I finally received everything he left in his hotel. All his clothes, some electronics, and a notebook riddled with notes and drawings. They don’t really make sense to me, but maybe they will to someone else. I mean, there is this notebook full of drawings and all these people followed by descriptions and codes. None of it means anything to me, maybe just part of his research.
Baby steps, right?
I have gotten a few emails from readers. Every little bit helps. I am just so worried. Normally I would just assume he is having some grand adventure, but he hasn’t gotten back to anyone, and his posts are making me worried. Hopefully, once I get his stuff form the hotel, there will be some more answers. I filed a report with the police but they said there is little they can do with his last known location being China.
Thank you everyone who is helping. I really appreciate it all.
As the title says, this is Jane, Alex’s sister. I haven’t heard from Alex since late September and he never came back from China. I’m hoping he has been in contact with some of his readers maybe, or something. I am desperate to find him. I called the hotel he was staying in and they are mailing all his stuff to me. It was all left in the room.
I just thought he was really busy. I wish I hadn’t waited this long. Please, any information.
If anyone knows anything, email me at plainjaney611@gmail.com
I have at least 20 now.
It’s like a collection. 20 different people. There’s a girl who I swear there are multiples. But only sometimes.
I’m not crazy. I’ve seen it all. I think the guards see me now too. They are always looking into the trees.
After talking to Jane I think I need to stop coming here. I want to, but I feel like I just can’t leave. I think I am falling apart out here. I should go home. I need to. I’ll book a flight this week. I am dwindling, and am losing myself.
I think they echo in my waking and sleeping hours alike. They are inescapable. The damn bells. It’s just every two days…around 11 in the morning, you here the bells, followed by a series of clicks and the sound of scraping metal. But then I see her, and I hate it now. I loathe every second that passes between the bells and her return. They take her from the room, she is always trembling slightly, they’ve had to carry her once, her arms flailing wildly-like a child. Her eyes shut tight.
Then an hour passes, and she’s being led down the corridor again. Fresh bandages, almost too weak to move. It pains me. I have to bite my cheek and clench my fists to hold back screams of rage. Those bells bring nothing but pain. Every time I hear bells, even ones back at the hotel or on the street I think of her and the words of Charles Dickens resonate in my head:
“Nothing Scrooge could say or do could stop the relentless march of those terrible bells.” Its from A Christmas Carol.
I feel powerless, but even worse I feel ashamed. I’m too cowardly to do anything even if I had the slightest notion.
I can get a little closer to the building now, but I have to be careful. Being seen again would be a bad idea.
A few days ago a man approached me and told me to leave the property of the facility and not come back. I did leave, but I’ve come back a few more times. But I’ve gotten more clever at hiding. I can’t stay away. Every time I go I see someone I haven’t seen before, and I see her again. I’ve figured out their pattern, when the come and go, and there are these bells.
I know I sound crazy and I’m rambling. But this facility is taking over my every waking thought, and when I can get to sleep it’s all I dream about. I even tried writing the other day but all my words turned into…well, I just kept talking about her over and over. Her hair, her skin that looks soft, but worn. And her face. It’s all I can take to not get closer to the window.
I’ve been drawing everyone I see and the weird things I see around them. I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, or tricks of nature. I hardly sleep so I feel like my sight is betraying me.
I know it has been quite awhile since I last update and for that there are very good reasons. I found the place after days of searching. That building, whatever that facility is exactly has captivated all of my attention. I tried getting in, but I couldn’t even get to the parking area. I have been sitting under a tree nearby watching (maybe 100 yards), taking notes on the people walking in and out, trying to get glimpses through the windowed rooms and hallways. If I didn’t know better I would assume it was the Pentagon, but it’s clearly a medical facility of some kind. There are people in lab coats going in and out of the building and in between different stations. But there are also armed guards. I just…what is this place?
I need more information and I don’t know where to get it. This country is far more secretive than America, and the language barrier doesn’t help. Maybe I need to go back to the hospital. If this is a medical facility someone has to know about it. Right? I tried taking a photo with my camera but it always turns out blurry or like there’s a glitch with the image.
