Though it might seem sometimes like you’ve nothing to write, of course you do.

There are countless moments of your day. You could catalogue them via Instagram, Facebook, or what have you, and to you those social transmissions will conjure pleasant memories of the recorded moment when you later review your own profile. All this quiets the desire one might have to write and to laboriously render experience into words. It is easier to passively consume experiences than to engage with them and question why they seemed significant to you in the first place.

Last Sunday I walked through Fells Point, Baltimore’s historic waterfront area. Parking was scarce, but I finally found a spot in front of the garish red and yellow Antique Man storefront.

An older couple, evicted from their house last fall, left all of their possessions behind. “Floor to ceiling with old crap,” declared a friend who’d walked through the place before it was auctioned off. Classic Baltimore, in other words, this city laden with kitsch, tacky folk art and pop remainders everywhere masking dead rats, poverty, and abandonment. A two-story tall pink poodle on wheels, a giant flamingo on a storefront, a life-size Santa Clause staring at you from a screen door, the latter being what greeted visitors to that old house around the corner.

It’s not too hard to get yourself a rambling house to yourself here, but keeping it is. And when those women’s possessions had nowhere to go, they probably went to The Antique Man’s store, a cavernous garage jammed with carnival relics and yard art. Safe scares abound. A leering, over-sized plaster Marilyn Monroe, a stuffed bear next to dead-eyed porcelain dolls, and a twelve-foot, two-headed mummy encased in glass beside a cheap fake sunflower arrangement and beneath a stuffed bird preserved in flight. The mummy is black-brown and battered, carrying a rough shield and clad in a yellowed loincloth, retired to collectible status after a career as a sideshow attraction. “He started at Barnum and Bailey’s,” the woman at the store told me, “Then made it down to smaller and smaller carnivals. Got stuck in Baltimore at some point, I guess.” Standing near the cash register placed directly across from him, she admitted to forgetting he was there, most of the time.

Leaving the store, I felt like a kid stumbling out of a haunted house. Why did the mummy, a likely forgery,* upset me more than any other experience that week? I imagined him living, if he ever had, a thyroidal anomaly that might have been more like two people, brains functioning independently, than one. Felled as a trophy and traded for profit to a freak show manager, who himself was probably a marginal individual, scraping by on ever-less as the years passed. Even if this mummy wasn’t real, there must have been a prototype, a tall man who had seemed a novelty to an opportunistic English colonist, perhaps brought to the Americas to be exhibited at the World’s Fair. Maybe it was anger I felt, directed toward the shop owner displaying this cultural fetish without any context of apology. Toward Victorian fair-goers for patronizing such spectacles, and for later telling friends about them and hence perpetuating the mythology of frightening, primitive, “other” bodies. It could even be that too much Twitter reading has made my “offense” reflex way more sensitive than it needs to be.

But instead of dwelling on any of this, I chose to take a surreptitious photo, apply a filter, post it on Instagram and caption it with the words, “In a strange place.”

* Like any good sideshow hawker, the owner of The Antique Man will not admit directly that the mummy, supposedly a slain ancient warrior named Kap-Dwa, is fake. You are welcome to pretend for a little that he is real, or at least that he is a copy of a real thing. Imagine The Fortean Times is an actual newspaper and you will be well on your way.

Oh, what a feeling! When furniture is falling through the ceiling. Abandoned Barber-Colman factory in Rockford, Illinois

Ray had his fingers on the pulse of a deeper loneliness. He seemed to know, in the unintentional way of a fiction writer, that the country’s future would be most unnerving in its very ordinariness, in the late-night trip to the supermarket, the yard sale at the end of the line. He sensed that beneath the surface of life there was nothing to stand on.

