If ever there was a place able to contain my spirit it is New York City. I am leaving the confines of my tiny hometown. Its oppressive traditions and suffocating stench held onto me for too long.  My mother always told me New Yorkers live among colossal skyscrapers, immense corporations, and the intense energy of freedom and ambition. My hometown was the antithesis: limited and desperate. It contained only a single paved street that ripped a straight line through a green valley for about mile and a quarter. Everything happened on Alpine Street. For the first a mile its edges were crowded with houses and churches on either side. They were old buildings, already turned ancient from neglect, with high decks and big furniture. Just before it ended in a flurry of commerciality, Alpine Street began a short ascent up a hill to Downtown. As the road climbed higher, the buildings turned into businesses: the theater, the library, the bar, the doctor’s office—each was more disgusting and useless to me as they rose toward the sky. At the very end there was a vast empty lot. Each week it was filled with the pride of our town, the county wide farmer’s market.

The last third of Alpine Street there was a rough sidewalk running along both sides of the paved roadway. It was this sidewalk that marked the path of my weekly journey to the market. It was always the same adventure. I walked past our neighbor Ms. Smith’s tulip garden first. The blooms came up to my shoulders, the perfect height for smelling as they opened to meet the sun’s morning greeting. Next was the Richardson’s picket fence. I would reach high to touch the tops of each white spear until, at the very end of the fence, I would take a running leap to try and slap their mailbox with my hand. I could never reach it. As the houses faded into shops I would pass Jerry John’s magazine stand. He would lift me up so I could see the new issues on the top row. It was where he put all the travel magazines.

Despite the vivid picture I keep in my head, in my final memory of that well-worn sidewalk and its details are all a haze. They became a blur as I ran down the sidewalk, trying to escape the wrath of Billy Perkins.

Billy Perkins was the son of Ross Perkins.  Ross and I grew up together. He was the one who convinced the whole school I was a grotesque mutant—it didn’t seem very hard a task. The other children eagerly rallied behind him, helping him cause me pain. But as an adult Ross spent the daylight alone in Scotty’s Pub and his son somehow found his father’s sense of entitlement. Even though I was nineteen years older than Billy, he had the same power over me his father did. When he saw me at the farmer’s market on that day, he approached with his usual malice. He was with his usual thugs; each had spindled legs peeking through torn holes their denim jeans. Billy’s torn sneakers, brown and floppy from dirt and use, flapped in rhythm with his sneering words as he advanced.

“Well well, if it isn’t little Leo. What’re you doing Leo? Shouldn’t you be protecting a garden?” He shouted over the din of the crowded Market.

I always wanted to give him the beating I never delivered to his father. Show him with my fists what he would never see with his eyes. They were always too clouded by resentment of something. But I couldn’t simply bash in his nose, he was a child.

“What is wrong? Are your boots rubbing against your balls again?”  Billy continued.

“Billy, why don’t you go find your father in the Pub so he can start your beating early today?” I yelled back. The market patrons began turning their attention toward the commotion. Vendors stepped from behind their curio covered tables to see what distracted their customers. A small crowd was surrounding our confrontation.

“Ha, shut up you little retard. Your dad should have used the shotgun shells on your ugly mug before your mother had a chance to use them on herself!”

What choice did I have? I grabbed a rock that was close to my feet and hurled it directly at Billy’s head. I could feel its weight pushing my arm down against my shoulder as I swung. The rock was heavier than my eyes had judged and it was immediately obvious it would fly nowhere near its intended target. The stone skipped on the ground next to Billy and bounced against another boy’s shin.

Billy watched the rock roll harmlessly away and sneered, “Now I am going to kill you, you little shit!”

I immediately spun around and ducked under a tall farmer’s overalls. I weaved between a forest of legs until I found myself underneath one of the market vendor’s tables. The farmer’s market was pieced together like a labyrinth. There was a single path that zig-zagged around rows of tables, always leading toward the great piles of produce in the center. I took a more direct route and ran underneath the rows of tables, only stepping into conspicuousness to cross over the path while I moved to the next hiding spot. Behind me, I could hear Billy’s angry growl mix with shouts from two farmers who were trying to prevent the boys from knocking over tables in their pursuit. They had to fight through the throngs of shoppers as they pushed against the flow of the market.

When I got to Marsha Plath’s natural hemp jewelry stand, I paused underneath. She always took care to drape her artfully woven shawls over the table in display. I hid behind the hemp curtains and peeked through an opening. I watched several pairs of angry, muddy feet stomp past my hiding spot. Once my pursuers had plenty of time to get lost in the maze of the market, I scampered under the line of tables lining the side edge and exited the bustling bazaar.

I should have hit him with the rock. I should have killed him where he stood in his condescending denim cutoff shorts, and I knew it. I was used to dealing with Billy. I was used to avoiding and escaping his torments, but that was Tuesday, my favorite day of the week. I didn’t want to leave the farmer’s market. It was the only time I could find all my friends in the same place. It is the only time I had friends. The fruit farmers always had a twinkle in their eyes and a smile on their faces when they invited me over. They laughed to tears when I made lewd gestures with Annie Samson’s straw dolls. They gave me beer and called me Leon, King of the Beasts. I stood upon their tables, walked amongst their fruit, and roared their prices to the crowd with all my might.

The farmer’s market also meant Esmerelda. Her table was mounted by a collapsible plywood board that slanted upwards in display. Covering the plywood’s surface were countless tiny woven baskets. Each basket was labeled and packed full with the most aromatic herbal teas—teas that have the power to deliver healing, sleep, or love. I always walked to her stand first.  She would smile at me and beg me to sample her newest blends. I liked how she lifted me onto a chair and stood close behind me to point out the crushed leaves she wanted me to test. Her body would be lightly pressed against my back and her warm breath would heat my neck, cheek and ear.