My regular camera malfunctions too, maybe there is some weird polarity in this area, like with magnetic fields that occur or when solar storms disrupt satellites. I don’t know, never paid much attention in earth science.
If I don’t learn anything I’m coming back with binoculars and a notebook.
After finding out about the facility the other day I tried to go find it. While looking over a map off a side street I saw him. Dr. Zhao was walking down the street, briefcase in hand. I thought these sort of coincidences were left to film or literature. I followed him from a reasonable distance, at least by half a block. He walked very briskly and determined, expecting people to move out of his way. He took a phone call, very quick and then walked into a bar on the side of an alley. I followed him in, it was easy to hide, let me tell you. Bars are usually dark, but this one was so dark I almost couldn’t see tables or chairs around me. I was annoyed that I couldn’t even take notes, but I did take this (sorry about the poor quality):
He greeted a man near the head of the bar and followed him into a separate room. I had no access to it so I just waited until he left. I sat for close to an hour, stirring my water nervously. The bartender, surprisingly, was a white man. He was eastern European from what I gathered by his accent, I didn’t rally press him on it. His name was Michal and he was fairly friendly. Normally I would have asked him more about himself since he seemed like a fascinating man, but I’m on a mission already. Though I did learn he knows this city like the back of his hand, he nearly lived in the streets before he found this job.
I asked him how often the doctor came in here. Twice a week, always at the same time and meets the same person. His boss is the one that lets them use that side room. He doesn’t know why.
Dr. Zhao left and I followed him again, but he got in a cab and I lost him.
Now I am back in my hotel room. I am mentally drained and part of me wants to give up on this.
Things got very…unusual today.
1. I went to the University hoping to find some more information about Dr. Zhao. Basically found a labyrinth of information that is nearly impossible to navigate. First off, getting into school records is harder to do than I thought. I imagined a dusty basement that was by no means guarded. No…not in China. It was all digitized and in a very secured room. Movies lied to me. Luckily, there is always someone, somewhere that you can bribe. And, this is where movies stand true in this situation, the janitor was perfect.( sidenote: our american dollar is not worth very much after exchange rates)This would have been amazing if the files hadn’t been in Chinese. I should have been more prepared, maybe taken a quick language class or something. This pocket Chinese-English dictionary is useless to me. I just…frustration!
2. I did find his picture in a hallway lined with photos of notable alumni. There was a doctor in the same class as him who is now and teacher there. So I decided to track him down. He was in his office reading over something when I showed up. He was not at all eager to talk to me, but when I did ask him about Dr. Zhao he had no idea who I was talking about. I told him the picture was next to his, but he just shrugged and ushered me quickly out of his office. The pressure of his hands on my back almost turned my stomach. I have never had that reaction before now.
3. This was the most important thing today. When I got back to my room there was a note under my door. The handwriting was terrible, but readable. All it said was “He’s here.” And there was an address and facility name that followed. I wasn’t lucky enough for it be tracked down on the internet. I suppose more sleuthing is in order. But I do feel more like I am in a movie. Maybe I am. Is any of this real?
Despite all this travel and investigating I sort of feel like I am losing myself. It’s not as if this case is distracting me from other interests, but like the person I am is fading into the background of everything that is happening. When I get back to the hotel room this is all I can think about. I haven’t even tried to talk to Jane.
Here is what I have learned so far:
1. Nurse Huáng is the nicest woman I have ever met.
2. The death of Mrs. Revelin appears as if it is a unfortunate normality, but it just shouldn’t have happened. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Zhao, is the one responsible, according to Nurse Huáng. She said that during childbirth anesthesiologists are only necessary when an epidural is required or when a C-section is needed to be preformed. With these procedures being so incredibly common there is almost no margin for error. Within minutes of her son being born her vitals plummeted and she died. Tests revealed it was the anesthesia that did her in. Specifically, a fatal reaction due to the monitor that controlled the amount of medication sent through the catheter spiking and doubling the amount just after the baby left the birth canal. She basically overdosed.