– George Packer on Raymond Carver in The Unwinding

Safety net be damned; in the America George Packer describes, there is nothing to catch those who lose their footing. A family in Tampa struggles to pay their bills (including cancer treatment for their daughter), by cobbling together an income from minimum wage work. It’s not just high school dropouts who struggle, though. There are those like Dean Price, a North Carolina man who “bought into a lie: go to college, get a good education, get a job with a Fortune 500 company, and you’d be happy.” He wasn’t happy, though, and when he tried to seize upon his dream of building a self-sustaining biodiesel business for his community, he ran against skepticism and bureaucracy that defied his strident efforts for years.

While this is the reality for most of Americans, some of whom still live in communities without access to broadband internet, Silicon Valley billionaires strike deals and enrich each other further by the month. Attempt to describe what some of these companies do to merit their millions of dollars worth of seed capital, and you will often find a frustrating dearth of information. Clinkle, which recently raised $25 million in seed money, is a company launched by a 22-year-old. Its flashy website offers little concrete information; the company claims to be developing a revolutionary payment system, but how that might compete with other payment processing companies like PayPal or Square is unclear.

An economy needs creators and workers. One should not be doomed to constantly teeter on the edge for being one and not the other. No, incomes need not be equal across the board. Workers must simply be paid enough such that if they have ideas toward improving their families’ lives or those of others, then they should have enough economic leeway to explore and implement those ideas. Be they WalMart associates and waiters or nonprofit employees and teachers, many employed people can’t afford to take risks these days. They are barraged with advertisements for products that they can just barely afford, and what little money they might have available to save gets put into savings accounts that provide an interest yield lower than the inflation rate. Beneath their labor lies nothingness, the brutal truth being that wealth is squeezing ever more tightly into a shrinking  proportion of American hands. No amount of overtime hours will put you ahead. The New York TImes reports that some minimum wage-earners feel that their work situation is so poor, that they might as well speak out about their miserable employment. Even this is a somewhat of a fantasy, as many residents of fading American towns struggle even to find minimum wage work.

In V, Thomas Pynchon calls decadence “a falling away from what is human,” wherein ugly atrocities and thorough vapidity are masked behind aesthetic beauty and indulgent pleasure. George Packer profiles Alice Waters, her healthy food movement and her blind faith that organic produce will save troubled schoolchildren and their families. Though Packer seems to give Waters credit for her hard work and self-driven success, he finds fault with her efforts to marry social justice to the local, organic food movement. Waters lobbies to have school cafeterias provide more healthful and well-sourced meals, and grows frustrated when her campaign meets resistance. Though perhaps her heart is in the right place, her actions have an air of “Let them eat cake” naiveté. Beautiful, delicious heirloom tomatoes serve only to add a veneer of pleasantry to life in poverty and the ceaseless battle against structural discrimination. The proliferation of affordable luxuries–designer collaborations at Target and meals from scratch at “upscale fast food” chains like Chipotle–give people an illusion that they are doing well even as their status and support systems crumble. Meanwhile the other, ugly side of decadence is the immense financial rewards given to those in today’s golden tech and finance industries.

The harder we work for less pay than we deserve, the more we reinforce a system that siphons wealth steadily upward. It might look like we are doing well, even feel like it sometimes, but as The Unwinding makes clear, most of us aren’t.

Un Flic

“You can’t move a camera like that anymore.”

We all giggled while watching Jean-Pierre Melville’s Un Flic (1972), during a shot of a blonde cocaine mule carrying a pair of trick-suitcases onto a train. The camera follows his hand to the door, which he locks, and then traces a shaky path toward the suitcases, where from each he lifts a shirt and then a panel to reveal empty space. The camera lingers there unsteadily for a beat.

Melville is a master, known for work like Army of Shadows and Un Cercle Rouge, two taut, serious works about the French Resistance during World War II and highly choreographed theft, respectively. Un Flic, which means “A Cop,” is not, in technical terms, one of his best. The editing is jumpy and the dialogue goofy. You wouldn’t call it campy, it’s more like Melville couldn’t be bothered to smooth over all of the film’s imperfections. That attitude makes Un Flic memorable in a way that many of today’s films aren’t.

