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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 5 of 5. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 10:43:21
The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming, 2001
The jewel-like
Amber flames
Of three tea candles
Arranged
In a triangle
Hang suspended,
Almost motionless,
Above the scratched
And chipped surface
Of my wooden
Kitchen table.In the triad's center,
An audio cassette
Lies atop
A carefully wrought
Hand-written note.
The song
Etched in
The magnetic particles
Clinging
To the tape's
Dual reels
Is Sarah McLachlen's
"Angel,"
And the note
Politely requests
That it be played
At my funeral.Her lyrics float
On the updrafts
Of my mind,
Mimicking
The evanescent tendrils
Of white smoke
Rising,
Soul-like,
From the table top:
"Spend all your time
Waiting
For a second chance,
For a break
That would make
It okay.
There's always
Some reason
To feel
Not good enough
And it's hard
At the end
Of the day.
I need
Some distraction,
Oh beautiful release,
Memories seep
From my veins.
Let me be empty,
And weightless,
And maybe
I'll find some peace
Tonight.
In the arms
Of an angel,
Fly away
From here ..."Her soft voice
Croons
Across the jagged peaks
And the
Blasted,
Blackened,
Post-nuclear moonscape
That stretches
To the horizon
Whenever
I close
My eyes,
But the reverie
Fades,
And my attention
Returns
To the task
At hand.Behind the glow
Of the tiny flames,
The only lights
In the apartment,
Sits a wedding day
Photograph
In a sterling silver frame,
Alyssa and I,
Our arms wrapped
With placid familiarity
Around
Each other
Amid an explosion
Of late-August roses.
A fountain,
Containing
An abstract sculpture
Carved from
Gorgeous pink
Italian marble,
Sends jets
Of glittering
Rainbow-hued
Liquid prisms
Tumbling
Through the air
Before
A cloudless
Deep blue sky.
The faint light
Of the miniature
Ceremonial torches
Gives the photograph
The aura
Of an icon
Looming
Over votive candles
Within a hushed church
Where even time
Holds its breath
In anticipation.And directly
In front of
The leading corner
Of the blazing trinity
Sits a box-cutter,
Its handle a dull
Pewter color,
The razor inside
Still sheathed,
But waiting,
Waiting,
With the
Impatience
Of
Unblemished,
Untried,
Untested,
Unquiet
Sharpened steel.I slowly grasp
The box-cutter
In the quivering
Fingers
Of my right hand,
Raise it
To eye level,
Then flick out
The shiny, shiny
Triangular blade.
I touch it
To the lines
That I've drawn
From my left wrist
To the crook
Of my elbow
With a felt-tip pen,
Marking the positions
Of the veins
That pulse
Beneath the fragile
Veil
Of flesh.I touch the point
To my wrist,
Then pull it
Away.
Touch the point,
Pull away.
Touch the point
And
Bite
Into the skin,
Watching
With detached
Fascination
As a bead
Of rich crimson
Rises
From the cut.
I think,
That can't be
My blood.
That can't be
My wrist
Because
I'd never
Do
Such a thing.
I'm observing
Someone else,
A stranger,
A desperate
Lost stranger
Trying to find
His way home,
And I'm here
To help.
So I lower
The razor
Again,
Aligning the blade
With the
Meticulously drafted
Road map
Adorning
Wrist and forearm,
Steadying myself
To hit the accelerator
And begin
The journey.The phone rings
And I jump,
Startled,
As it emits
A stammering
Electronic shriek,
The sound of
A digital
21st-century banshee
Wailing
In stuttering
Mechanical chirps.I grit my teeth,
Touch the blade
To an arm
That remains
As placid
And unaware
Of the
Nearby danger
As a lamb
Entering
A slaughterhouse,
But the telephone
Just keeps on screaming,
And the momentum
Has been lost.
The box-cutter
Tumbles
To the floorboards
From a grip
Grown numb
With tension,
And I move
Toward the phone
As if
It is a strange
And exotic
Creature,
My mind
Adrift
In a place
Where the
Extraordinary act
Is the ordinary,
And the ordinary
Is now alien.A man says, Hello,
And launches
Into a pitch
For vinyl siding,
And I stand there,
Listening passively,
Thinking,
What kind
Of fu**ing world
Is it
Where a
Guy
Can't even
Slit his wrist
Without a
Vinyl-siding salesman
Butting in
And accidentally
Saving his life?