3. Dr. Zhao is like a ghost. Nurse G explained that he was brought in as a consultant for another case, but due to some rushing going on in the trauma ward he was brought in to place some epidurals and he was happy to do it. Mrs. Revelin was the only one who died though. When I tried to track him down at his hospital on the other side of town there was no record of him there. Which is beyond unusual. I checked to see if he used another name by chance. No such luck. Nurse G said he went to Harbin Medical University to get his doctorate in medicine, so tomorrow I will start there.
Today, after nearly 12 hours of sleep in order to get me on track, I start my investigation. I have my list of contacts and I’ll start by going to the The First Clinical College of Harbin Medical University and talking to some of the nurses on staff in the maternity ward at the time. There are at least 2 that have agreed to talk to me, but they explained they will need to tread lightly, which I can respect. First I have Nurse Huáng and then I will meet with Nurse Guō. I’m sure they can give my more people to speak with as well. Thankfully, both of them know English so I didn’t have to hire a translator. I already had to spend a good chunk of change. Did you know that outlet converters are surprisingly expensive? Good ones anyway. The cheap ones have a habit of frying your computer or phone or what-have-you. Since I needed one for my laptop, phone, kindle, and my DS (not gonna lie about that one, I’m sure I’ll have some down time where I can get my game on) I bought a voltage converter that has a universal output socket and plug, plus easy input selection switches, and plenty of other cool features. Behold, the LiteFuze 500 WAtt Heavy Duty Voltage Converter Transformer!
Pretty right? But I digress, I just got overly excited about it. It will come in handy for future travels. Anyway, I am off to investigate a mysterious death. I really feel like I should look as if I have stepped out of a Film Noir. Perhaps I should buy a fedora and khaki-colored trench coat, or maybe I should focus on this for now. I can create a super mysterious outer image later.
And I’m off!
if I think that Chinese children are some of the cutest I have ever seen? I mean, all children are cute, but I feel like these kids just have a certain edge, ya know?
I landed in the airport and promptly fell asleep waiting near baggage claim. I’ve never felt so tired, but I’ve finally made it to my hotel room, a bed has never been more comfortable. I’m going to go to sleep now, possibly for an entire day.
I’ll update as much as possible during this trip. Or at least try to.
Before leaving the airport I stopped and got a quick bite, some of the best ginger chicken over white rice I have ever had. I am certain I won’t get tired of the food here, though I will have to watch my sodium intake, or just drink way more water.
After a very long conversation with my editor in chief about the piece and all the information relating to China, I ended up quitting. I want to find out so much more about everything I have gathered. I am so compelled to follow this as far as it will take me and my boss just doesn’t understand. I bought my ticket and arranged my lodging.
You see, Clara finally called me back and everything she told me just made me want to find out what is really going on. She said everything stinks of secrets and cover ups. Maybe there is something amiss in the medical system we need to worry about. I have a lot of disposable income thanks to a lofty inheritance from my grandmother on my father’s side. We were never close to her, but she felt the need to leave money to us. So I can afford to take this trip, and if I can produce an amazing expose I should have no problem finding jobs after I get back.
I gotta go get everything organized, I leave so soon. I just had to tell someone, but other than Jane there aren’t many people to tell. You will have to suffice, people of the internet.
I’ll have to do some touristy things once I get the article done, like this for example:
I think we can agree that whether you avoid tourist-like areas or not, this is something worth seeing.I stole this photo from an article about China from an old National Geographic. I had a subscription when I was younger, dreamed of becoming and writer that traveled all over the world, writing about everything I experienced, both enlightened and dark. I like to think of this as step 2.
I don’t think what I am doing is crazy.
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed.
Except when a piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?
This is one of my favorite sections from any poem by T.S. Eliot. It is from the poem Portrait of a Lady, an obvious allusion to Henry James. The poetry I like is very few and far between. Selective. I think part of it is the bitterness for my lack of flare for it. His work fueled me through most of college. I hadn’t been interested in him much until I read his biography for one of my classes, then I became obsessed. But that obsession eventually turned into disappointment in myself. Now that disappointment has peaked. I haven’t done anything worthwhile. Nothing worth anything. There’s just a long string of lackluster articles and an unfinished novel.
