buy food and diapers and toys and shower all of her children with the things and the love she felt she didn't give them in the beginning. when people ask her how many children she has, she says four... five... a whisper in her head. is there a heaven? she hopes so. someday she hopes to meet her son and be able to tell him i'm sorry.
when they only had one baby, they'd moved out of town because a man decided she was stalking material. they moved into the country into an old farm house with no appliances and oil heat. the oil company needed money up front to fill the barrel. it was winter. the back porch became the refrigerator. the electric skillet her mother gave her for christmas became the main form of cooking. his family gave them a hotplate. there was an old ringer-type washing machine off the kitchen and a line to hang the wash. the heat was kept low and they lived in the front room next to the wood stove. she'd go out into the cornfields every morning and pick up corncobs to burn.
they moved back into town when spring came and they could no longer get by without a refrigerator and he was looking into a new job and the second baby was coming. they got by.
the babies were growing. babies food came first. sometimes his parents would give him a ten dollar bill. it helped. her parents thought that would spoil her, that she had to do it on her own. lots of people die on their own, right dad?
her period was late. oh, god, we can't do this again. we don't have enough money to keep the two children we have fed and clothed like they should be. they can't live on love alone. we agonize. we weep. we know it isn't a good thing. we know we are going to feel damned for life. we just see no other way. adoption? no. she knows if she sees the child, and who can bear a child for nine months and not see it, she will never let it go. better it go to god now. she fears she wouldn't be able to eat properly and keep herself healthy enough to go to full term. she knows how terrifying it was to have a child born early and not to know if she would make it or not - and if she did, would she be okay.
they don't do it in this town. they must go across the state. three hours to think about what they are doing. the money they are spending that they can't afford, but can't afford not to spend. there is mandatory counseling. yes, she lies. yes, i'm fine with this. yes, i can live with it. yes, i want this. yes. yes. he lies too. yes.
they take her and she feels a sense of deja-vu. like birthing her babies. she's foggy. she hears voices, but doesn't follow the conversation. she hears the awful suctioning sound and imagines the tearing of little limbs and the soundless screaming of a perfect tiny mouth. the blood. the blood. her vision is red. she isn't supposed to hear them. it's a boy.
she's gone on to have beautiful children under happier circumstances and with the financial ability to buy food and diapers and toys and shower all of her children with the things and the love she felt she didn't give them in the beginning. when people ask her how many children she has, she says four... five... a whisper in her head. is there a heaven? she hopes so. someday she hopes to meet her son and be able to tell him i'm sorry.
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