I tell him
I live in
An apartment,
And he seems annoyed
That I didn't
Bring this up
Earlier,
But, hell,
I had other things
On my mind
At the time.The phone clicks
Softly
Into its cradle,
And I shuffle back
To the table,
Retrieving the box-cutter
From the floor
And retracting
The razor blade.
I blow out
The tea candles
And pick up
The photograph
And the cassette
And the note
And place them all
In their special box
For another
Night.
How many times
Has it been now?
I wonder.
Twelve tries,
I think,
An even dozen.
And I can't help
But smile, bemused
At a new nugget
Of hard-won
Secret knowledge:
God
Has a sense of humor
Even more twisted
Than my own.
-- Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 19, 2004, at 16:29:20
In reply to poem...The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming, 2001, posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 10:43:21
This poem hurts. It cuts deep.
I read it twice. Once this morning. Then later today. It didn't get any easier.I thank the Lord for the vinyl siding guy that called your number.
Why did you pick up the phone..... Neo?
Knock, knock...I am so glad you did.
I never would have known how much I would have missed you.
There just would have been a void.
Great poem. So vivid.Ta:) Jai Narayan the woman who awaits great poems penned by Atticus
Posted by malthus on August 19, 2004, at 18:20:34
In reply to poem...The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming, 2001, posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 10:43:21
While evoking wonder, fear and torment, you introduce levity--such a riveting combination.
"A man says, Hello,
And launches
Into a pitch
For vinyl siding,
And I stand there,
Listening passively,
Thinking,
What kind
Of fu**ing world
Is it
Where a
Guy
Can't even
Slit his wrist
Without a
Vinyl-siding salesman
Butting in
And accidentally
Saving his life?
I tell him
I live in
An apartment,
And he seems annoyed
That I didn't
Bring this up
Earlier,
But, hell,
I had other things
On my mind
At the time."
Posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 18:49:36
In reply to Re: poem...The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming, 2001 » Atticus, posted by malthus on August 19, 2004, at 18:20:34
Nothing takes the steam and high drama out of a suicide ritual like the sudden intrusion of the mundane. Even at such a dark moment, I could see the black humor in the situation. I remember thinking later that if Charlie Brown had a severe mental illness, this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to him. It was probably about the 30th try when I actually went through with it. The downside of being registered on the "Do not call" list, I guess. But I have finally thrown out that damned "suicide kit" box that I kept in my bedroom closet for years. Atticus
Posted by Atticus on August 19, 2004, at 19:43:25
In reply to Re: poem...The Telephone Just Keeps on Screaming,, posted by Jai Narayan on August 19, 2004, at 16:29:20
Hullo, Trinity,
I'm glad it didn't work out that time, either. You've become a dear friend, as palpable a supportive and welcome presence as if we'd actually met. I've said this in group so many times I think the others are sick of hearing it, but you never know what amazing things may lie just around the corner out of sight. I must have set up and started that little ritual 30 or more times before I finally completed it this past spring. I think I picked up the phone because the ritual had been spoiled, its grim rhythms interrupted. That's an artist for you. Or an obsessive-compulsive. When I used to play the piano, if I made a single error while practicing, I'd go all the way back to the beginning of the piece and start over. I think even my death had to be, in my mind, some kind of performance piece. But I also think I just wasn't quite ready yet, and on some level I felt relieved that I had been given an excuse that time to pull back from the abyss. It was very different this past spring, though, after all those false starts. I was so overwrought that the cutting was over in seconds. One slash. Another. And another. Then I plunged my left hand and forearm into this big cooking pot filled with very warm water that I had sitting beside me, fearful that even with those big deep gashes, the blood would clot. But as you know from "Spots," I had second thoughts pretty quickly once the dizziness and terror set in, and I realized that this was not going to be anything like Sarah McLachlen's romanticized version of self-destruction. I guess for me, the big question in all of this is not why I answered the phone that time; it's why I finally went through with it this year. What made me step over the edge this spring when I had stepped back, for one reason or another, so many times before? I have no answer for that. I guess it's the question that had haunted me most throughout this whole strange summer. I wonder if other would-be suicides go through years of "rehearsals" and false starts before finally giving the performance of a lifetime? In any case, I've finally tossed that "suicide kit" box and its contents out. It no longer sits in the back of my closet, ready and waiting. But in one of life's little touches that's both touching and darkly funny, whenever I have dinner at my sister's house, she gives me a plastic knife and fork to eat with; everyone else has regular silverware. My mom now does this, too. I'm glad you're getting something out of these poems. I know I am (but I'm not always sure exactly what until a read them later) -- especially the chance to "talk" with you. Ta. :) Atticus
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