I am entering some sort of quarter-life crisis. I need to do something. I can’t keep going through my days like this. I feel like i’m wallowing in self-pity. It’s not that hard to change, is it?
I am still researching that doctor from the medical malpractice case. I have made calls to China and got a hole of some interesting information from a former classmate who works for NBC news now. Clara, she’s a low-level researcher, but she has plenty of connections.
Anyway, I wanted to look up more information about the doctor’s history in China. It’s very…unusual. After that other woman died in the exact same manner he went to jail for 5 years. Now he is practicing in america, where he essentially killed another woman. This, to me, creates a pattern. That event should have been a one-time mistake.
Clara said she can’t find almost any other information on him. Just that he’s a doctor who worked at the First Hospital of Harbin Medical University. We put in some calls to some other doctors, but there was a language barrier issue and a lot just refused to speak about him, some didn’t remember. It was 19 years ago.
Clara agrees that there is something going on, she jokingly cried out “cover up!” After a little while we both felt uneasy as we realized that there was a very real possibility of that being the truth. Sounds crazy, but at the same time isn’t that something every journalist looks for? Clara said she is going to check a few more links and will get back to me.
It’s…weird. I have a very strong urge to learn everything I can about this. Perhaps journalism is changing the way I look at things. I didn’t even intend to do this.
When I awoke this morning I was not moved to speak, or even move. I wanted the silence to fill the room and to simply surrender to it. My lips and tongue, lay still and unrelenting. The idea of producing even a single sound, uttering one word, felt like a terrifying inevitability. Maybe the work of Oe awakened something, but what I don’t know.
So here I am, the sun creeping across the floor in my apartment and the only thing I hear is the sound of my finger typing swiftly on my keyboard and my deep breaths.
Has anyone ever woken up this way? Desiring nothing but softness and quiet whispers echoing down an empty hall. Even my throat is stifling my speech.
I recently finished reading (I often read several things at once) A Personal Matter by Kenzaburo Oe. He is a japanese author and a very 
major figure in japanese literature. His work is something I have learned to appreciate in a way I didn’t anticipate I would. I went in expecting something full of mysticism and nothing I could really relate to or understand. I was blown away.
In A Personal Matter the main protagonist, Bird (a nickname he acquired in college) is dealing with a situation I don’t think I could have the strength to work through. His wife has just given birth to a baby body, born with a brain hernia. This creates an understandable amount of stress and the relationship he has with his wife, which is already fairly strained, just crumbles in front of him. He turns to alcohol and starts sleeping with an old girlfriend. He sort of falls apart, spiraling into a depressing hole that he isn’t sure he wants to crawl out of.
I know that this story is loosely based on real events from Oe’s life, which makes it’s impact even greater. I found myself on the edge of tears as I finished the story. His words, they were devastatingly beautiful. Every line left this deep aching in my chest that increased with each turn of the page. I haven’t been this moved in such a great while.
I started feeling guilty, wondering if I would have the strength to make it through that kind of event at all. Sure, I can see myself dissolving into a self-loathing alcoholic, but I doubt my ability to return to my wife. I like to imagine myself a great man, one capable of the strength and love to endure that. Here’s hoping I never have to find out if I have the strength to face something that horrendous.
Fellow readers, find this and read it.
I turned in my article and my editor loved it. Hopefully this is the start to signing me up for more serious pieces. I can post a link to it later. It all came together in a fantastic way.
I told Jane about the weirdness researching and she told me to keep looking because it never hurts to know more than you need to. plus, who knows, it could turn into a very interesting project.
