Beauty in Error

Writings

"Palace"

She is fresh from her third stint at Tent City in less than a year. The latest go round has bronzed her naturally olive skin, highlighting hazel eyes. If rehab remains full, she’ll go back again soon. My concern is that she gets there before summer returns.

“St Mary’s,” she says.

“How was that?” I asked.

“Ok…a lot of boxes.”

I had been there myself to volunteer, back at my former place of employment. She was right. There were a lot of boxes. A coworker who had become somewhat of a friend, famous for her snobbery, stared without shame at the female inmates volunteering, even though the event coordinator had requested we refrain from doing so. “How does a person get to a point in their lives where they end up there?” she’d marveled. Two shots of Peron and a cop who waits for you to drive out of the parking lot after leaving happy hour, I wanted to say. Even superstar soccer moms knew the Tents, and Joe didn’t discriminate. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

Maria’s thoughts, like my own, are adrift. Her own heading south, to a cemetery near Florence.

“I saw Seraphina yesterday. I left a snowman on her bed.”

Seraphina was her sister. Her bed is her grave, decorated with lights and pictures and all things of the living. The ritual of life not discontinued by death. A beautiful rite among the culture, recognizing the relationship does not resolve just because flesh and bones will.

The highway itself leading to Florence is mainly reservation territory, sporadically lined with burial plots, crosses and seemingly fresh beds of dirt to canvas the dead, the swell of the earth making one wonder if the departure is recent. Every two miles is a smoke shop, where residents of nearby towns come to buy cartons of Pall Malls and Camels for 10 buck cheaper than you’d pay in the city or suburbs.

Maria travels this route every other week while touring rest stops and highway off ramps to sell the jewelry she makes from the bones of road kill. You would never know that if she didn’t tell you, the bones made smooth and free of ridges, resembling delicate beads. But she will always tell you.

“I saw her,” she says again. She is more subdued today, chemically altered, more like herself, or less, depending on how ones sees it. What can’t be cured can be sedated.

“I have something for you she says.”

She hands me a bookmark featuring the Disney princesses. On the back it reads “Con carino para Karen, de Mi.”

“I made it myself,” she says.

She didn’t. But part of me is very glad she thinks she did.

"Caught"

The death house was directly next to the visiting yard, as were the level 5 inmates. Some days you could feel them staring down at you from the third story windows, even if you couldn’t see them. This is a very off game here, knowing what people are, and what they’re capable of, and feeling remorse for actions they may not. If only because they’re families are waiting outside for them. The inmates working SMU and death row had to wear special protective gear to avoid projectile sharp objects and potentially dangerous fluids. The condemned and life occupiers can get dreadfully bored and creative. Peaceful visits would often be interrupted by ambulance sirens and medical helicopters landing to air lift the latest casualty to the hospital. A very surreal scene, as children visiting dads and grandpas, played in the background, while less than 50 feet away the chaos of mankind beat each other’s faces in. The little ones would never know, and the dad’s in orange, no matter what they had done to earn their residency, would never tell them.

There was an endless parade of pigeons, several of which had orange thread tied around their neck, or paper hats glued to their head, having been tethered as pets. The smaller children took great delight in watching the stalking creatures roam about, gasping at the feathers that became rainbows in the sun. And in all truth, there was a sweetness in these birds’ eyes, the pupils large and earnest, looking for a chance to be fed or even caught.

Three and a half years prior, this world did not exist. It became reality on the day I stood before a judge, pleading for mercy for my brother. Knees weak, voice cracking. And he looked my in the eyes, kindness and concern. And I felt like the world’ biggest donkey for almost crying in front of a courtroom full of people waiting to get on to the next sentencing. Inmates sitting in the jury box, pink-striped and shackled like my brother. Some who had committed great acts of violence. And some who had just woken up in a place they couldn’t remember getting to. But either way, I could not look to the right or to the left of me. Only at the judge. And bless his heart, he looked back. And when it was done, I left my brother behind. The same kid who used to pour a whole box of cereal in a giant serving bowl to get the toy inside.

