The Flammarion Syncope

by Garret Ford

  Chapter 14.

  “Fiction is more endearing than reality.”

  Lilia S. Delphia

  Running behind everyone. Can't keep up with my dad. Can't lift as much as my brother. Stay inside and have tea parties with my stuffed animals. Stay quiet. Hard work, smells like shit, I wish I lived in the city. People, places to go, things to do. Aside from literally watching grass grow and cows shit. Back together, apart, again and again.

  Living at my uncle’s house half the time. I don't want to go back to my house again except to get my dog. I lay awake on my uncle's paisley patterned chesterfield in the rumpus room. I can hear him arguing in the kitchen above with my dad. The television is muted. I pull the blanket up over my head.

  “I’m safe here.” I say to myself.

  It is late. I’m watching South Park. I’m supposed to be in bed sleeping but I stayed up. My brother is asleep snoring in the other room. I’m not supposed to watch South Park either. I do many things that I’m not supposed to, my teachers say I will grow out of it. I wonder if I actually will.

  “… stop… bullshit…” My uncle's voice was stern.

  “… health … bankrupt…” I hear my dad trying to be quiet.

  “… harm … paranoid…” My uncle growled at him.

  “… arson… attempted…” My dad's voice got louder.

  I hear my dad clomp off and slam the door.

  My father's truck roars to life outside and I can hear it pull out of the drive way, casting dancing shadows through the rumpus room windows. I hear soft footsteps down the stairs to the rumpus room and see my uncle peer through the beaded doorway.

  Fiat lux.

  My Uncle was the funniest man I knew. He always called me sport, or tiger, or champ and knew all kinds of jokes and limericks. A pizza eating Jesus in perpetually stained clothing.

  “Can't sleep champ?” He said.

  “No. Were you fighting?” I said.

  “Sorry you had to hear that, sport.” He said

  “But he is your brother?” I ask.

  “Has your brother ever done something wrong and you got mad at him?” My uncle wiggled his nose the odd way that he did.

  “Not like that.” I said.

  “Liar.” My uncle ruffled my hair as he spoke.

  “Yeah...” I said.

  “I love him but I’m angry with him, it is okay to be angry with people you love. But don’t lose your temper and hit them. That's aggression, two different things- anger, aggression. Remember that tiger.” He said.

  “Do I have to go home on Tuesday?” I said.

  “Our show should be starting soon.” My uncle groaned as he got up from the paisley chesterfield.

  “Huzzah!” I jumped up and down on the paisley chesterfield.

  “Is your brother asleep?” He asked and looked back before he went up the stairs.

  “In the other room.” I shrug.

  “You snooze you lose.” He said.

  It wasn't that the show was good, or that I liked the jokes, it was that we got to spend time together when we watched it. Uncle went upstairs and makes two bowls of popcorn and returns. He dims the lights, sits down in his green paisley chair. The popcorn is buttery and delicious. The theme song plays. My uncle sounds like a pig choking whenever he laughs. We criticize the movie and eat popcorn. Popcorn sticks between his yellow teeth and sprays out in chunks when he laughs. The movie ends and my uncle gets up out of his green paisley chair. The national anthem begins to play along with images of the Canadian wilderness. The end of broadcasting day. Colour bars. I stand up with the blanket from the chesterfield around me.

  “That’s all folks.” My uncle looked at his VHS collection.

  “I wish I could stay here. I would spend days at school, then get to watch weird movies at night.” I said.

  I must be a dumb teenager right now.

  “Thanks for staying up. I don't have anybody to watch this crap with except you champ.” He said.

  “Uncle, why do we always watch that show?” I asked.

  “A reminder that life is funny- sad or scary, there is always humor to be found. Lila, a divine play in an illusion made up of Maya. I imagine there are three observers to my own life laughing in the same way, or wishing they were in my shoes, and try to laugh along with them!” My uncle laughed, mirthful.

  “But it isn’t well written or anything.” I asked.

  “Life doesn't always turn out the way you might want, but it will take you where you need to go.” He said.

  “But like sad stuff is still sad.” I said.

  “Of course it is sad but never become attached to your sadness, let the sadness happen, then it flows away.” He said.

  “How?” I say to him as I scratched my head.

  “Turn sadness into a big long rosary, then cut the cord. Once freed, the energy goes back to the source.” He said.

  “But I have sad problems.” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about it champ?” He said.

  The dam cracks and breaks.