In other news, I had a weird interaction with Melissa, it’s been over a month since our ill-begotten date but things are very strange still. she followed me into the book store and wanted to know if I wanted to go to a movie next weekend. I uncomfortably declined. I was polite about it, feigning a prior commitment. But she was still fairly insistent on going out again eventually. I know I’m lonely, but I feel that I shouldn’t have to settle for someone who does not peek my interest in any way. She’s nice, attractive, but there’s nothing there. I knew it for sure after that kiss. I’m no lothario, but I’ve kissed my fair share of women. I know when there’s no hope.
I sort of feel cruel. She has this look in here eyes when she speaks to me, full of expectation. Jane thinks I should go out with her anyway and see where it goes. To me, that one date was enough. If I were to continue to date her wouldn’t that give her false hope? Or am I sabotaging myself? Is there a possibility she could be something and I am just overlooking?
I prefer to think my judgement is sound. Jane likes to get me to doubt myself sometimes.
I don’t really want to think about Melissa anymore. She just reminds me of my loneliness. If I wasn’t a jerk, I’d just sleep with her so I wouldn’t have to sleep alone.
I have seemed to lose my grasp on eloquence. I need to go immerse myself in some Joyce.
While finishing up some of my research on the medical mal. article I discovered some things. The way this woman, Charlotte Revelin; died seemed like a mistake, too strong of a dose or just a poor reaction to it. But, upon further investigation into the doctor specifically- including the other hospitals he worked at in the past, I found some interesting things.
The most, I guess I would use the word “disturbing” to describe it; bit of information I collected was that this death wasn’t the first one the happen this exact way. Nearly 20 years ago a woman named Sai Reeds, in China, died in the same fashion, down to the very last detail. It’s weird, right? I understand that when you’re a doctor there is always a chance you will lose a patient, and sometimes in the same way. You can’t control, no matter how hard you might fight it, when someone lives or dies. As a doctor I believe you would probably blame yourself a lot more than the rest of us. At the same time, you sort of become numb to it, you have to.
But this one just seems off to me. Every detail is the same. They were the same age, same race, same genetic factors, both had a daughter born blind. Speaking of the daughter, she was put in the custody of her grandparents because the father seemed to disappear. I imagine it is grief-related. Not everyone can cope in the way we want them to. In the Sai Reeds case her daughter and husband seemed to disappear into obscurity as well, but maybe that is to be expected.
Either way, all these comparisons are too many to ignore, right?
I’ll just finish my article and see what else I can find out. Wouldn’t hurt to do follow up research.
While researching for the medical malpractice case I had to refresh my extremely basic knowledge of the female reproductive system. Aside from the brief snippets of information acquired in my high school health class, I know next to nothing. All I can remember is that women have an unfortunate week every month and you must wrap it up to avoid the most dreaded of high school taboos: teen pregnancy. Though, my college roommate must’ve been using them wrong because he got like 3 girls pregnant despite using them. He blames the condoms, I blame the copious amount of liquor that lead to the “hook up” in the first place. So if I learned anything, be at least halfway sober. Are you listening, extremely vulnerable freshmen?
Anyway, back to the results. You women and your stretch armstrong insides. I always understood the basic mechanics, but seriously. I now know exactly what can happen upon the expulsion of that tiny human being and I really wish I didn’t. I even watched a birthing video, biggest mistake ever. If I ever have children my wife will be lucky if I come in the room when she gives birth. I will pace in the waiting room, smoking a cigar and talk about whatever it was dad’s in the 1930s talked about. All I can say is episiotomy…that was something I would have been happy never learning about. Don’t even dare googling it, pretend it is a computer virus, but it’s for you brain. And you can never ever get rid of it.
I then read over the standard procedures in hospitals when it comes to the maternity ward, I read everything from the normal to the unusual emergency situations. Death during childbirth is very rare, especially now, and especially in a modern hospital. Every ward is prepared for almost anything childbirth can throw at you, and emergency surgery wards are always prepped to go. I think I need to go speak with an actual doctor about her case because from what I’ve read I don’t see how things could have gone so wrong. Her death was due to issues with the epidural and something to do with the anesthesiologist. There are some details I am a little vague on.