Take the scene in the bathroom of a moving train where Commissaire Edouard Coleman, the titular cop, attempts to bust a crime in progress. After descending from a helicopter to the train car, Edouard pauses, and the film with him. He carefully styles his hair, cleans his face, and changes from a dirty jumpsuit to a dapper robe before walking the halls of the train. It is a slow scene, and drags longer than it needs to do. I liked it, though, because it demonstrates the labored execution of Edouard’s plan. His entry into the train is not about the effortless, slick acrobats of superhero films and Tom Cruise vehicles. The bystanders do not fall away as our star comes to take care of the bad guys. They are obstacles, which is why Edouard makes himself over to look like a first class train passenger before venturing into a hallway filled with observant ticket punchers.  Edouard is a patient and thorough planner. He even brings a comically large generic magnet on board with him, which he uses to slide open the lock of his pursuit’s train cabin.

Imperfect old films like Un Flic refresh one used to the smooth action films we see today, where everything looks high budget and rigorously rehearsed. They respect their audience more, and trust in their ability to suspend disbelief and, more importantly, to fill in the gaps the film leaves with imagination. In a pivotal scene of Un Flic, the characters walk through a museum. Behind them sits a hazy painting of the continued museum halls and visitors. Now, for all I know, there is such a museum in France where a bland mural decorates the end of a hallway. But in the framework of the film, this mural operates as a loosely defined backdrop, more akin to a stage piece than a film background. I’m sure many a would be filmmaker, rich with ideas but low on cash, wishes they could get away with such shortcuts today.

Later, a rinky-dink model of a helicopter hovers unevenly over a cheap looking train set. These playroom models represent the setting of the climax. A modern director might use flashy CGI, elite stuntmen, and a dramatic score to enhance this scene. Not Melville. But though we all laughed when these models first appeared on screen, they did not stop us from engaging in the tense climax. By that point in the film, we were invested in the cops and crooks drama, and we didn’t mind pretending the models were real trains.

With films like Un Flic, not all details are provided for us, and that’s fine. The viewer must do more work, and the director pulls them into a more active role, encouraging them to engage with and author their own details of the film. I will remember Un Flic for its flaws much more than I will remember the last blockbuster I saw for its perfection.

You can back away from caring about suspicionless surveillance by arguing, “It doesn’t concern me, I have nothing to hide.” But there can’t honestly be people who have nothing to hide, right?

Doesn’t everyone watch weird porn or talk about their spouse to an ex or explore doubts about their religion or Google Katy Perry lyrics? Don’t some research suicide methods or drug rehab centers or just barely legal drugs? It can’t just be me. These are the things we may wish to hide from our boss, our spouse, our family, or our friends, but they are also the things we expect will be uninteresting to  law enforcement in comparison to graver crimes others commit. The government might have an open file on us, and it might contain all of our questionable internet and phone activity, but who cares?

Perhaps still people feel they, as individuals, are doing nothing that would ping the government’s anti-terrorism data filters. In that sense, they might rightly feel that they are not effectively being watched. But surveillance is not an individual problem—it is a group one.

Our ability to act and speak and even think freely cannot be exercised comfortably when we are constantly watched. With a slight change to the definition of words like “terrorism” or “potential threat”, whole new swathes of data might become incriminating. In a more extreme possibility, the list of crimes worthy of detection and prosecution based on aggregate collection of metadata could be expanded to include crimes like drug use or trafficking and acts of civil disobedience. Youthful indulgences or moral campaigns might become bad marks on our record.