After my escape from the market I still held her image in my mind. That day she was wearing bright red pants that were fitted close to her body, and tapered down her ankles. A winding rose tattoo slithered out the bottom and spread across her bare foot. When she leaned down to hug me, the neck line of her tight black tank-top hung below my chin and I could smell the herbs she used for her love potion tea. But my body was sore and tired from the run down the sidewalk and I could not return to her. The doctor says my spine has not developed enough to properly carry my weight and that I should never participate in strenuous activities. My mother always said my head was too heavy with brains. Either way I needed to rest. I lay down on the crunchy gravel the sidewalk had dissolved into. I let my eyelids block out the cloudy sky. My thoughts of Esmeralda had wandered and my mind was running the entire market scene over and over again. In each new replay I found newer and more savage ways to defeat Billy. I kept growing taller and taller until I could simply look down at the tiny, helpless bully and crush him with my finger. I was huge and powerful; I giggled with delight. My pain was soon gone and my blood was coursing with lust for revenge. When I opened my eyes I expected to find him in front of me, weak and scared. Instead, I was surprised to discover that I was lying directly in front of the Perkins’ house. It was an old yellowing trailer, sagging on its stilts. Perfect. I decided to begin my retaliation immediately.

The back yard was fenced with graying two-by-fours. They were stood on end and lashed together by decaying rope. The bottom half of the fence had turned black and rotten where the long grass rubbed against the planks, removing the stain and allowing the moisture to penetrate the wood fibers. Two fence boards were completely rotted away; I slid through the space without a problem. The inner yard was wild and uncared for. Amongst the tall blades of grass I could see brambles and dandelions preparing to commence their invasion. I had to navigate carefully. Twice I hit my knees against giant truck tires that were buried deep within overgrowth. They reminded me of the tires I helped my brother Louis drag from the junkyard last year.

Louis is probably my favorite person in the world. He had walked with me to the market that day. He did almost every Tuesday in his stone washed jeans, artfully tattered in all the right places. His soft, gray leather shoes made a quiet squeak with each step. He always has the best shoes. Where he gets them may be life’s greatest mystery because I can never seem to find a pair for myself so classy and pleasant. He got both his taste in fashion and his disposition from Mother. He laughs with me and talks to me the same way she used to. I cling to the vague memory of her carrying me through town on her softly curved shoulders, showing me how the world should look. She bragged to people we passed on the street that she had the smartest, most talented boy in the world and that someday, she would take me back to her hometown of New York City where I would be a star. She would clench her jaw and wince with her eyes and cheeks after she spoke. I think she was trying hard to push a truth into their minds. It was a truth that even she never believed.

The back door of the Perkins’ house was faded red. On the very bottom of the door there was a brown flap attached to the by rusted hinges. The stairs groaned loudly beneath my feet as I climbed up to the back patio. I lifted the brown flap and thrust my arms, head and chest through the doggy door. With my hands braced on the floor inside, my legs kicked the rest of my body through. I tumbled into the kitchen where there was an immediate opportunity for destruction. A tall square table tucked in the corner of the room was covered in fragile dishes. Though they seemed precariously stacked on top of each other, the table wouldn’t budge under my force. Instead of the single grand explosion I had hoped for, I opened a folding chair that was shoved behind a bottom cabinet, climbed on top, and pulled the plates, glasses, bowls, and silverware off dish by dish. I launched them at the walls and cheered to myself when they shattered. Each burst of painted pottery and glass became a face from my past that had taunted me. It was exhilarating to watch it fall to the floor in pieces. My revenge was no longer aimed at Billy or Ross, it was a pent up rage. I was fighting to bring my mother back, to prove my father wrong, and to find a normal life somewhere in between.

After I finished throwing the final ceramic dish, I needed more. I surveyed the rest of the kitchen. On top of the refrigerator was displayed Mrs. Perkins’ prized collection of Chinese porcelain. Blue lines that swirled around the plates and formed into dragons and vines of flowers seemed ripe for smashing. I walked on top of the yellowed linoleum counter that horseshoed around the edge of the kitchen until I was just underneath the china. I grasped the handle attached to the top compartment of the refrigerator with both hands and tried to pull myself upwards. When I dropped my weight against my handhold, the door swung wide open. I was flung across the kitchen. The floor rushed towards me, connecting painfully with my left leg and then my back. The precious porcelain dishes remained unaffected.

I lay in a crumple on the floor. My ankle was throbbing and my back was locked in a crooked position. I closed my eyes and saw my father’s face. I could hear his words resounding in the back of my mind, “What are you? No real son of mine could ever be so worthless. You are a bastard. You are a failure. You are a freak…”

Alone on the empty floor, there was nothing in reach to unleash my frustration upon, but even so my body writhed in anger. I flailed at my demons that were swooping down from above and crawling up between the cracks of the tiled floor. My fists pounded the stained tile. Ceramic shards lacerated the soft belly of my palms. With a scream and one final volley of full body spasms, I lay still. Sweat from the effort had crept into my eyes, stinging them. Tears dribbled down my cheeks. My outstretched arms ended in torn hands and fingers that twitched in burgeoning pools of blood. My lungs worked hard to expand in my tightening chest. My breath was heavy and it pushed out flecks of cottoned saliva to the corners of my mouth. I had failed. I had failed to fight Billy and then I had failed to ruin him. I had failed my mother and myself. The doctor was right; I would never be normal. My father was right; I would never measure up to anything at all. I was completely defeated in body and spirit—lying prostrate on the littered floor—willing to accept whatever punishment the Perkins would unleash upon discovering me.

But my mind wasn’t ready to surrender. It somehow reached beneath my pain and pulled out visions of my victories of the day. I had entertained the farmers on their table, I escaped from a beating by a gang of angry adolescents, and I had snuck into the Perkins’ house completely undetected and smashed their dishes. None of this could have happened if it weren’t for my defect, my misfortune, It. The doctor had labeled It a disability. It was the reason strangers turned away from me in embarrassment while their children giggled to each other. And It was the little detail that caused my father to refer to his first born as, “The Mistake.” But mother’s forlorn hopes of her son having meaning in his life were possible after all. I am special. My deformed stature was a blessing and I knew it was time to show the world.

My anger and defeat melted away. It was like an ugly wax mold placed in the heat. A shell of pain formed by a lifetime of discouragement, frustration and alienation puddled on the floor beneath me. What was left was a renewed and beautiful figure. The vision of me growing large in the market returned. This time, however, I did not stop growing after I crushed Billy. I continued to expand until the market was a stale leaf beneath my feet. The place that had held me hostage with its false friends and limited possibilities was reduced to a pleasurable crunch beneath my heel. I still grew bigger, taller, higher, until I looked down from the clouds and saw that my tiny town was lost on the colorful canvas of the earth below.