But now to delve into more personal matters, not that childbirth isn’t extremely personal. I think I want to move. It’s not that I don’t like where I live, but more I find that I often feel listless and uninspired here. And lonely. While I enjoy the solitude, I find it has become too much for me. I’d almost give anything for someone to just look me in the eyes for more than 5 minutes, to have a conversation outside the newspaper. I just want to feel someone’s skin brush a against mine, a hand on the cheek, arms against arms, anything but a cold handshake. Maybe that’s a selfish reason to leave, but maybe I’m a selfish man.
Jane finally got here and I’ve never been so glad. After she got to my apartment she initially just slept in my bed for 3 hours. She was a bit worn from travel, as she tends to be. After she finally managed to be roused we went out to sushi and she gabbed on and on- she hates her roommate, loves her boyfriend, and wishes that she didn’t need sleep to survive so she could get more work done. Apparently she has been almost living in the studio since it was announced she would have a gallery opening with the rest of her class. She’s not one to be upstaged so she overdid herself.
Funny thing, her roommate (who she demands I refer to as “skankface”) has a different boy in her room almost every night. So, right before Jane left to visit me, she went into her roommates drawer and planted fake pills in her empty birth control pill slots. This will indicate to her that she has missed some pills and could have gotten pregnant. Quite the clever prank that doesn’t really hurt anyone. Perhaps it will even teach her a lesson. We shall see how it goes. My sister is a genius right?
Anyway, it is an amazing time so far. I have missed this closeness.
I just bought this book at a used book store and it was wonderful. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I saw it, not a lot of modern literature impresses me much. But this was full of insightful and clever stories. It is I was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley. I really enjoyed every essay. It’s a nice read, not burdened by ostentatious vocabulary (which I realize is an ostentatious word within itself) and just flows brilliantly. It gave me some hope for the current generation of writers. I lost my hope when half of my high school graduating class preferred the work of Stephen King to Joyce or Dickens.
But this, this is great. Go buy it right now. Do it.
I try, I really do, but I expect the same effort from someone I take out.
Last night I took out this girl I met at a diner near the office, Melissa. She was nice, cute, funny, but on our date she seemed so aloof. When we first spoke at the diner I told her I was a writer and she responded with telling me how much she loved literature. She went on to say she very much enjoyed the work of Jane Austen and the Brontes. Turns out she didn’t read any of them, just saw any film based on one of their books. I realized this when she misquoted Austen as we spoke about Pride and Prejudice. The line she repeated was from the movie alone. I didn’t want to point it out, but I made a mental note.
After she asked me what I liked I sort of rambled for awhile, but she wasn’t even listening. Her eyes wandered and she had nothing to add.
Are my standards too high? Is it too much for me to expect someone to share the same interests as me? She just didn’t care. I can appreciate liking different things, but at least listen when someone is telling you about theirs. I listened to her inaccurately talk about Austen and tell me all about how much fun surfing is (I’ve never tried), but she couldn’t bother to listen to me. The last nail in the coffin was when she told me how much she loved my articles and that she read every single one. Really? You like the dribble I make no effort on to produce for the masses in this town? I just expressed my gratitude and the date eventually came to a pleasant end. The kiss was nice though, I did crave some intimacy. I just wish it was enough to overlook the other flaws of the date.
I want companionship, not just another sexual partner. I need to cast out a larger net. I’m too annoyed to be eloquent right now.
I was afraid I might be one of those people who rarely updates their online journals. I hate when I “follow” someone and they stop updating or update very infrequently. Sadly, I got bogged down with assignments, all unimpressive busy work, mind you. And, a more embarrassing excuse, I recently acquired Fallout: New Vegas. Normally I don’t get addicted to video games, I play them more as an outlet for aggression or simply to relax. But this game sort of drew me in. I haven’t played any of the other games in the Fallout series, but I fear those might effect me in the same way.
I think the idea that I have almost more control in the game than I do in life has created this surrogate. In the game I can choose to be good or bad with almost no consequences either way. Sure, gameplay and interactions within the game based on the type of character I have, but I can do anything. The game is dark, I’ll give you that, but there is still something so uplifting about it.