As Wired writer Moxie Marlinspike points out, you should be able to do illegal things, sometimes. Breaching the edges of legality while hidden within a group is the mechanism by which a nation of laws evolves, as seen recently in the changes to laws regarding same-sex marriage and medical marijuana. Jim Crow laws were broken before they were banned, as were anti-sodomy laws. Society did not crumble then, nor will it, to use Marlinspike’s example, when marijuana becomes a universally legal treatment for the pains of cancer and other ailments. Marlinspike writes:

Imagine if there were an alternate dystopian reality where law enforcement was 100% effective, such that any potential law offenders knew they would be immediately identified, apprehended, and jailed. If perfect law enforcement had been a reality in Minnesota, Colorado, and Washington since their founding in the 1850s, it seems quite unlikely that these recent changes would have ever come to pass

Would there have been a massive push for medical marijuana were it not for illicit smokers discovering its painkilling effects? Patients in the nearly twenty states that have legalized medical marijuana would laugh if you suggested so. Similarly, would a vivid LGBT community have developed without people violating anti-sodomy laws for decades before they were repealed? Doubtful.

Though it might sound paranoid to imagine the United States government abusing its powers to target petty crime, many members of minority groups and protest organizations know too well that it is not beyond the United States government to cast their net too broad. Just this week, New York City Muslims filed suit against the New York City Police Department. Constant surveillance, including the recording of conversations and the collection of license plate numbers, has thwarted their efforts to gather and to practice their religion. Asad Dandia, plaintiff and leader of the group Muslims Giving Back told the ACLU:

“I am constantly frightened. What if I say the wrong thing?…Islam requires giving back to the community that which you have been given by God. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet I am unable to practice Islam fully because of what the Police Department did to me.”

It has been argued that because such surveillance has long been targeted at religious groups, civil rights activists, organized protesters, and political advocacy groups, then we should not be surprised by the NSA’s PRISM program. Really, though, I’m sure there are few who are truly “surprised” by the recent leaks. We have known for over a year that the NSA was building a massive data center, thanks in part to Wired’s March 2012 cover story. It was assumed, then, that the collected data would be culled from United States citizens.

The totality of the NSA surveillance has arrived with a whimper, even though similar things seem so dramatic in fiction like 1984, in part because of all of the sinister surveillance that preceded it. We have become somewhat jaded, inclined to a one-upmanship mentality that says, “So what if you’re being watched, I’ve known that I’m being watched for years and you never cared before.” But this is again a misguided argument, one that avoids a chance to finally get together a united front of, imagine this, right wing government-skeptics, progressive politicians, Muslim leaders, and young protesters. Though it is frustrating to wonder where the privileged opponents of suspicionless surveillance were when the practice only targeted minority groups, now is not the time to hang tightly to that grudge. Instead, it ought to be the time to engage in a bipartisan debate regarding the implications of a government (and private contractors) who can watch whomever they want, looking for traces of whatever vaguely defined threats have been defined for the time.

“Hero or traitor?” was the original question. I don’t like these labels, and they are putting people into categories of two extremes, villain or saint. … By law, he fits the legal definition of a whistle-blower. He is someone who exposed broad waste, abuse and in his case illegality. … And he also said he was making the disclosures for the public good and because he wanted to have a debate.

-Jessica Radack, lawyer from the Government Accountability, in conversation with USA Today

During the last week, I’ve had several conversations about PRISM and the leaks that revealed the program. Almost invariably, these conversations veer toward a discussion of Edward Snowden. Is he a self-sacrificing hero or an egotistical fabricator? Has he enlightened American citizens, or put the country at risk? And how about that pole-dancing girlfriend?

Talking about Edward Snowden (and, I admit, writing about him) is much easier than talking about the implications of the NSA’s surveillance of American citizens. Stories about his character and personal life are easy to spread. This is the result of a over a decade of suffocating celebrity culture, and the frenzied pace of social media. We are obsessed with individual notoriety and fame, and we apply the same paparazzi mentality toward every public figure, whether they be accused murderers or politicians. The celebrification of people from all fields impedes us from engaging in meaningful discourse of the issues America faces today. By indulging our curiosity for the details of Edward Snowden’s personal and professional life, we lose sight of the act he committed, a leak of information regarding a suspected but hitherto unconfirmed surveillance initiative geared by the United States Government toward its own citizens.