Outside the courtroom, my parents and I hurried out. A woman sat on a bench outside the room, with her baby on her lap, silently crying. My parents, beautiful hearts with souls of consistent nature, stopped. The woman spoke very little English, but she managed to convey that her husband had been one of those sentenced, and he may be deported before she could say goodbye. My mother, speaking no Spanish, kneeled with her, and folded her hands in prayer. The woman nodded, tears streaming. She smiled. My mother squeezed her hand and moved on with my father and I, all of us into a world that already existed.

"Mill"

Downtown Tempe is flush with people tonight. Young and middle- aged couples dining, window shopping along the streets between their next stop. The clubs always revolving, peaking at midnight until 2:00 am. In the 90s it was thick with intellectuals who met at the Coffee Plantation and smelled like patchouli, party college kids inspired by Tabitha Soren and Kurt Loder to temper their recklessness with a social conscious. Except Friday and Saturday nights, when every teenager in Maricopa County walked the streets, gangbangers and preps alike, sidewalks sealed off, to flirt, to yell, and carry one with strangers. The 90s gone, and the novelty of a new millennium worn off, it is what it is now, A college town hosting a party school, trying to wear a suburban trench coat.

The former monk wanted to come here tonight. Where we first met all those years ago as kids. He was the goofy stoner kid, and I was the overly serious girl geek who would debate with the street preachers who said women shouldn’t wear pants, exchanging Bible verses with zealots while people stood and watched like it was some kind of religious-rap off.

We walk now, and he criss-crosses back and forth along the sidewalks, stopping suddenly to light a cigarette.

“Did you ever see that movie “The Witchhammer?” he asks suddenly. He grew his hair back out, his face fuller, the muted strains of gray a lost memory he doesn’t remember. His philosophical views have returned to what they were before, his conversations limited to rants about making it rain at strip joints, joking that one day he’ll throw nothing but quarters.

“Yes,” I say, with hesitation. “Witchhammer” is far removed topic from violent tantrums involving pocket change.

“At the beginning, when they show all the women. And they say women are pretty much to blame for everything?”

I don’t answer. I don’t like the look on his face. Ecclesiastic rehab aside, the meth has done its damage, triggering fragile neurotransmitters to become active volcanoes.

He doesn’t wait for me.

“Yeah, well you’re a weird person,” he offers. I make no attempt to find the trail that lead to his correlation. But then I do.

“So….I am to blame for something?” I ask.

He looks down, eyes heavy in concentration. “No,” he says finally. “You’re my best bud.” He grins widely, taking off, continuing his erratic strides across the sidewalk, while I follow behind, making sure he doesn’t fall into the street.

"Never Had"

Eve is here. Tall and thin, with dragon tattoos up and down her arms, sleeves of cornflower blues and purples. If not for lack of seams and hems, the skin itself could be a garment. .Her hair is literal knots, circling her head in intricate braided layers tied together. Barrettes featuring tiny birds show up sporadically around her head.

A courtier of histrionics favors, frequenting Aspirin overdoses, soothed by charcoal truffles that can do nothing about the ringing. That itself can last hours.

She surveys the space around her.

“You’re all idiots,” she announces. Nobody looks at her, anxious to circumvent her conclusions.

Shrugging, she sits down. A second later, fiddling with one of her bird barrettes, she pulls it out and inspects the item. The barrette is actually a bobby pin, with a tiny foam Blue Bird hot-glued to the surface. Sprinkled with glitter, the effect is starting to spoil, leaving traces in her dark hair and finger-tips.

“It’s gone,” her eyes well with tears. “I just found it and it’s already dead,” she yells, throwing it on the ground.

I don’t acknowledge these scenes anymore, at least not in any obvious manner.

She sits next to me. She’s dangerous. And not in the sense that implies a spunky attitude blazing fearless trails. What she doesn’t cut, she burns, and what she doesn’t burn she stomps. The tiny birds in her hair keep company with the blade hidden between her knotted braids. The rope burns on her neck have faded, but not well enough, and whoever did that to her is the reason she does it to others now.