  “Everything is so wrong. I cry in silence so mom and dad don't worry- they sent me to a therapist- I’m not crazy! I don't want to go home, and can't I stay here-” I said.

  “You can’t stay in dreamland forever, you have to face your world and what is happening.” He said.

  “I don’t want to be a burden on my parents.” I said.

  “That would be awful, feeling like a burden.” He said.

  “It is awful and I feel alone, nobody gets me.” I said.

  “Being alone, you have an opportunity to learn to love and accept yourself- most people never get that opportunity. After all, you have to spend your life with yourself no matter what.” He said.

  I stare into the colour bars on the television.

  “You’re right.” I said, smiling.

  I get up from the paisley patterned chesterfield and give my uncle a hug. His hands are soft and he gently pats my back. No callouses. He is the opposite of my dad even in his hands.

  “Time for bed?” He asked, and he tried to carry me.

  “Stop you will put your back out!” I cried out.

  “I cannot carry the burden master, but I’ll carry you!” He said, struggling to bear my weight.

  “I’m not a kid. Anymore.” I said, holding onto his shoulder.

  “To me, you will always be a kid.” He said.

  My uncle, tucked me in, stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the passageway between light and dark.

  “Good-night!” He said in a Dracula voice.

  I lay in bed, most nights at home, I can't get to sleep. I get anxiety when I get into bed. All the worst things in my life have happened at night. Tonight though, I sleep, guiltless and free.

  “The merry-go-round again?” She said.

  “Please, mom! Only one more time.” I said.

  “You said one more time last time. It is getting dark and the fair will close soon.” She said, shaking her head and leading me away.

  “I only have one more left!” I crossed my arms and pouted.

  “But Honey the ride is the same, you get on, you go in circles for a bit, then you get off.” She said, stopping.

  “But it is different riding on each of the different animals, some of them are scary to ride on, others are funner.” I pleaded.

  “Honey, funner isn’t a word.” She said.

  The last of the line-up boarded the carousel.

  “That one is reserved.” The carnie called out as someone tried to climb onto the dragon. “Your final ride awaits, carousel-kid!”

  “How did you know!?” I said, beaming a smile.

  “Never seen anyone like the carousel so much.” He said.

  “It’s my favorite!” I smiled back. “I wana ride forever!”

  He laughed and scratched his shaved head.

  “Thank you, we are out of tickets Honey.” She said.

  “Last one is on the house.” The carnie smiled, crooked teeth.

  “Ple
ase, mom?” I asked.

  “Okay, But after we need to go home.” She said.

  “All aboard!” The carnie called and I got on the dragon’s back.

  The drive home is uneventful. I work, I eat, I sleep, I repeat.

  “Honey, I’m home.” I catcalled in the dim apartment.

  My cat, Honey greets me at the door meyowing hungrily. She is fluffy, long whiskers, and yellow eyes- like honey. I feed her a tin of cat food and make myself a microwave meat pie. Another day, another dollar. At least I can dream. Honey and I sit and watch TV together, some comedy show called Fucko. Orpheus calls to me.

  I choke my pills back with a mouthful of water. The awful things make my mouth feel numb immediately. But they help me sleep and that is the only peace I get. The pill begins to play its sonorous song and I drift away into sleep. But soon, my sweet oblivious antidote clears that away too. Only the dark remains.

  “Wake up, pumpkin. Quick and the dead and all that.” I hear.

  “What the fuck!” I awaken, terrified- just a bad dream.

  Everyone else paired up and got married.

  I'm the last one at the bar, getting stuck with the tab.

  I turn on the lamp by my bed.

  I am in my rented room on my foam mattress on the floor.

  I curl up into a ball and I rest my chin on my knees.

  I wish I was back home;

  Then I remember,

  This is home now.

  Amen,

  You really can’t go home. I hated learning that.

  Broke and broken. My ships were burned.

  Baboon.I stay out of sight, unknown failure.

  Alone with my life and mistakes. Conceited cannibal.

  If only I had been rejected from university.Drowning Ishmael.

  Instead of being a failure. Loaded with debt-

  And a liberal arts degree.Overspecialized.

  I could have been a mechanic.Monomaniac.

  Or something useful.

  Other than me.

  Fuck.

  “Thank, god I am alive.” I think to myself

  I pull off the faded green covers and stretch. I look down and wiggle my toes. The cabin air is cool and I can feel the cool hardwood grain on the soles of my feet. Stove probably needs wood. I put on my slippers grasping in the dark; my fingertips find the light switch.