That is where I am now: above the clouds in an airplane, on my way to New York City. My fellow passengers huddle against their backrests with their window shutters closed and black felt flaps covering their eyes. We are all suspended in the sky, thousands of feet in the air. Everyone is at the mercy of Zeus and the thin metal shell that surrounds the cabin. We are all powerless until we land at the airport. When we land, we will all stand up and file into the world of New York City. When we all stand up, I will be the tallest of us all.

The very purpose of our life is happiness, the very motion
of our life is towards happiness.” -The Dalai Lama

To explore even a single question that arises from our study of Christopher McCandless is a daunting task. He was an extremely complicated and enigmatic character and he struggled with some of the most complicated issues life has to offer. Though I was interested in the idea of investigating some mystery of his duality, I was at a loss for a specific idea to focus my exploration. I typed Chris McCandless’ name into Google, hoping to find a question I would be motivated to answer. After sifting through official websites and pages of bland, objective abstracts of his adventures, I stumbled upon a heated debate raging in the comments section of a blog post. After skimming over several superficial rants and raves about Chris’s adventures, I happened upon a person who exalted his soul searching journey and whole heartedly agreed with his final epiphany, “Happiness is only real when shared.” Below her comment were several responses that lambasted Chris and his “useless” sacrifice. They called him ignorant, reckless and claimed his enlightening experience really just led him to a simple and obvious truth. It was odd to me that the people who claimed to have found the road to happiness were also the angriest people on the comment board, but a different, more powerful question was brewing in deep in my mind: Is the path to true happiness only obtained through relationships with other people?

My first instinct was an attempt to disprove the theory with thought experiments. Can a man who is imprisoned in solitary confinement without seeing or talking to anyone for years upon years be authentically happy? What if the man isn’t imprisoned, but he is abandoned on earth by the rest of humankind, maybe due to a zombie epidemic? One of the final lines in the movie Zombieland is, “We had hope, we had each other. And without other people, you might as well be a zombie.” Was that more evidence supporting Chris’s argument? Or was my imagination just getting out of hand? I decided I needed to ground myself in the context of Chris’s epiphany and I flipped to the final chapter of Into the Wild.

Chris had been living alone in the Alaskan expanse for about 90 days. He was completely isolated from all human contact. His attempt to return to civilization was thwarted by the swollen river and he was starving due to poor hunting results. He had just finished reading Doctor Zhivago and scribbled a note next to the passage: “And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it a ripple, is genuine life, and that unshared happiness in not happiness… And this was most vexing of all.” His note simply said, “HAPPINESS IS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED.” This appears to the culminating epiphany of his entire journey. John Krakauer suggests it may be interpreted that Chris was ready to end his vagrancy and, “become a member of the human community.” I was still not convinced. He was in a weakened state of mind and body. He was primed to adopt any sort of rhetoric that went against the grain of his torments. Was this epiphany born from an authentic pursuit of life’s meaning or did it come from a feeble, slightly deranged mind? It becomes especially hard to fathom after reading his words to Ron Franz just 5 months earlier: “You are wrong if you think Joy emanates only or principally from human relationships.” Chris had performed and absolute u-turn from an ideal he so fiercely held on to the entire trip. It seemed too radical of a change. I slowly flipped backwards through the pages of the book. I soon realized that Doctor Zhivago was not the only book he had been reading that referenced the search for happiness. McCandless had also recently finished Tolstoy’s “Family Happiness.” He marked the following passage:

“I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness. And then, on top of all that, you for a mate, and children perhaps. — What more can the heart of a man desire?”

It appears Chris had taken smaller steps to his revelation than I had initially thought. Tolstoy plays with the idea that one can be secluded in nature, but still be involved in other’s lives. He offers a sort of compromise that even Chris could find agreement with. Did I find the answer so soon?

Armed with fresh insight, I decided to return to the source of my investigation, a blog website named http://notverybright.wordpress.com/. The “About” section said the author had finished blogging as of 2008. I noticed the blog had been stripped of all posts except for the one titled, “Chris McCandless;” however, even the sole remaining post was devoid of content. Judging by the name of the website, it would not be hard to guess the angle the author had taken anyway. I scrolled down to the comments section, at the time there were 1,121 comments. At first I read random points on the comment timeline. I was startled by the myriad of opinions. Most people were polarized in their conjectures, but there were many who walked the middle ground as well. I could easily write pages and pages of digression based on what I read in the first five minutes, but I finally narrowed my reading to comments that were focused on his final epiphany.

I soon became frustrated. Every comment I found concerning “shared happiness” agreed with Chris. I began to feel like my exploration had turned into a witch hunt and I was searching in vain for a single person who disagreed with McCandless. Was I trying so hard to find conflict because I needed to fill the 3 blank pages that are left in this essay? Or was I searching for validation because there was something within my own self that disagreed with Chris? I began to review the last six years of my life. I have lived in four different states, resided at thirteen different addresses, and worked countless jobs. I never stayed anywhere long enough to plant firm roots and I severed any that had begun to sprout. Why have I wandered around so much? The only explanation I can contrive is that I was looking to find happiness in new places. But the idea that one place is better than another another becomes a moot point if true happiness relies solely on relationships. That would mean all my searches have been pointless. It would mean that the climate changes meant only as much as the new relationships I created. It meant that when I tossed aside a relationship instead of nurturing it, and moved on in search of new connections, I was really just closing the door on another opportunity to be truly happy and starting all over. That was a scary thought.

Luckily, the eleventh comment shook me from my existential limbo. A man named Ian had a brand new perspective on the subject: “His final epiphany was ‘shared happiness is the only true happiness.’ I have been intuitively aware of this from birth. It is sad that what I would consider to be a basic truth, encoded in my very being, was that young man’s ultimate life realization.” Ian claims this truth is an intrinsic quality in humans. He denies that Chris’s epiphany should be considered profound. Chris sacrificed his life to discover a truth he should have realized without two years of rigorous asceticism and soul searching. Ian goes on to say, “There is nothing beautiful about dying without experiencing love and if it takes gasping your dying breath to see this then that only makes your death more tragic.” His words were a haunting reminder of The Death of Ivan Illych. While our class has been about contrasting Chris’s spiritual quest against Ivan’s “unexamined life,” Ian turns everything upside down. He places Chris’s death into the same sphere of tragedy as Ivan’s. At the bottom of the comment posted in 2008 Ian left his email address; I emailed him immediately.