Plus, after hours of having to listen to different people going on and on about their new bakery opening or heroic dog, I can get on the PS3 and shoot some ghouls or a bunch of slavers from Caesar’s Legion. Just barrel through shooting everyone, but go back to my previous save point and reset. Just a perfect way to bring down my stress level.
So you have Bethesda to thank for my distraction and lack of updates.
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But I promise I will never resort to Grand Theft Auto, I might as well become a frat bro if I start playing that. I just can’t get into driving around and hitting things, creating cop chases, what have you. It’s nonsensical.
I have been wanting to, but also avoiding, posting a review of some of the things I have been reading recently. I don’t want this to dissolve into a blog of reviews. Those are just so trite sometimes. Why should I care what you think about this book? Of course, why should anyone care what I think? I like to imagine that given my education, my opinion might have more weight to it.
I broke down and finally read The Original of Laura by Vladimir Nabokov. It was unfinished before his death and was actually ordered by him to be destroyed should it not be finished before he died. His wife couldn’t bring herself to do it, so she left the task to their son. He ended up publishing it after editing it himself. I wasn’t sure if I should read something he never wanted to world to see. But I went out and bought it, foregoing any moral objections, and read it in one sitting.
In the beginning, ignoring the self-serving prologue by his son, it reads like the brilliance you would expect. There is a rich character development and some beautiful prose. But quickly, and disturbingly, it dissolved into the seeming ramblings of a madman. Everything got increasingly disjointed and it was almost depressing. It was like watching the gradual breakdown of a grandparent when they can’t remember where they placed their coat or who you are. It reminded me of my grandmother on the last christmas we got to spend with her. She spent the entire day confused and kept calling everyone by the wrong names and she was so convinced it was a different day in a different time.
Part of me is furious that this was published, while it might make Nabokov very human, it also insults his genius. I don’t want to remember him this way. I didn’t want that to be the last thing I read by him. Where is all the cleverness and genius of the man that brought us one of the most controversial books ever written; Lolita? Where is the beauty of Transparent Things or Pale Fire? The Original of Laura left me wanting and dismayed. I can see why he never wanted it to see the light of day. I wouldn’t want people to see my descent into madness or senility. When I am near death and have unfinished work I will have to ensure that my work is destroyed. Maybe I will order it be buried with me.
I never want anyone to see me on the brink of insanity.
I need to curve this by re-reading some of his short stories. It is like having a bad taste in my mouth that I can’t seem to get rid of.
That couple I had mentioned before, the one that is nearly always fighting, seemed to escalate to a whole new level of incompatible and dysfunctional. Today he literally threw her out of the door and locked her out for at least 45 minutes until she apologized for who knows what. Things will only get worse. You can tell she is miserable whenever you see her; her eyes always puffy and just a blank stare accompanying everything she does. Why doesn’t she just leave? This is something I never understood. Beyond whatever feelings she has for him, there doesn’t seem to be anything keeping her from leaving, no marriage, no children, nothing. Maybe she has no one to turn to, but even so there are always places for women like her to go. But, I guess it isn’t always that.
Maybe for some people it is a point of pride. Like “I stuck it out when you couldn’t” (in my family divorce is about as common as the cold so a long marriage is like winning the olympics, the pride is well-earned). Though for others, it is just as simple as loyalty, “Even though things are not what I imagined and the love has faded I am going to stick with them because I promise I would.” There is something admirable in that, sticking to your word. But, I have to ask, is that fair? To anyone? You let them give themselves to you, consistently loving you when you can’t whole-heartedly do the same thing. Do you hold them in bed and dream of someone else? Wouldn’t that just rip you to shreds if someone did that to you? I know when I found out my ex-girlfriend had an affair I was…it’s hard to explain the feelings. It was a combination of betrayal and literal heartache. My chest felt heavy and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My hands were always trembling. I felt, worthless.