I have always feared women more than men, their anger a justified rage made complicated by assumption, hormones, and vague what-if scenarios. But Eve’s anger is in a very well-earned place. Now the fire of a baby dragon is breathing down my neck, and it smells like grape scented cigarettes. Swiffer Sweets.

From the side, people watch nervously. A man big enough to escort her out, but who won’t, makes eye contact with me, and his eyes hold a silent apology.

“I heard the world is supposed to end Saturday,” she advises, her face right in mine.

“That’s too bad, “ I say, “I just ordered something from Kohl’s.”

She snorts. “Figures.”

She tries to clean some of the glitter off her fingers, wiping them on her pants.

“You know what they say don’t you?” she’s pressing for a scene.

“Sure.” I don’t want one.

“No you don’t. You don’t know anything.”

“You’re probably right.” Grit your teeth than smile.

“LOSERS baby. Losers.”

My ambivalence and the insistent glitter on her fingers frustrate her, and she wipes it on her pants furiously.

“No.” I announce.

She looks confused and agitated.

“Here,” I say, retrieving Handi-Wipes from my purse.

“Give me your hand.”

Her hand goes limp as I smooth her cuticles, removing traces of glitter and dirt. Her finger nails our outlined with what remains of her black nail polish. I am careful not to remove the smudges, as she likes them there. The glitter, not so much.

She straightens her fingers, then bends them.

“Do you think your stuff will get here in time?” she asks.

It takes me a moment to track-back. Then I remember.

“Oh yeah, I think it will be here by then.”

“Good, I hope it does.” She says.

She takes the Handi-Wipe from my hand.

“I like to save things,” she says.

"Silvan"

Medjugorie

Mirjana on her knees, refusing tissues. The blond headed person, making her way to the front, the professing pilgrims reverencing the ceiling, while she makes affirmations with the sky. A crowd falls in after, gathering notes on the tissues, written with tiny church pencils never sharp enough to dent notations.

Sometimes I look for something to wear around my neck; Saint Silvan with his coat of arms speaking through his throat. Pores coated with wax, while other Incorruptibles sink slowly into charcoal-colored gatherings and hardened coverings, pliable enough to work with, containing miracles if need be. Don't ask me why they dig them up, or gather some sweet smell took the place of rot.

I thought to visit. I am not rude; I'd sit by myself, like I do here. The blond bended woman, crying. So familiar to another blond woman, kneeling. But this one stares at the floor.

I'm not mocking.

My eyes, though, naturally green. Whether facing the floor or parallel to your forehead. The one refusing to press against mine. Don't miss my smirk when it smacks your lips.

There is a theory on conversion here.

There is no pleasure, distant or near, thinking I'd trade my soul for a lace petticoat and a 30 second parade. Too many cinched waists refusing to be mortified by their choices.

You're not a spitting oracle; my skies blue regardless. The clouds of no silent interpretation, and the reflection of the sun a blessing from God, whether four-pointed or too bright to make friends.

Reference this field when the wax proves the lifeless; reverence none sleeping. Here but to mourn and move on. The shorn symbol, the follicles swollen.

"The Hard Way"

I was kneeling like Cromwell again, waiting for the next strike to kill me.

He was standing before me. His beautiful face looking as lost as ever, but oddly in its element. H looked relieved to find me sitting on a concrete bench, against a backdrop of badly mortared bricked walls, cracked and smothered behind Oleanders. It was meant to give the impression of serenity and security at once, a type of beauty that would make sense to those who came to find it. The other side of those walls bore the marks of graffiti and artfully scripted numbers, meant to signal territorial rights. Each side of the fence bore its own defiance, one of passive resistance, the other, the war cry of rebels shred by humanity’s lost journeys.

A statue of a Madonna stood within the corner of my eye.The beautifully carved face, lips slightly parted, as if every word that might be uttered could only be stifled with a silent sob. The palms, facing upward,confronted the downward face, a mournful stare reckoning with mortal weight,yet to be lifted by eternity.