We are allowing ourselves to play a game of individualistic considerations, not public interest. The thought “I have nothing to hide, it doesn’t affect me,” pairs easily with the question, “Who is this Snowden guy, anyway?” Americans act as though the likeability of Edward Snowden is a prerequisite to our acting on the truths he unveiled, those truths seeming remote from our individual well-being, anyway. It is easier to work our way through character analysis than to engage in complex issues of privacy and civil liberties. If we can dismiss him, and the surveillance doesn’t bother us in any immediate way, then we don’t have to worry about what he says.

The troubling thing is that journalists are aware of the tendency of facile gossip and character dissection to displace serious discourse. They remark on it even as they engage in it. Jezebel‘s Katie J.M. Baker writes, “It’s bullshit to focus on Snowden’s personal life instead of the real bullshit he exposed,” but she buries this sentence in an article about Snowden’s girlfriend that analyzes the woman’s Instagram photos and blog musings. Writing in Mashable, Alex Fitzpatrick advise Snowden that if he “wants to minimize the media’s increasing tendency to characterize him as an exaggerator, he would be wise to choose his words more carefully.” The article is entitled “Edward Snowden Falsely Claims Government Accused Him of Treason,” and it seizes upon a possibly inaccurate statement Snowden made in today’s live Q&A with readers of the Guardian. Fitzpatrick misses the point, though. If we are worried about whether Snowden is making false claims about the government’s reaction to him, then we may already be at a point where we have forgotten his original claims, those which have been deemed credible by a number of past NSA whistleblowers.

It matters little whether Edward Snowden, the man, is not careful with his words when speaking off-the-cuff. Nor does it matter what his girlfriend is like or whether he reported his salary with precise accuracy. Snowden summarized the state of things best himself in today’s Q&A with Guardian readers

Unfortunately, the mainstream media now seems far more interested in what I said when I was 17 or what my girlfriend looks like rather than, say, the largest program of suspicionless surveillance in human history.

What matters is that the United States government is engaged in unfettered surveillance of its citizens, and that they have been doing so via un-Democratic channels for years. When polled, however, many Americans do not find this to be an issue. According to a CNN/ORC International Survey, 51% of Americans think the NSA’s surveillance of American phone records is the right thing to do, and even more approve of internet surveillance programs. The failure of Americans to be wary of such massive government power is unnerving.

We have quickly and effectively been steered away from addressing the NSA’s incursions against our liberty by our and our media’s failures. The most frightening possibility, though, is that some of this diversion was intentionally engineered by another layer of secretive private contractors. Peter Lundlow, writing in The New York Times, indirectly suggests that by succumbing to our interest in the personal narrative of Edward Snowden, we may have already fallen victim to intentional campaigns designed to thwart a backlash against the NSA. Private intelligence firms, Lundlow explains, set out to manipulate the American public much in the way Army psyops teams do when operating in foreign wars. Psyops are “planned operations to convey selected information and indicators to foreign audiences to influence their emotions, motives, objective reasoning, and ultimately the behavior of foreign governments, organizations, groups, and individuals.” This is little different than what happens here, as leaked emails from companies like Team Themis, a consortium of private security firms, suggest. Team Themis has worked to undermine the credibility of journalists (Glenn Greenwald) and critics of government agencies (ChamberWatch).  Team Themis’ work, in short, is to engage in Psyops campaigns against the American public. As Lundlow writes,

[I]t is sometimes more effective to deceive a population into a false reality than it is to impose its will with force or conventional weapons.  Of course this could also apply to one’s own population if you chose to view it as an “enemy” whose “motives, reasoning, and behavior” needed to be controlled.

In this frame, the enemy is the American public, as informed by journalists and organizations critical of the War on Terror’s tactics. Propaganda is no new thing, and has been used by the American government to bolster past war efforts. But rather than try to encourage Americans to behave in ways that enhance public safety (for example, “If you see something, say something,” or “Loose lips sink ships!”), these psyops practices aim to alter our sense of reality in order to protect not citizens and country, but the closed-door practices of our elected (and appointed) officials.