I didn’t have time to wait for a reply I was mostly positive would never even arrive, so I decided to bring my quest closer to home. I posted Chris’s quote on Facebook and asked my friends to comment. When I checked a few days later, I was rewarded with a rich variety of responses. To my extreme delight, the majority of the comments were in disagreement with Chris. It is no wonder they are my friends, I finally got my validation. Some of them offered examples of finding joy alone in nature and others said happiness was found within one’s perception of one’s self. Many of the responders echoed Toltoy’s compromise; they found a loophole, maybe even a synthesis. My friend Kendra wrote, “I disagree. I would add to it: Real happiness reaches its full potential when it is shared.” My friend Eric wrote, “Happy is easier to attain when shared.” My brother Adam wrote, “Happiness is meant to be shared, but it is optional.” They were saying true happiness does not require relationships, but it is definitely improved by them. Does this mean we need to quantify happiness? Is it a measurable emotion stewing in a pot, getting more flavorful as we add new ingredients? If so, at what point does it become “real”? I began to worry that I had absolutely no understanding at all of what it means to be happy. That was precisely when I received a reply to my email from Ian.

In my email to him, I had asked Ian if he thought that the truth Chris had stumbled upon was intrinsic in every human being. Ian’s reply dives much deeper into the human experience than I had planned on exploring. He begins by explaining that relationships are inevitable, “Having been born from and nurtured to self-sufficiency by others it would be ridiculous for even the most determined isolationist to make the claim that this existence isn’t shared.” He explains our lives are affected by relationships with sentient and non-sentient beings alike, whether we like it or not, a possible allusion to John Donne’s observation, “No man is an Island.” Does this mean it is impossible not to share our happiness? That would render this whole paper useless. I have to assume that the word “shared” means an intentional act on the individual’s part. He goes on to reiterate his position that Chris’s words are not profound and then says, “It is also a common practice for the mystic to retire from society while searching for the part of themselves which exists outside space and time. Simple truths are often lost in the sensory noise of the physical world.” Ian is saying Chris wasn’t searching for some sort of transcendent happiness, he was simply trying to connect to that which makes him human. Happiness is a natural emotion we all strive for. Trying to measure it would equate to us attempting to judge the success of our lives. This is what Chris did, and this is why he entered into the wild.

I was feeling pretty good at this juncture in my journey I suddenly realized that I never asked the question: What is happiness? Have I committed the cardinal sin of dialectical thinking throughout this whole essay and neglected to ask the most important question? I had to at least attempt to answer the question before I finished this essay. I immediately turned to my roommate Brent and began to grill him. First, he agreed with Chris, happiness is only real when shared. Good. If we disagree, maybe our discussion would find a middle ground in defining happiness. I questioned him closely and challenged his opinions, but we seemed to dance around the exact definition of happiness. Our conversation continually led back to the pursuit of happiness. We did not disagree on what it means to be happy, but we did disagree on how we should achieve it.

I conclude my investigation in disagreement with absolutes in general. There are billions of people in this world, and each person has their own opinion of what it means to be happy; however we all agree on one thing: happiness is one of life’s great pursuits. I do not think we should attempt to say one happiness is better, or stronger than another. Since our lives are spent in eternal pursuit of fulfillment what do levels matter as long as we are continually ascending? We should all look within ourselves to discover that which makes us truly happy. You may find your path to happiness leads to appreciating the beauty of your surroundings or you may find it leads to your connections with other human beings. It is likely you will discover that you can find true happiness in both situations, along with many, many more.

The statue stood fast to his pedestal in the middle of the stone parapet. His sculptor was huddled close to the feet of the marble majesty. His small tools were making delicate corrections: sanding, smoothing and polishing. He lightly lifted his chisel and placed its worn edge at the base of the statue. A sharp chink was followed by a slow, almost inaudible crack as marble separated from marble.

The statue suddenly had a very odd feeling. It began in his gut. His marble insides felt as if they were fluttering and twisting. The sensation spread slowly up through his chest and down his arms. His fingers involuntarily twitched ever so slightly. His head began to feel light and a mild dizziness overtook him. The statue’s restlessness quickly migrated down to his legs. His knees were trembling and his leg muscles impulsively clenched and unclenched. He held his pose for as long as he possibly could. Finally, the nervousness and twitching became overwhelming. The statue leaped from his pedestal, flying high over the artist still crouched on the ground. The marble feet landed heavily on the cobbled parapet floor. His slender stone hands reached far above his head and stretched his whole body into the most acute crescent his joints would allow.

“Oy!” cried the artist. “What are you doing statue? You must remain in your pose on the pedestal! I have created you as an image of victory and prestige for this village. You are my life’s crowning achievement and you must stay still!”

The statue was embarrassed that his first action had been the wrong one. He stepped back onto his pedestal, locked his knees, replaced his hands to his hips and puffed his chest. He intently returned his sculptors gaze as the artist studied his creation. The man’s face was heavy and puffed; dark circles had appeared beneath his eyes. His shoulders were stooped, burdened by the weight of an artist’s imagination and quest for perfection. His obvious fatigue was compounded by a trepidation that his life’s work may crumble to dust at his feet.

Despite his greatest efforts, the stone giant was still unable contain his restlessness. He ever so slowly tilted his head to the right to stretch his neck. When he noticed his creator’s eyes sagging from exhaustion, he alternated lifting his heels to bend his sore knees. The bottoms of his feet began to itch, but grinding them down into the smooth marble underneath did nothing to alleviate his discomfort. He again leaped down from his pedestal.

“No no no no!” exclaimed the sculptor. “You must stay still! I cannot tell you again. Do not move! You are a statue. Your only purpose is to remain. If you cannot do that, you are worthless!”

The statue followed the artist with his eyes as the man pranced around the rotund, waving his arms and attempting to pull thin, white hair from his balding head. The statue did his best not to imitate the motions; however, his creator’s dance was intriguing and inviting. How could he not join? He kicked his heavy feet and waved his marble arms in imitation of the frustrated artist’s enraged movements.

“Out! Get out immediately!” The ancient artist was deep, red in the face and trembling with anger. The statue paused and considered the demand.

“Where shall I go?” The statue asked.

“Anywhere that is nowhere near me! You were to be the pinnacle of glory and achievement in my life, yet you cannot spend one minute in respect of my pain and toil. I must throw myself into the sea in shame. May my gifted hands be bashed against the rocks in penance! I have angered the gods and they demand sacrifice.”

