"Look at Me" Chapter 6 'Ephemeral'

6

Ephemeral [Hurricane

Whoever heard of a hurricane on the Mississippi? But that is what the old man called it, was fighting this is a hurricane of a storm, he garbled. Nothing would ever be the same again, he told himself, nothing at all. Once the storm settled down, his plans, his business all washed up, everything would be different after the storm. He knew whatever was to happen he needed to let it happen. The dilemma was over, it was him or her, he had figured it might come down to that, and it had, it had come down to that, like it or not it was happening: he knew nothing would ever be the same, impervious was the hurricane to his pleas: enough was enough, but the tempest did not listen to the old mans growls, amicable he remained in his position; yes he wanted to eat, sleep, regenerate, but he was in a forgotten zone, a atrophy zone. If anything, his daughter standing by him, safely, for that precious moment would have to do; now he had to fight the storm a bit more. He liked seeing her face, her standing there with a smile, as if, as if the whole world was right there, the whole universe stood there for a moment in front of them, a little moment, oh no, not anymore, if it was before, it wasnt now, it was gone; and this might be the most profound moment he would ever remember. He smiled with that thought, no words needed to be expressed, she was simply proud of him and herself, now he wanted to see her, to hold that memory.

He knew as he moved about in the water hanging onto wood, drifting wood, wood that once belonged to something, barren now, and other pieces of debris, that he needed to grab onto the rope, which was a ways from him, it was becoming out of his range to reach, floating away, getting out of his means, matter-of-fact, he couldnt grab it, it was too far, leave it, why waste the effort, but that wasnt an option he concluded, he needed it, the wood would not hold him up forever, hed sink soon

He and his daughter and son-in-law had fought a year before about some work the son-in-law had done for him on one of his properties; before this, he and his daughter had a close relationship, had I say, but thereafter it soured, after the run-in with the Son-in-law. The son-in-law resented taking handouts from him [him being: the father-in-law, and landlord: Gnter not in the beginning though, not when they didnt to have a homesave for the fact they were pawns to a ruthless landlord and begged Gnter to buy a house for them, a duplex, someplace they could live, but after a number of years, the son-in-law resented itafter he had given him a home, even though hed not admit it. Even though it was given without any malice or expectations, it had taken something away from him, away from the son-in-law: envy was his crutch, and is not envy the bird that you can never snatch above your head. He tried, but couldnt.

now the old man refocused: the rope was still hanging, he cou ld see it:

he could visualize his daughter going up the steps for the tenth time, he could see her, so then he rushed to the next roof top, jumped over to it, and down to the edge of the cliffvisually and spiritually he was following her

water now had risen up to the very edge of the cliffs; the whole levee was now under water. (It was a miracle he thought, she got out in time.)

He shook his head trying to clear it, he was worn-out, very drained, and he was not as young as he used to be: so he told himself, rest a bit, but the water and the wind kept his hands busy, slapping everything away from him. my daughter, my daughter, went through his mind, I got to catch up with her, make sure she is safe. Even though she was twenty-two years old, married, and had two kids, his son-in-law most likely was visiting at his fathers house, he presupposedbegging for cigarettes as usual. He then seen the steps, the iron steps his daughter went up (again): Got to climb them he said, and as he seemingly made it up a few of the steps, he got tired, his mind shifted, lost for concentration, posterity would never photograph his last moments, it will say: I was, and then I was not, that is what the old man told himself; my imprint will not even be in my bend in the morning, in my mattress, is what he told himself. He did not wish to understand, if so hed have to adjust to it, and he really didnt have the time; there was not such thing as adjusting to new days, or one to another, there would not be another. He would be a cold corpse by morning.

He refocused, as he started spitting water from his mouth, as if it was blood coming out of his lungs: aimlessly focusing on his environment: it so happens to be, Im tired, even lazy at this moment, bats were in the air, he saw them. He could hardly breath, this damn storm, he cursed, adding, please Lord let my daughter be safe, if I dont make it, please let her be safe, I dont mind dying, shes too young, take me instead. It wasnt a call of piety, or pity, just a request from the vaults of his mind, his cold waterlogged mind. His intestines were curled; all cramped up inside him like a snake, cold like his mind, a cold corpse in the morning, he reiterated.

He climbed another step, again he had to rest, and it was as if his lungs were full of water again, he looked up into the inky-dark sky, and the storm was not letting up, it was like pouring buckets of water on his head, buckets and buckets and more buckets. There was no end to it. But still his mind went back to Jean-lee, his cold mind, and cold intestines, back to the steps; the steps he needed to climbto and fro, to and fro.