Some call it sacrifice, and I suppose it is. Staying with them to keep them happy might make you a martyr, but none of it sits well with me. You loved them once, did that love just disappear? Are you sure that it was love in the first place? This is where I envy Jane. She says that people often confuse passion for love, then the passion fades and they assume the “love” is gone. But all relationships have passion and it ebbs and flows like the tide while love is a constant. When the passion ebbs it is the love that you built between one another that keeps you going. It sounds like something I should put in a hallmark card to send out on Valentines Day, but it is true. Some just can’t tell the difference, and as sad as it is, sometimes the love was never really there and people are just holding on because they would rather not be alone. But, she can tell. She always can.
But, here I ramble about things I don’t feel I really have the authority to discuss. I might hold on because loneliness is sometimes unbearable.
This post will be sinfully short.
My neighbors down the hall are always fighting. And the boyfriend is always threatening his girlfriend by yelling “If I only had a jackhammer, Cora!” Then she just gets quiet
What could he possibly mean? I am baffled.
Maybe it’s a code…
I have been listening to a lot of Avett Brothers lately. I wish I could post videos or sound bites.
This post is almost pointless. I guess I am just trying to avoid writing up this article on the new playground equipment in a park. It’s just…below me. I don’t think I’m arrogant in thinking this. I have spent years studying classic literature, immersing myself in the works of genius and here I am writing about a cheap, plastic tube slide. I know you’ve heard this rant before but sometimes it just really gets to me.
Back to the Avett Brothers. Great band. You really should look them up. They make me feel better about my situation sometimes. Don’t let the clothes fool you, this is a modern band.
I didn’t always used to want to be a journalist. Literature was my passion and focus for as long as I can remember. It was my initial major in college. When I was reading, I was writing. I practically lived in the library. There was this table in the back corner of the 3rd floor. It was quiet and hardly anyone wandered into that section. You would be surprised by how few people need to read about paleontology, only 2 people ever wandered back there in the 4 years I spent time there, thought I can’t really account for the instances I wasn’t there. But I digress.
I wanted t be a writer. I, like most people in my degree, wanted to write the next great novel. Something that would create a tidal wave of change. But that sounds cliche, it’s not exactly what I wanted. I guess the words escape me. It was never about monetary advances, but I had a very harsh reality check talking to Professor Magnerson. He told me flat out “unless you get a job as a teacher there isn’t much you can do with your degree. You writing skills are wonderful, but getting published might be more difficult than you expect. Just become a journalist, at least then you get paid to write.”
The next day I changed my major. Sometimes I feel like I made the wrong choice. With all the deadlines I have now I don’t have the time to write all the word and ideas the are constantly buzzing around my head like a swarm of bees. “But, you keep a blog?!” Some of you might argue. It’s not the same, these thoughts are just as genuine, but quick and effortless. I feel like the bees are slowly dying out, one by one.
When I was younger my father would read to me at night. He read me the epics by Homer and upon reading things I was awakened, or as awakened as a six-year-old can be. I became fixated on characters I wouldn’t understand for more than a decade later. The heart of Odysseus was something that solidified my humanity, his strength was never tarnished by his weaknesses and his desires were pure. I remember the first time literature ever made me cry, and it was him:
So the famous singer sang his tale,
But Odysseus melted and from under his eyes tears ran down, drenching his cheeks.
As a woman weeps , lying over the body of her dear husband,
Who fell fighting for her city and people as he tried to beat off the pitiless day from
City and children; she sees him dying and gasping for breath,
And winding her body around him as she cries high and shrill,
While the men behind her, hitting her with their spear butts on the back and shoulders,
Forced her up and led her away into slavery,
To have hard work and sorrow, and her cheeks were wracked with pitiful weeping.
Such were the pitiful tears Odysseus shed from under his brows.
Not only does this simile reflect the major bonds of loyalty, but it mirrors the depth of the despair cascading through the chest of Odysseus and his wife Penelope. She is the only woman from literature whom I have ever wished was real.
I’ve been rambling. My reality is not found in the wars of the ancients, nor will it ever be pressed between to hardcovers on a dusty shelf. It is on this laptop and in newsprint each week, mocking me.
alex rothchilde 