The statue slowly turned away. His chin braced against his chest as he hung his head. His shoulders were deeply slumped under the weight of his blasphemous existence. As he walked down the spiraling staircase from the parapet, the sounds of the artist’s writhing exasperation followed close behind.

Somehow, the small village below had already received the news. The normally bustling market was nearly frozen as the statue approached. Only the chickens, who could not comprehend the gravitas of the recent events, still squawked and fluttered, kicking up dust in protest of their impending doom. The people ignored the ruckus. They remained focused on the stone figure’s approach, each standing as still as a painting.

The statue, tried to plead with the market’s inhabitants, “Please, let me be your statue. Allow me to adorn your hallways and altars. Let me be a decoration in your fountain or a guard for your gates.” None would have him.

The priests chanted, “We cannot take you. You are an abomination”

The thespians gallantly gestured, “You would bring doom and ruin to our theater.”

The village council solemnly swore, “You were commissioned as a great memorial for our town, now you are only a reminder of our failures.”

After hours of begging, the disheartened statue sought solitude in the farthest reaches of the village. He could not help pacing between the decrepit shacks of the poor. He was still twitching with anxiety as dusk fell across the shanties. The rotting thatch roofs stood black against the midnight blue sky. They were grotesque monsters of the night and they loomed over the poor restless figure. He continue to weave between them, hoping one would swallow him up and save him from his nightmare. So deep was the statue in his misery, he did not notice the silent, robed figure that approached on the winding road leading out of town.

“Hello, stone wonder. I felt your pain from many miles away. You fear you will never fulfill your purpose. I have traveled far to bring you an offer. Work as my servant for seven years and I will bestow upon you the permanent stillness you desire.”

The statue was a new creation. He was unable to recognize the old man as the town outcast, rumored to be a dangerous practitioner of black magic and trickery. The rejected marble man eagerly accepted his offer and allowed the magician to lead him away from the ominous ghetto. A renewed energy added a bounce to his steps.

The glorious statue was immediately put to work. “Oh magnificent model, your destiny is to become the pride of the people who shunned you. Your task is to build the most extravagant monument the world has ever seen. It will be a center for the arts, science, literature and religion. You must begin now, and you may never cease until the very last moment of your seven years of servitude is paid. Only then can you be still forever.”

The sculpted man broke ground for the foundation near the top of the hill. The monument would overlook the whole village whose white buildings trickled down the rising ground to the shore. He then gathered a tremendous amount of stone from the rock beds on the opposing side of the slope and began to build. It wasn’t long before the townspeople noticed the steady clank of rocks being shaped into building blocks. They curiously followed their ears to the statue’s burgeoning construction site.

“What are you doing?” They asked incredulously.

“I am building the greatest monument in the world,” he replied simply and turned back to his work.

News of his labor spread like an untamed summer fire throughout the small town. The village council argued about whether they should allow the construction to continue. One bright young politician stood and said, “The statue has caused this town a great pain, but he sets forth on a task to surpass even his original destiny. Let us embrace his efforts and restore glory and pride to our small island!”

His patriotism was infectious; it swelled in the breast of every resident. Architects drew plans to assist the statue with his design. Artists painted paintings and shaped sculptures to adorn the walls with culture and beauty.  The air rang sweetly with melodies from musicians, who strummed their instruments to bring gaiety and festivity to the work environment. The whole town bustled with life, pride, and cooperation.

Never once in those seven years did the marble man break from his labor. He would not have been able to rest if he wanted to. However, his pace did slow. Stone blocks became heavier in his hands. Stairs to the upper floors rose more steeply in front of him. If it were not for the eager participation of the villagers, he would never have been ready set the final stone in its place by the end of the seventh year.

*                      *                      *                      *

The whole village was gathered to witness the completion of their beloved memorial. It stood fifty feet tall in the center. Giant, white, Corinthian pillars rose into the sky to support the gentle slope of the roof. The inner halls were just as massive and spectacular. All the treasures of the town had been offered to create a lush decor. The great wonder could be seen from miles away. Any passing ship would surely stop to praise the majesty of such a monument.

The statue held the final stone in his hands. It was a plaque. He had remembered the words of his master and etched into the marble, “Pride of the People.” The sign was to be fixed directly above the entryway, in direct sight of anyone who came near. As he lifted the plaque his legs trembled. He had to brace the heavy stone with his knee as he readjusted his weakening grip in the edges. Slowly, he moved the plaque up to his heaving chest. All his marble joints began creaking under the strain. Seven straight years of toil had left the poor marble figure exhausted.

The crowd stood silent. Not a single villager took a breath as they watched the statue struggle under the weight of the immense rock. With a last great effort, he moved the plaque over his head and onto his shoulders. His legs were locked in sturdy support, his upper body was slightly hunched, and his arms spread wide to balance the bottom corners of the stone. His whole being completely filled the frame of the doorway. For the first time in his life the statue stood still. His fingers did not drum or twitch. The soles of his feet did not itch. His gaze remained locked on the horizon and he was at peace.

The tranquility emanating from the marble figure passed through each villager. Not a single sound arose from the crowd. Their hearts spoke for them: “Our pride has built our joy, but he will forever withhold the fruits of his labor.”

No law is heeded in the American desert. Survival is ensured by vicious violence and blood sacrifices. Desert dwellers build altars to Death and feed it Pain. The Pit was the greatest of these altars. It was a crudely shaped impression that sunk three feet into the earth. The walls of the miniature arena were straight and firm, held together by the heavy clay in the soil. The floor, blackened by pools of doomed gladiator blood, was trampled soft by padded feet. Above the depression, the walls were extended by a haphazard wooden fence: rotting pallets, broken tables, and individual planks were nailed firmly to each other, end to end. Deep vertical scratches and frantic claw marks decorated the inner circumference of the enclosure. The putrid stench of hot, rotting flesh hung thick in the coliseum’s atmosphere. The Pit was a perversion of humanity’s reign over nature, and it was abused to the very lengths of its potential.