The tempest was roaring he heard it all around him, like a train going from one ear to the next, the whistle: blowing, blowing, and blowing. Cold like his mind, his mind becoming numb, but the whistle he could hear, blowing, the windnever-ending.

He had strong feelings for his daughter, and a strong fear she would lose her way home, possibly lose her way to his house. But she always surprised him he told himself, she had determination if anything, if she put her mind to it that is, and if she says: My dad thinks I can do it, shed do it. He told hisself to calm down, stop using so much effort; he knew he had only so much energy left, there was no way of regenerating in the chilling water. His arms felt like anvils, heavy, weighty anvils. He could catch up with her in a bit, he told himself, so calm down, just calm down, the storm will end, and shell make it to the house, and hell see her there.

Rain I The first Hour, The sounds

The old man could hear the sounds of the rain drops, the pouring sounds, the dropping sounds, the sounds that go with velocity, the dripping sounds of water, and the splashes around him: all water sounds, all moving water-sounds; moving over, under and through places: areas (impervious to any prayers) wate r on water: try to move water he told himself, it is hard, very had. Jesus, sweet Jesus, he saidthen stopped, he had asked for one miracle, got it, Jean-lee had got it, and now it was time to pay, than you Jesus, sweet Jesus.

So much water, so much movement; it was a trial to see if the rain-god could make him shut his eyes; but his God, the only God helped him alter the sounds, the death sounds, the every circular-sounds of everlasting water: water, water, water, water, water, water... long sounds, short sounds, fat sounds, all sounds of dark water surrounding him, hugging him, crushing him, slowly, slowly devouring him. His God had taken the fear out of himsave for the fact he was not completely sure his daughter had made it to the house yet. The rain would slow down, then pick up, slow down and then buckets would fall, buckets of water, water, water, water, it was his new world: a water-world; thunder roared and bellowed, and shouted. But so what he said: let it do as it will, he had asked his God to save his daughter, now he had to stand down, not take advantage of Him. He had but one miracle to do today and he did it, and it was still in the process of being completed: not two, but one with two parts to it, should he ask for a third one, for himself: he could but he told himself one was in his heart when he asked, he felt too greedy to ask for two, or a third one, even though one with three parts would have been better. But one, only one did he ask for, and as the good book says, he quoted: Ask and you shall receive, [Matt. 7:7: thus far, he had asked, and it looked to him like he was receiving.

Lightening was striking, here and there, why it did not hit him, it would be a quick death he assured himself, why it did not hit him, he did not know, but it didnt (his eyes were empty, rolled back into his skull, until only the bluish whites alone showed; he remained flaccid and powerless for the moment. He had a cadaver face, as if he put a stolen carcass over it, a carcass out of a graveyard, sullen and quiet he remained). But even the lightening was unmotivated to challenge the water, to challenge his God, until the safety of his daughter would be at hand. Old Man Gnter, was trying, and trying to sing, hum a tune, block out the sounds of water, the everlasting splashing, dripping of water from his hands, head, eyes, chin, eyes and chin, everlasting, never-ending: on and on and on it came.

He still had a solid grip on the ropemore like a frozen grip, one of those grips that a dead man has on something after his body waxes up and goes stiff; a slippery solid grip that is, with a smooth, slimy ropeit was all he could hope for: the rope that was tossed over to save his daughter was now allowing him more time on this earth, his home, his dominion within the universe, among the stars in the heavens, the moon and its sun, this was the only home he had ever known, earth, the world, the globe, h is home: this was his time, his people, he knew ita home with many names; and this water, it didnt seem like home, but it was part of it now, if not his death to be: he concluded, we all have to die somehow, someway, Like it or not, it seemed like he was being allowed to know how he was going to die, or so it seemed.

Yes, he fell in, slipped off the roof of the house that is; fell into the water below, some twenty-feet or more. The spinning rope left him to the whims of the river, the rains and the sounds of water. Die, die, die!!! it said, the Winds and the Water and the rain told the old man, but the old man told them back, not yet, not until shes safe, and he meant it.