Personally, I try to avoid indulging in thoughts of government disinformation, which reek of conspiracy theory quackery and seem rooted in pathological paranoia. But with the news of NSA surveillance giving way so easily to character assassination of Edward Snowden, it seems our media, which ought to lead the public toward informed conversations about its government institutions, is more vulnerable than ever, weakened by its preference for reporting on personalities rather than nuanced issues. We will tire of Snowden, then, as we tire of other over-exposed personalities, and the policies we ought to debate will fade from public scrutiny, allowing the NSA to continue and expand its secretive work.


Five days ago, I put on my headphones, turned on some new music, and set out for a walk in the hour before sunset in Cambridge. It was chilly, and I wore no coat, but I walked slowly nevertheless, reveling in the city’s every detail. The next day, Marathon Monday, my evening walk felt differently. I’d avoided tragedy, but only by chance. My mother reassured me that she had been “half a football field” from the second bomb, a fact that cheered her but sounded too close to dumb luck to console me.

Terrorism does not scare me. I would still walk the streets of Boston, and of Cambridge, any day. I’m sure that there are hardly any who feel otherwise; Bostonians are rational, Cantabrigians, too, and they know the odds are in their favor. How do we unpack this feeling, then, the one that robs us of sleep after an attack?

As much as you want to feel when these things happen, there’s a limit you reach, shattered only when you see SWAT teams lined along the street which you drunkenly walked while too broke to pay for a cab some Saturday night. The streets where you smiled at your landlord through his shop’s floor-to-ceiling glass window, entranced by his fingers weaving patches into torn rugs late into the night. Where you walked for hours with friends, exploring the patchwork of public housing and mansions, dingy convenience stores lined next to bookshops for mystics, dissidents, artists, and scholars. And in June, where you danced outdoors with all types at the foot of city hall, not really noticing the diversity until an out-of-towner remarked on it.

Everyone is staring where you once were, and the cops are poised to blow up other bombs found two blocks from your old apartment. An MIT cop, the kind of guy who never expected this sort of thing, gets shot outside of the building where you spent the first three days of your week. Living now, as I do, in Baltimore, one expects a certain amount of crime. You do not wish to be mugged, but you know that the probability of the crime is high.

I never could understand how New Yorkers felt about 9/11. That strange mix of pride and violation, removed from fear and hate. A desire for vengeance, sure, but directed toward individuals not groups. I’ll never be able to process events like this the same way again. It’s selfish, maybe, but that’s a limitation of humans. You can only fully empathize with feelings echoing those you’ve had before, and so maybe we can at least say that acts of terrorism enhance our humanity and community.

photo (5)

Hold the cat like you did a baby the first time you picked one up, cradled belly-up between your arms. All four of the cat’s sherbet-striped paws will wave in the air, and he will twist his snaggle-toothed face upward, looking directly into your eyes. A perfect tabby, maybe obese, with green eyes and a smile. The sun itself on a winter day.

If someone like Zadie Smith, the one speaking in “Joy”, can talk like a dog with her husband and then write about it, then surely I can write unabashedly about the cats we keep. The one above, and two females, one tiny and black, the other fluffy and fast.

The black one, Boots, finds dark corners in which to disappear. She’ll stay there for hours watching you with a scornful look. It’s not that she’s shy, but rather that she demands privacy. She swishes her tail, a bony instrument, and meows loudly to announce her entry into a room, as though to warn you to clear a path. Boots never sprawls out on her side. A wound coil even when resting, hind legs tensed and prepared to launch her at the slightest disturbance.

A window chain snapped one day, releasing its pane like a guillotine rushing down on Dusty’s front paw. The window only caught her, and she dangled like that for three hours. By the time she was found, it was too late; the leg had to go. Now Dusty runs from room to room, proving she’s still nimble, impossible to catch, even with only three legs. Often she’ll dash toward one of the other cat’s food bowls, where she’ll nip up a quick bite before exiting the scene. When caught, her cloud of brown fur puffs out. She hisses, but just for show, since she doesn’t have standing to swat away her foe.