Two long cages were positioned near the pit. Four men were assigned to drag each cage to opposite sides of the arena where they would match one end with an opening in the fence. The enclosures were made of chain link fencing wrapped around a wrought iron frame. Hard plastic slits were woven diagonally between the chain links, guarding the contents from prying eyes. The men lowered their backs and bent their knees. They inserted their thick fingers into areas where the plastic tiles were broken and each braced a shoulder against their corner of the frame. As they grunted and heaved, the cages reached down with jagged edges and dug into the hard earth, protesting against the procession of death. With protruding veins, red faces, and white knuckles the men slowly gained momentum in their struggle. As snarls of hate and violence resounded louder within the cages, the men doubled their efforts.

After they were maneuvered into place, a man climbed on top of each cage and grabbed a knotted rope tied to the top crossbar. Those who had wrestled with the cages took swigs from their bottles to replenish the alcohol and sweat that was soaked into their clothes, and then fanned out to surround the pit. To a casual eye, the men who stood leaning over the arena with their knees braced against the rotting boards, seemed to be cut from the same cloth. And they were. The sheriff, the town dentist, two butcher brothers, a construction contractor, and a traveling Baptist evangelist were barely separable by appearance, and completely identical in spirit; their eyes were filled with lust for violence and their mouths drooling with greed. Livelihood was irrelevant. Each held a heavy object in his hand: a hammer, a crowbar, a forty ounce glass jug, a cinder block, and multiple two-by-four wood planks. The two who were balanced on the roofs of the cages grasped the ropes tightly and lifted upwards. Two dogs squirmed underneath the rising doors and charged into center of The Pit.

Twenty feet apart from The Pit sat a boy. He was huddled tightly in the shade of the aluminum single-wide trailer. The sounds of the battle tortured him. Each growl and squeal and scream pushed another tear through his closed eyelids. This was not the boy’s first dogfight, The Pit had been a staple of life since he was born, but it was Lylah’s first fight. Lylah was the runt offspring of former glory. She had a small, lithe figure, covered in black and gray wiry fur. Rounded brown patches lined her pointed snout leading into a snarl of razor sharp teeth.  When she was excited, a thin line of fur beginning from the top of heard head and trailing down the center of her back lifted away from her body. The boy had been responsible for her for two years. Though food and love were scarce for the fighting animals, he gave her all he could.

Even though the young boy refused to watch, his imagination followed the fight exactly as it happened. The two beasts immediately found each other’s vicious eyes. Lylah was new to the experience. Her wild eyes were alight with bloodlust. The opposing dog, Samson, stood on wide set solid legs. His body was thick. His short gray hair was matted close to a thick hide that was stretched tight over rippling muscles, sinew, and bone. His eyes were as black as space.

Lylah did not hesitate. With her lips pulled back to her gums, drool hanging low from her bottom jaw, she lunged with a terrible growl at the giant Samson’s neck. Both dogs reared to their hind legs. Their front paws legs were interlocked, claws digging into the other’s shoulder. Their fanged mouths struggled to find a mark, each searching for soft throat flesh. Lylah could not stand against Samson’s weight. He fell on top of her; his gnashing teeth ripping at the black furred flesh. Lylah’s low growl turned into a high pitched, panicked yelp. She caught Samson’s ear in her front teeth and bit hard into the cartilage. Samson now squealed in pain and let Lylah wriggle free from underneath his massive body. Lylah struggled to her feet and limped to the edge of The Pit.

Defeated, she hoped to escape death in the arena. She stretched her body upwards towards the sky, broken paws resting upon the wooden fence. A toothless onlooker swung his framing hammer at her legs with a heavy hand. He was rewarded by a pleasing crack upon contact and Lylah fell down into a pool of blood and clay mud. She lifted her haunches up in the air but could only support the front of her body with her chin. The wiry streak down the middle of her back stood straight up in final defiance, but she was unable to meet Samson’s charge. Death came quickly.

The fight ended with a cacophonous roar of mixed curses and cheers. Money was ripped from hands while some praised their luck and others cursed the fallibility of the system. One man jumped down into the pit with a crowbar to herd the survivor back into its cage. Another man turned and walked toward the broken boy sitting apart. He had a white, dirt-streaked shirt that clung tightly to his massive body, unable to cover the rolls of his lower abdomen. A sparsely toothed smile pushed his fat cheeks underneath his heavy earlobes and his whole face shook as he sauntered.

“Less go boy. Time to muck this shit outta The Pit and make it nice and fine. Samson gonna kill ‘nother the bitch tomorrow and he gotta look good doin’ it!”

The boy was silent. He ignored the fat man’s demands. He tried not to even acknowledge his presence as he lifted himself up by the handle of his shovel. The man’s face began to redden, accentuating the lightning bolt vein already protruding from his forehead. As the boy had his weight placed on his left foot, the man swung the wooden board he held, connecting solidly to the outside of the boys left thigh with a sharp snapping noise. His leg was wrenched across his body, the shovel flew forward out of his grasp, clattering on the hard earth, and he collapsed heavily onto the clay ground. The air was forced from his lungs as his spine hit the desert floor forcefully.

“Ya little rodent! I don’t give two shits about you. Ya got no respect sittin’ here blabbering an’ ignorin’ me. Damon and Bub are old ‘nough to clean the pit. You best watch yerself before you lose yer only job in this family.” Too weak to lift his arms in protection against the next blow, the boy lay with his knees pulled to his chest and face buried deep within his arms. He was shivering, gasping for air and tensed in preparation. But the blow never came.

“Get up Samuel,” a new voice insisted. Little Samuel did his best to lift himself to his feet. His lungs were trying to replenish the air they had lost, but sucked in a thick cloud of hot dust instead. Samuel had only made it to his knees when he began spasming from his choking lungs. “Uncle Dean, leave the kid alone. He ain’t used to losing a dog yet. Go collect your dues from the Reverend. He wants to settle up so he can get on the road.”

Uncle Dean spat on the ground near the newcomer, then returned his gaze. His muddy brown eyes slightly squinted against the light of the afternoon. The piercing, steel-blue eyes of Samuel’s brother, Eli, were wide open and steady, inviting a challenge from the fat lush. Dean stepped back and spat again. He moved his eyes to Samuel and curled his upper lip into a sneer. Brown tobacco juice oozed from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down to the patchy fuzz on his double chin. He turned and waddled away from the brothers muttering under his breath about business he needed to attend to. Those goddamn preachers do always have a soft spot for the underdogs and I’ll give Samson some extra meat on his bone tonight, he’ll need the strength to finish the bitches tomorrow.