Some supposed their lady was making movements when shadows lingered too long, as if the play on lights itself bended to the will of wish. They would travel across the world to stand, hour upon hour, waiting for the tide to move. Majestic to their good fortune,much like positive thinking, where ego meets the cleft of the well, believing it can’t jump, much less drown. I thought nothing like that, as I stared blankly at the serene face of the emulation of the mother of my Lord and Savior. A woman I much, much admired and loved, but would never worship. Her maternal glow, always so tinged with sadness and aching, emotions long since abandoned in her current dwelling of heaven. It pained me her followers believed her perennial stance of heartache could reach her from earth.

The man remained standing before me, allowing whatever thoughts I had to delay his greeting. I had positioned myself in the middle of the bench, the fabric of my skirt covering a good portion, so that no one could sit beside me, neither to the left nor the right. The skirt was cotton, pleated, yellow flowers, with black lining. A favorite, I hold it to my side, clenched in my fist when the wind blows too hard. At that moment it was spread evenly on both sides of me, a barricade between all peripheral intruders and myself. He looked at me, then the edgings of my skirt, and a silent request for me to move. He,like myself, seemed to be debating which side to move to. I edged a few inches to the right, and he sat.

Thank you," he said nodding.

He was dressed in a slate colored robe, Birkenstocks on his feet. His bright blue eyes were a contrast to his attire, his closely cropped hair a sign of the oath he was contemplating. Habit was tempting to me to call him by his birth name, but he had already chosen anew one, and I couldn’t call him that one either. It was hard to discern if he was content, or abiding in the appearance of contentment. He smiled easily enough, but then, so did I. It meant nothing and never had.

“You look different. Your hair is blond now, and really long,” he commented, patting my head, forgetting I hated when people did that. “And you still love clothes.” He laughed, touching the hem of my skirt.

“Always.” I said.

He grinned, running his hand over his head. He fingered the rosary around his belt, nodding to the nearby statue of his lady. His tall frame seemed frail beneath his gray dress, fashioned to remove all vanity and sense of self. The proper gown for a man who wanted to die to this world. To himself.

“How is your brother?” he asked. “Do you still see him?”

“Every other week.”

“Does he get out soon?”

“A year from now,” I replied.

He was referring to my younger brother. Mentally, spiritually, and physically,the strongest man I knew.

“I think it’s great you didn’t abandon him,” my friend said.

“He’s my brother.”

“I know, but some people don’t care. A lot of people abandoned me. I guess I deserved it,” his voice drifted.

“We all deserve it. And people who only love you when you’re good forgetthat none of us are good, and that all of our sins nailed Christ to the cross.”

He nodded, agreeing, but still sad.

“It’s hard,” he continues.

“It’s life. And life is full of people who believe the stars exist to make them look more beautiful, and that when they get to heaven, they’ll be greeted by five people who will kiss their feet for eternity because they once said hi to them in the Dollar Store. The greatest joke on humanity is that we think it’s about us. And it never will be.”

He laughed. I wasn’t sure if I had chastised him for his honesty.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You and your sorrys. You’re always sorry,” he said.

“Always.”

“It’s strange,” he began, “I used to live for all the things that were killing me. Now that I don’t, I don’t feel alive.”

I didn’t chastise him that time. I knew exactly what he meant.

“It’s difficult to live by what you know, and not what you feel. Killing ourselves makes us forget that. But then you have to remember what you know again. And it is better. I promise,” I said

“Do you think in heaven we get some of the things we never had on earth, the ones we really longed for, that were true and good?” He asked. He sounded desperate. His eyes became reminiscent of the man I knew before, circling in and out of fog and chemicals, swelling from needles that still left scars.Looking for something in heaven he could not find on earth.

“In heaven, I think we have all we need,” I said finally.

What was left of daylight faded before us. Waiting with all patience for its cue to guide its audience.

He neared closer, placing his head on my shoulder. Instinctively I stroked what was left of his newly cut hair. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and we sat. It was neither romantic nor sexual, just a humble gesture of admission,grasping the thought that maybe one of beauties of heaven is that you forget everything that took place on earth. And maybe the horror of hell being you do not.

Copy right Karen Gail. 2011.