If you’re loud, you might never see Copernicus, the third cat. He’s skittish, and will only let himself be seen if the crowd seems right. Sharp noises and heavy steps send him skittering beneath the nearest bed frame, where he will sit until hours after the perceived threat has gone away. Those determined to make his acquaintance, however, will find the attentions of this cat worth waiting. When he finally decides that you’re safe, the tabby’s love will exceed all other felines’. Once he climbs your legs and flops over on your lap, you’re stuck. There’s no escaping his heft once he’s settled in: You will pet him. What do you want to touch? His fur is velvety behind the ears, soft and feathery on his belly. His purr grows as you stroke him, from a quiet gurgle toward a deep, gravelly grind. Sometimes, when he really wants to feel good, he’ll hold out his two arms in front of him until he catches them on your hand. Without opening his eyes, he’ll rub your hand against his nose til the urge is sated. Petting him, if you want to do it right, takes at least twenty minutes.

Cats only ever seem to have one or two personality traits, bundled alongside a handful of predictable behaviors. If you touch him there, he will bite your finger; if you move the string this way, he will bat at it; shake the treat jar just so, and he’ll run to you. Until I had three in my house, I never could sympathize with cat collectors. But if it’s so easy to understand a trio of them, why wouldn’t one want to add more to the brood? Five, six, ten padded-foot housemates, I can imagine, lining shelves like books and lazy-licking their paws or chasing clods of dirt, as it may go.


When we walked in here the sun was still in the sky, but now it has fallen, or maybe retreated behind the roof above us, the smoke and sand, too. And you at my side with your arm outstretched, your longest finger tip an inch away from my pinkie, but with this board on me I’ll never move to reach.

When they told us the sky would fall, I didn’t believe it. Photographs lie, maybe, the meteorites made bigger by perspective. Did they hear my doubt? Come crashing from above into our barn, one meteorite, making what we do from here a lot easier.

If I had believed in this tragedy, it might have brought us together. Arms clasped around each other in fear, tension becoming huddled fear. What is infidelity at the site of cosmic annihilation? Nothing, nothing, a slip of the phallus just, in this larger scale, barely. Her and I being the same, when you put it that way (which you might have anyway). The roof’s wood has splintered into my side, and it hurts enough to make me feel forgiving.

But for you, something different. Heavy weighing on you, the meteorite itself. When you told me about her, you kept your lips straight, your eyes like a teacher’s educating me. This is how men work, this is how your life will be, and I couldn’t help but stay calm. Only small tears found their way down my cheek, and only my stomach rebelled, contracting and opening, tides of acidic protest; scraping myself against stone. Slow, reserved, accepting. Ready to enter, with you, the voided partnership we might tread from now. No tenderness, but sparse utility.

When I was ten I imagined dying for the first time. Mom told me Grandma was gone, would never come back. Died, a word I’d heard but never understood. Grandma had pressed so hard against herself she’d simply stopped being, like a marshmallow squeezed flat between your palms. And as all of her being collapsed into one point, an explosion of good. Memories and triumphs, we all have them, I think, exploding into fragments for the benefit of the living. But my death is just a collapse without a spring, and I can’t see anything beyond my pinkie anymore.

Black fading.

Jean-Luc Picard Reads Shakespeare

My dad never quite looked the part. Twelve years my mother’s senior, he was thin and leathery, his skin hardened by a tanning regimen that not even the bright orange blondes of my high school could have rivaled. Every summer day he sat oiled and stretched over a thatched vinyl beach chair, the radio playing classic rock while my brother and I splashed nearby in a kiddie pool. I’ve yet to see anyone match the deep brown-red skin color, a strange one outside of easy racial classification, he attained in August and kept until the sun returned in the spring. Somewhere hidden on that darkened canvas lay a few tattoos and scattered scars. A parachute, I remember, a few shrapnel bumps, and other skinbound souvenirs from his Vietnam service. Around his neck he wore a gold chain, one just thick enough to suggest that he, the wearer, had purchased it as a status symbol. A thick gold ring with a heavy onyx stone and another chain, wrist-sized, rounded out his jewelry collection when they weren’t under pawn shop glass. My father’s real achievement, of course, was his glossy black hair and matching black handlebar mustache. Everyday after his shower, he waxed the long, thin ends of the mustache into two perfect curls centered between his deep dimples. I wasn’t allowed to touch his face while the wax set; if I did, even just to plant one kiss on him, dad said his whole mustache would fall off. So surely did I believe him, it wasn’t until last year that I realized he was probably lying about that.