Eli lifted Samuel onto his feet and handed him his shovel. “Lilah wasn’t the first dog Samson tore apart and she won’t be the last. Ain’t no reason to start blabbering. ‘Specially with everyone around. Now go get some fresh sand in the pit. It’s all gonna happen agin tomorrow.”

Samuel looked up into his brother Eli’s cold eyes. He searched for compassion, but found none. His brother was ten years older and an insurmountable number of inches taller. His head was clean shaven but his face was covered with a day and a half of thick blond stubble. He wore a stained tank top that hugged closely to his solid, lean physique. His skin was darkened by the sun and crude tattoos were drawn from the shoulder to the elbow on both arms.

Samuel remembered years ago when they were both still youthful and free. Eli’s attention was never spent drawing fantastical creatures in the clay dirt or stacking rocks into castles like Samuel; Eli loved to go hunting for ragged, diseased mule deer with Uncle Dean or sharpen his grotesque set of curved knives he kept in a leather band. As they would both cower underneath drunken, rage-fueled blows, Eli kept his eyes open, and his mind focused on the clay dust he ground between his gritted teeth. Eli’s fast ascension in the desert hierarchy was no mistake. While the younger boy created in the desert a tranquil playground, the elder boy harnessed the powers of violence and forced the desert to do his bidding.

Eli’s gaze remained stoic. He surrendered no measure of pity for his younger brother. He did not offer the shovel out of kindness. He was presenting Samuel with the tool necessary to complete his penance to the desert. The younger brother surrendered his hope of familial connection, accepted his shovel, and limped toward The Pit of Blood and Death.

As the sun set on the desert, the distant cliffs and plateaus cast ominous shadows across the bare expanse, enveloping The Pit in darkness. The beauty of the deep orange and red hues that faded through purple into a star-pricked midnight blue canvas was ignored like a single wildflower blossoming in the center of a battlefield, a useless distraction. Within the cool cover of the shadows arose the nocturnal beasts who ruled the frigid desert nights. The desert people were not intimidated by the wild and frozen night; they had their fire. And it was Uncle Dean who readied the cord of wood stacked on top of a gasoline soaked carcass. One of his arms leaned cautiously over the logs with a lit match in hand, the other arm swung drunkenly away from the stack, the ceramic whiskey jug in hand to counterbalance his body, in hopes of keeping him safe from the wrath of the gasoline fumes’ potential ignition.

His twin boys chased each other in circles around him. When the match dropped and the flames exploded high into the night sky, they screamed obscenities with delight. They danced and cursed the nocturnal desert monsters that the roaring fire protected them from. They picked rocks from the ground and launched them into the black veil their enemies cowered behind.

Samuel, again, sat apart from the primal ceremony. He ignored the commotion of the two hellions prancing about in their pagan ritual. He had already forgotten the blow dealt to his leg by his uncle and his eyes were not searching for his brother. He stared straight into the burgeoning fire. The flames had lost the intensity of the initial blast, but as they steadily licked the bottom of the logs they slowly crept back to their original power. He had always loved watching flames flit and dance and disappear into the air, but the flames of this fire were different. They did not dance, they fought. They curved and feinted, snapped, bit and consumed each other. They were not the carefree, crackling comfort of his youth; they were rebellious and promethean, fueled by a hot, aggressive energy that he was just beginning to feel surge within himself.

As the fire rose and roared with violence, Samuel also rose to his feet. Despite the bitter cold, his cheeks were flushed. Hot sweat drew muddy lines in the dust collected on his brow. His pale blue eyes were no longer soft and flowing with tears. They were rigid with resolve. He turned his back to the bonfire and disappeared into the darkness, but the flames still burned brightly in his eyes.

Alone and blind in the dark, empty wilderness, Samuel stumbled over a sharp rock protruding from the clay and fell into a stiff wall that remained invisible in the black night. The wall gently rippled and he heard a soft, metallic tinkling recede into the distance. He had found the dog cages. Quickly, he clambered up the cool, cascading rings of galvanized steel. The soft clinking followed his feet as he carefully walked his way to the narrow edge of the enclosure. Samuel bent his knees and grabbed the thick knotted rope at its base where it was looped through the cross bar of the door. He lifted with all his might. His strength only allowed him to lift the heavy door a few inches above the earth. He leaned his weight back as leverage to keep lifted door in place. He only needed to hold it for twenty seconds before the trapped animal crawled free of its prison.

There were four cages. Samuel soon rescued the first three dogs. He paused for a moment to feel his hot breath dissipate into frigid molecules in front of him. Sounds of the freed dogs barking as they escaped into the distance were all that moved the still, numbing air. He took hold of the ragged rope tied to the final cage with his hands, ready to finish his work. His arm muscles tensed as he prepared to for one last heave, but a commanding yell rang in the frozen air.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing!?” It was his Eli’s voice. Samuel was not sure where it came from until a bright light materialized directly in front of him and burned his dilated pupils. His brother moved the flashlight to the left, sweeping across the first three cages in line.

“You let them all out… shouldn’t have done that.” His voice wasn’t regretful or condescending. His tone was pure matter of fact. Samuel heard a clear and distinct click form his brother’s direction. He has a gun! Samuel realized.

“What da fuck did you do you little fuckin rodent!?” Another voice screamed from the darkness. The yellow beam of the flashlight swung in the voice’s direction until it revealed Uncle Dean. His face was flushed crimson and from his brow to six inches below his collar he was completely drenched in sweat. His eyes were opened wide and a line of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.

“I knew yew was gonna do some shit like this you miserable rat. You never were good fer nothin’. Fuckin Eli won’t stop me this time. When I get my hands on you, I am gonna bend you over one of dem cages and teach you a whole new meanin’ of respect.”

Samuel looked to where his brother was standing. He knew the barrel of the gun was still trained on his forehead. His trembling hands still clutched the handle of the fourth cage door. He imagined he was in the pit and his uncle was on the edge swinging a knotted board at his head from above. The only escape from the pain of this existence was death in the arena at his brother’s hand. He gritted his teeth and heaved his weight against the final door.

The smoldering grains of false comfort
Drive my desire toward the cool, inviting swells.
If love is the enemy, can time be the savior?