"Noon"

The air smells like burned out tires. The sun shone too bright, hitting my eyes at the wrong time. Various medals have a similar stench, sitting about, tired from wandering. Some are glass, some metal.Whoever made them thought that this was a good idea.

"You're not making sense anymore," he says. His hair is matted close to his head, on purpose no less. He reminds me of a voodoo doll, an impromptustudy of impersonation, formed from raw string and crude materials, meantto ward off evil intent, or conjure its uses under desperate straits.

"Do you think people ever change?"

" I don't know," I say.

He is so eager to impress me, thoughtful with words read verbatim from a mind intent on pretense and dialogue. He just wants to talk and make sure everythingis okay. Formulaic nonsense that plays out well in his head, but drags itselfout in real life. Deep conversations meant to provoke thought and innuendo,fishing for compliments that don't exist.

A couple walks by, their words and gestures animated. Their body language suggests they're more than friends, as she leans in close to him and heresponds likewise. She is at least ten years his senior, wearing too tightjeans, and a halter-top. He wears a band t-shirt featuring the name of some NuMetal band that annoys me, the chain from his wallet riding low from hipsthat seems to move too eagerly. The woman is carrying a Carl's Jr bag from thenear by restaurant. For a few moments my thoughts drift to the early days inCalifornia, the only place I could find a Carl's JR and Del Taco. Back when aMervyn's sat on every corner, and me and my Grandma shopped one summer during amemorable July. I held her hand throughout the store, and she bought me apink fluffy robe. I paraded around in it proudly when I got home. A novelty andtreasure that followed me back to a place I didn't love or like as much asGarden Grove.

I stay there for a few minutes before realizing the couple is looking at us strangely, eyes slightly panicked and imploring for explanation. I smile and nod, but he sits beside me looking at his feet awkwardly .The distinct scent of dying rubber still lingers. Looking around us, I realize we're out of place,and at the very least one of us should leave.

"Well," I announce, standing up. I have nothing else to say but"well." I turn and look at him, still sitting with his elbows on knees, lanky and a bit dull of perception at this instant. I stare down, and for that moment I know what a brick at the bottom of a lake feels like. I reac hto touch the soft hair still matted to his head, and he looks up, eyes squinting from the sun. He touches my hand.

"You know," I say, "you're a lot more like Ophelia than I am"

He smiles. "I know," he says.

I start walking, and from the corner of my eye I see nothing

"Pause then Bend"

It was always the day before, where all matters circumvented as naturally as seconds would allow. It was not at all quiet, and not at all loud. It was make- believe, in that all undisclosed words and unrequited pauses were assurances of immortality. Somehow the grace of continuity would rage, and there would be the truest answer.

Securely as grace would allow, there was this need to aggravate the seconds. Bulling forward so that in 24 hours, you could will the sun to turn counterclockwise. There at that exact hour, just one minute before, when the bread of heaven still fell weightless into the mouth. Such a foul and untrusting deed to spit before swallowing, and complain that the wafers were too sweet and plenty.

I will always find something to feel badly about.

"Blue Horses"

Among the transients and the solicitors was a group known as recovery specialists and peer counselors. The latter, having been redeemed by the mutual baptism of inpatient and Risperdal, were entrepreneurs of self-revelation and healing. They believed in a utopia of wellness where everyone was likewise bathed in introspection and acceptance. They didn't like others to be called by their conditions. Occasionally one would forget their name and some kind soul would remember the disease, and call to them accordingly. Their proper Eden was only a dream that deviated as far as their relapses would allow. And when it did allow, the combined support of the peers was available to speak their universe back into existence and make the black void whole again.

And then there was Guy. Guy had become a misprint on a breached negotiation. There was never a revelation of diagnosis. There was only SMI with its consequential codes and acronyms, and anything else was hush hush. What made Guy exceptional was that he himself was unaware of the code assigned to him, completely oblivious to his chemical plague.