It is easy for me to revisit my father’s physical appearance. My Daddy, the kicky eccentric self-parodying Italian, whose cartoonish appearance may have influenced my own flamboyant style. Those details well-captured and recited, the ones that mask any hint of my father’s behavior. I’ve always tried to gloss over the dark days he authored, pushing them aside to skulk off and wither in my memory’s forgotten corners. From the time I was little, my relationship to my father depended upon forgiveness and forgetting, and an understanding that he was not to blame for his moods. Before having my brother and I, my father served three Vietnam tours as a paramedic. His military career ended with a spray of shrapnel into his legs, a perfect injury severe enough for him to be listed as 100% disabled, but mild enough that he could still walk alone to the VA hospital when his pain meds needed a refill.

Nearly two decades passed between that injury and my birth, a surprise for a man who thought himself infertile. Dad played his part well, sometimes. He did best on pay day, when his government-issued check gave him enough money to take my brother and I on a small spree. We’d go see an age-inappropriate movie, eat chicken nuggets at McDonald’s, and, when times were good, take a run through KB Toys before picking out a present. “Ain’t I a good Dad?” he’d ask, before listing all of the things he’d bought us in the last year. Other respectable moments of fatherhood include the times we’d curl on the couch and watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, the booming, paternal voice of Captain Jean-Luc Picard encircling those memories of my father with unearned warmth.

Only scraps of sound and tears remain of my father’s worst days, the one’s I trained myself to forget almost as soon as they happened. Trying my hardest, I still cannot recall too many details. My parents’ fighting peaked in the house we had, briefly, after fleeing the city for the suburbs. To think of it now sets my heart racing still; even to hear the mildest arguing triggers a recall of the anxiety I felt in those days, hiding in the corner of my tiny pink bedroom waiting for it to end. Sometimes I’d duck into my brother’s spare bunkbed just so we wouldn’t have to be alone during it. We heard my mother, yelling desperately “Don’t Go!” while my father berated her and threatened to leave. Not empty threats, but ones he delivered with absences lasting a night, a few days, a week. Me always hoping to soothe things over, not understanding the why of their words, stretching myself across the hood of our car, the one my mother used to get to work, while he drove it from our house. That is, until one day I learned how to not-feel during those incidents, to bury myself in books and wait for it all to be over. And even when it ended, when my father left for the last time, the not-feeling stayed with me, left me hovering ten yards above my emotional vicissitudes, watching myself go through them as though they were biological functions that I could rationalize and will to leave.

When I was old enough to realize what it meant when my father said he was a Veteran, I wanted to know more about what he had seen. Couldn’t there be some logical explanation for everything he had done to my mother, my brother, and I? My mother’s self-esteem depleted, my brother left thinking all of the pain was her fault, and me numbed to everything. Did he see his best friend die, did he kill a child there? Am I not old enough to know? Movies, books, tell the stories of Vietnam, but never my father.

Ten years ago he took ill, and he has not left his bed since. It’s a good time to forgive him, but I have a hard time doing it without understanding what’s been driving him these last twenty-five years. It’s selfish, it’s irrational, and forgiveness should not require a condition like that. But when I ask my father about the war, I still feel disappointed when he shrugs and says “It was bad.” He makes light of it, showing me pictures of himself, young and clean-shaven, playing with the pet monkey he kept over there; only the happy memories, only the shallow ones.