The warning was clear:
None can visit without the clinging flame of the hot sand.
It is hard, too hard to bear the heated passion of the sunburned surface.
Scorched skin longs for a reprieve.
Articles of Ancient Grace show no mercy as they invade
All aspects of body and mind.

The waves of time fall rythmically upon the sand.
Each moment cools the flame and brings relief.
The shape of the water is everchanging.
New discoveries lurk behind each new peak.
Catharsis and regeneration await.

Sprint across the torched surface.
Dive deep into the cleansing water.
Nothing to burn
Nothing to cling
Nothing to keep
Nothing to…

Hold. The beach provided firm footing with only the slightest of compromise.
The ocean offers only violent churning
My panicked toes scrape the bottom sand.
The coffin of Annabell Lee is now nestled under my nail.
Equilibrium overcomes panic, but doubt resides in the trough:
Can love be quenched by time?

To live moment by moment has no equal.
Each simultaneous wave passes one by one until they are finished.
The water is still. Time is still.
Weightless, free, intangible.
Facing the sun, what is to come will never be known.
It has always been known.

What are you thinking?

Nothing

I love when she wears that t-shirt. V-necks were created in heaven just to be wrapped around her body. Surely she knows she shouldn’t be wearing this in the morning if she doesn’t want me to come on strong. It is weird how clothes were created to cover the skin yet they actively tempt me to uncover it.

Liar. Why won’t you tell me?

We’ve never used this breakfast bar for anything other than sitting and eating. What would I have to say to her make this happen? Maybe if I throw a bit of guilt into the conversation…

I thought I told you not to ask that question?

But I just want to know what you are thinking about

I am not thinking about anything

Is there anything more anti-aphrodisiacal than nagging? That burrito last week probably would have gotten her in the mood. It must have been created by some Mexican fallen angel or something. A small bit of heaven on earth. Why am I thinking about heaven so much?

Your mind is completely blank?

What was that thing made out of? Carne asada, some cheese, pico de gallo, and the coup de grâce: French fries. I can’t decide if this was birthed from a stroke of genius or divine revelation. Oh here comes the supernatural again. I suppose old habits die hard.

Yes

You are such a liar. That is impossible

Look, I cannot possibly express every single though that crosses my mind.

I just want to know the one thought in your head right now!

I probably shouldn’t be thinking about food much. Money is getting scarce. Why did I ever try to get into this internet marketing bullshit? It could have been good. Getting fired from two jobs in a month is rough though, especially when one was my own business!

Sigh I am thinking about how I had a good time this morning

Ok… is that all?

I don’t think I am going to make rent this month. I only have one client. I am pretty much squeezing as much as I can out of her. I don’t know how to do this stuff. Why did I think I could bullshit my way through this? Oh yeah, because it seemed to work for every other job I have had.

All what?

Is that all you are thinking about?

I hope the team shows up to play on Thursday. That is all I have left to distract me from real life. We better make the playoffs. I remember last season we missed the playoffs by one point. The season before too.

Why are you prying so hard?

You just seem troubled

Is soccer the only thing holding me back from a real job? I don’t think I can find a real job I will like. This writing and virtual assistance would be a perfect way to earn income while going to school. Flexible, higher paying per hour than most entry level positions, and I love writing. But the uncertainty of sufficient income…

I am fine

Hmmpf. I wish I could just see straight into your brain and know everything you are thinking about

You can lean over the counter as much as you want, but you are objectifying yourself. This kitchen is pretty awesome. Plenty of space and storage. Those pictures bring back some good memories. Does every guy wonder if he made a mistake choosing one girl when her friends are just as available and probably less naggy?

Mmhmm

That blond we were with two nights ago was a saucy one. Possibly the best placed curves I have ever seen. Didn’t get enough of them, couldn’t get enough of them. I wonder how good of friends they are. Not so close that when this ends…

Whatever asshole

Hey! No need to get angry. Please, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to talk about every single thought I happen to think.

Oh there goes my stomach rumbling. I need another one of those burritos as soon as possible. I wonder if I can mix and match. Is that the perfect burrito combination or can it be improved on? Maybe get some guac in there. What else can I put French fries in/on? Her blond friend…

But you never tell me anything you are thinking or feeling. It is not fair. You need to open up more.

I know. I am sorry. I am just not good at expressing my thoughts in words.

Ehh I feel like even my imagination is overrated. If I fantasize about another girl long enough, the arguments and annoyances still weasel their way into my daydreams. Plus, and with enough alcohol, who knows what names I might confuse if my mind has been elsewhere…

Well, you should at least try

I know. I will try to share more with you. I just need to practice I guess.

I have no idea how I will ever make good on that promise. I don’t know exactly what to do. I don’t know remotely what to do. Oh well, that just means we will have two more weeks of peace until this all surfaces yet again.

Good. Now what sounds good for lunch?

I don’t know. You choose.

The beauty and serenity of the warm, soft sands
Juxtaposed with the powerful, violence of the beating waves.
No other place do time and love battle with such fervor.

The waves are constant, unstoppable, infatigued.
They are moments of time. all occuring simultaneously,
But only crashing in single file.
Each one is a story, with rising action, climax and a foaming conclusion.
They are moments of time. all occuring simultaneously.

The deep sands of the beach hold indefinite articles of Ancient Grace.
It is unquenchable love. and will not be defeated.
The grains find their way into every cranny of life and being.
None can visit without the clinging flame of the warm sand.
It is hard, too hard to bear the heated passion of the sunburned surface.
It is unquenchable love. and will not be defeated.

Time usurps love as the waves envelop the shore, but the sand cannot be defeated.
The froth recedes from its adversary only to find the grains remain,
Changed but not overcome.
Love closes around the feet of the weary, and asks them to stay for awhile.
But time scares them off.
Only those unafraid to dip their feet will survive.
An epic battle is waged and casulties are cost for both sides.

The only hope is to choose sides. both ways are dead ends.
Time does not heal and love cannot satisfy.
The former is neverending, unrelenting, unresting, unforgiving.
The latter is beaten, rewardless, unavoidable, unforgiving.

I have chosen love. I have found my Annabell Lee.
Though we will succomb to time, we conquer in our defeat.
When we are together no wave crashes, every wave crashes.
We exit the timeline and Love passes all understanding.
If Time is our grave may Love be our coffin.
If the ocean is our grave, may the sands be our coffin.

They are moments in time. all occuring simultaneously.
It is unquenchable love. and will not be defeated.