Guy's lack of internal epiphany made him problematic among the peers. Without insight there was no recovery, and without recovery, there was no utopia. But that is not to say he did not have his own kin. They were not the bipolars, the depressives, histrionics, borderlines, or even the drug-induced psychotics. They were the Lifers, the ones mandated by birth and chemical disharmony to live a life of unbridled reason and perspective. Unlike the former conditions, which could enjoy temporal and eventual lucidity, the Lifers floated about like lost angels, not yet fallen from grace, but unable to make earth their shelter. They could not be called misguided, because without conscious revelation from within, there was no influence of outside standard to harness them either. Even when properly medicated, they would always be a bit off. The truly misguided would call them demonic, a stigma that would further be augmented whenever one of their brothers or sisters engaged in one of the fouler affects of their condition. The other Lifers, likewise, would be branded monsters, unfairly and without provocation, making the dream of utopia a sham.

But Guy was not a monster. He was a Lifer in their purest form, eager only to spare others from the imagined cruelties he supposed were trying to devour him. He always smiled like his mother was watching and told illogical tales of his community service working with schools and computers which would eventually flow into a lesson on conspiracy of how the officials in the neighborhood were trying to prevent him from making a difference, which would in turn drift into a melodious plot of larger world domination. The sincerity of his warnings always haunted me, not because I believed them true, or because he did, but because he thought enough of a woman he hardly knew to want to shield her from the terrors he thought existed. It was in those instances I understood utopia was not about wellness, but the sincere desire to provide a safe home for both lost angels and strangers.

And on a day when I found him mumbling incoherently to himself, agitated and scared, I stood and watched, because it seemed rude not to. As he shook his head, waving away thoughts his mind could no longer nourish, he suddenly looked up and saw me. Somewhere in the fog, a spark of recognition occurred, or maybe just an eagerness to bear the burden of his thoughts to another, and he raced towards me. I stood and listened for several minutes, saying "mm mm" to a constant flow of narration that was barely audible and never decipherable. I sat down and so did he, and the talking continued. Finally, exhausted, he put his head on my shoulder, and I put my hand on his head. The smell of body odor and stale cigarettes in my nose, the further indication he'd not rested for days and found no relief in or available use for daily rituals. For the moment my shoulder was his resting place, and for some reason, it seemed normal to me that this man I hardly knew should have his head next to mine as the world looked on. It was silent for a while. When he regained his strength, he told me in words I could finally understand that he was the chosen one and that Christmas was a conspiracy.

And like one of Martin Luther's Harlot Stars, so different from the others and marked for distinction, one could only wonder if the projected beauty and brightness had long since become a ghost of the eons, now haunting the atmosphere.

"999134"

One week. It's important I tell you before. This isn't some moral hijinx confusing you with a cause. I am sad for you. I have prayed, and I keep praying. Like I have for you and those with you. People have this tendency to think I am a self-rightous chanter, but I speak a dialect usually chased with something worded like the sinner's prayer.

You get a watch, I have noticed, probably from commissary. It's kind of a special treat, I guess. I have sat beside men with numbers attached to them, either sewed on, snapped on, or swung around their necks. Watched as friends and family fed quarters to vending machines, getting them a candy bar or a sandwhich, a soda. I have put coins in the machine for a number I know, while he and the others like him sat and ate in delight like they were little kids consuming a rare snack. And that's usually when my heart gets sick, remembering that even the most deviant among us still harbor a child somewhere inside them, wishing for a short time to play, or to have something that separates one day from the day before that

That's when I started to pray for you. Not forgetting what you'd done, but remembering that my own sins nailed my Lord to the cross. We only get one shot at heaven, and only while on earth. And whatever political snafu or legal technicality helps you, it only the Lord's blood that can save you, like it saved me.

I know men who've broken laws and will never serve a day, while there's innocent men who serve and will never see the light of day. Can't explain exactly what that's about, other than Satan plays favorites, because God Himself does not.

What you did, it really was not an adolescent quirk, or choice as you called it. I think you've known the entire time that the consequence you view as a murderer is not only the distinction of bad choices, but the downfall of murderers themselves. Those with remorse can feel it, even if they don't agree. And the gravity, you never felt it before, but this time you do. Because it's you now.

But friend, when is it ever really not us, and how can we all not feel it?

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