How often do we know, does anyone know, he told himself, know how one will die? We live a life time knowing the day will come, when it does, and then what, we got to face it, and we really do. We all say tomorrow, another day, just give me one more day Lord. We make fun of death, yet we watch others die, we know our time is coming, not yet, but coming. We even get some close calls, call it luck or God sent (we will never know how many times we beat death, got away from it, until we do die, but, perhaps we should had been dead long ago, so the old man mixed this up with his other thoughts) but it comes around again. We hear our mothers and fathers say: death is around the corner, but we do not relate it to us, then it comes, comes out of the blueslaps us in the face: it says, its your turn, then you got to face it: death says: I will not morn, nor give pity, I want you, if anything, it may allow you a moment to patch up a few minor things, but that is it; look it in the eyes, everyone must look it in the eyes. We dont quite know how to deal with it, it is just a hidden fact, a thing put aside for a later date, then the people around us try to say it is not so, as if to protect themselves from the inevitable, or usyet we are the ones dying, for at that su mmit, most people have dealt with it, know it is about to take place, that they will not wakeup again on this earth: but go into the port of eternity, not at least in the same dimension they left it, in the physical way I mean, so the old man mumbled to his second self, his inner mind, his minds eye; he had to talk to someone, it was his inner eye he was talking to. And today, possibly today, was his day.

Almost asleep at times, the old man, the old stubborn man of war, focused on the sounds of water again, it kept him awake at times, shifting to a dream mode (almost in a coma state, and possibly in and out of a coma, he didnt know) he was dreaming of putting on an overcoat, only to wakeup to water; he laughed, laughing is healthy he told himself, laughing helps the blood vessels move the blood, circulate it, keep it going, and he wanted it to go, go and go until he knew his daughter was safeit was rain that was covering his body, not an overcoat, a blanket of rainwa ter: a warm overcoat would do though, he told himself, he told himself over and over, yet water would have to do, it was water, and more water, endless water. The river was his overcoat, his blanket, possibly his coffin.

His feet felt like they had balls of iron tied onto them for some odd reason, iron anvilsfrostbitten, numb, he wanted to sink, but not yet, he told his muscles: not yet, he moved his face muscles more and more, he knew he had more muscles in his face than another place, and he had to move them, or have them freeze; oh no not yet: He told his heart, his brain: not yet, he yelled at the cliffs he could no longer see them though: not yet! He told his feet: not yet, you cant sink now, but you can sink later, just wait, please, just, justWAIT! And his request was granted.

As he starts to sink, he forced himself to rise quickly, fast and steady: rubbing his thighs to circulate the blood, pulling the rope closer to him, almost hugging it (as it r ips at his skin, slippery as it was), this was still his life line, he knew it, but soon that would be gone, for the house was sinking, and he couldnt hold on all night, and no one could help him, no one could help anyone, and if so, it was all but too late, and too dark; possibly before, but he was safe on the roof, and no one could see his daughter but him. He felt like a drunken sailor, like a prune with his revolted skin; akin to a floating buoy in the middle of the Mississippi, telling people not to go this way, stay away, danger, danger: for no one was coming to his rescue.

The old man was now floating in circles pointlessly, he no longer was cynical, nor did he have vanity or pride, it all sank in the water, with his new found death notice: this was the time he told himself each man has to fold up the pretense, throw it away, and be frank, honest, completely honest with oneself; as it often does when man faces the inevitable, the one thing that is for sure, the one thing most people do not talk about is death, and where they are at with everything; no more ruthlessness or even bad words for the storm, that also sank to the floor of the river, it was like he had come to peace with the fact, death was, or could be, the price he had to payeverything costs he told himself, everything: we dont really get away with much. And if we think we do, we get the worry syndrome, which works on the body, and ages us before our time. When we hurt people, we hurt our life span: we hurt the world, we are all part of this moment, and we will all meet on the same street someday and be judged. When we rob and we still and kill and rape, we do not get away with it, we pay and pay and pay. We sink with our values, we lower our heads, and we have a hard time facing peopleIve seen it a thousand times he told himself in the eyes of many; for he often said, I look behind the face, that is where the soul is, once I find that, I know his character, and that is what they dont want me to know, that is the pretense. He knew this, and so he tired to be fair, walk like the man he wanted to be, even if others didnt, and most didnt; but nothing haunted him, now or at anytime, he was at peace with God, himself, mankind, if success was in that order, he was successful. And he told himself: Im ready; Im ok with it (with death).

Everybody wants to live forever, he mumbled, like so many victories Ive had in lifes ticking clock (from illness and so forth) their comes a time when it is futile to struggle against the inevitable. Being stubborn, obdurate, unwilling to die, works for a while, but I must accept our mortality, at the end. Fighting against the odds is like a broken mantel clock, sometimes the parts are just too old to fix. It was not within his strength to fight on much more he knew.

See Mr. Siluk's books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.abe.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter Story
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