  Click, click.

  Nothing?

  Powerless.

  There, in the darkness, I find the door.

  Turn the handle, open the door.

  Light the way.

  The dawning sun rises.

  Glistening emerald waters, the soft serene sandy shore line that stretches out before me. What a place, boats bobbing with the tide in the distance. The rainforest cloak the mountain side but thin as they stretch upward; finally yielding to the eternally icy peaks. I am renewed. A crow flies north.

  The island has a special kind of quiet; expected perhaps in a surreal French hotel- but not an island. The word of the island was hush. What strange life, far from the smog, traffic, and rush. Forever holiday. I stand at amongst the towering trees. What glory, the birds twitter above. I turn the power back on at the teal fuse box. This moment, however, imperfect- is precious. I return to my cabin and make a roaring fire; I close the damper so it won’t burn out too fast.

  I absentmindedly check my cell to see if anyone has texted me. I forget that there is no cell reception out here. I stare at the red circle around the reception bar.

  How could being disconnected to others make me feel so connected to myself?

  The outside world had me dancing like a drunken ape- but here I slept when tired, I ate when hungry. I sat down on the ratty and faded chesterfield in the living room and kick off my slippers. The soft green shag carpet felt good. The old-tube television collected dust across from me with ancient VHS tapes- my uncles- sitting beneath it.

  I notice there is no VHS player anymore, odd.

  “Why have tapes if there is no player?” I pondered.

  Chapter 15.

  “Don’t paint your cupboards gray.”

  (Canadian Expression for ‘don’t be negative’)

  We lay on my bed watching funny internet videos on his laptop. I have the basement to myself, my crush from work is with me, close enough to touch. He is a tall, thin, quiet, sensitive, and if the rumors at work are true, a virgin. I “accidently” lean against him when queuing the next video, our eyes meet. His eyes are lovely, a dark brown- like mahogany if that is a dark brown wood, I have no idea, I was never any good at identifying good wood.

  He kisses me, tenderly; I caress his clean shaven face and run my hands through his soft hair. He holds me closely, I can feel his breath, his throbbing erection through his pants is pressing against me.

  “You’re hot.” He said.

  “Thanks.” I said, smiling. “I like you too.”

  “This is my first time.” He said.

  “I know.” I said, smiling; and kissed him again.

  I unzip his pants, his long but thin member throbs in my hand; I give him a lovingly sloppy blowjob. He runs his hands through my hair. Surprise, just when I was getting into my rhythm- he cums in my mouth- but I like him; so I swallow.

  “S-sorry.” He said.

  “It’s cool dude.” I look up at him with a smile.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for all the way.” He said, awkwardly.

  “…?” I said.

  “Can I just, like touch you?” He asked, I obliged and I sat down on the bed and spread my legs.

  Dead jellyfish found on the shore. I feign enjoyment. After a few minutes of prodding, petting, and fondling with his long thin fingers; he was bored, or had his curiosity satisfied.

  “Thanks.” He said, awkwardly and zipped up his pants.

  I sit at the table in my kitchen. I hold the letter in my hand. Déjà vu. I sit down. This letter will decide the next two years of my life. I rip open the rough brown envelope. The papers fall out in a rough heap, I sort through them, and finally one catches my eye.

  I feel the weight in my chest. I can't breathe.

  Am I dying-

  Am I Schrodinger’s cat?

  What will happen to my other self?

  Which am I. What will the letter tell me?

  Which is worse, which is better.

  Am I supposed to live this life?

  Live it all out. I am happy, or am I?

  Revelation.Moment of glory.

  Moment of failure.Crucible.

  Catalyst.

  Soul Alchemy.

  Lead into gold.

  Profane into sacred.

  Transmutation.

  What does the letter tell me.

  My future.

  Is.

  Now.

  Acceptance.

  Joy, unadulterated, pure joy. My years of hard work, applying, volunteering, busting my ass- all paid off. Finally. I wonder what would have happened if I had not been accepted. If I had failed; hung myself in my hallway, pinning the letter to my chest with the word “Rejection” written on it. I shake the thought out of my head. Horrible, why think such things? I call, text, post- everyone must know. The appropriate response; strange dread, more pressure, more work, more school, and less life- still not married, this wouldn’t help that. I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. Familiar feeling, imposter syndrome- a failure despite outside success.

  “Do you want permission to be happy?” She asked.

  “I made mistakes and I need to suffer.” I said.

  “You can step out of the flames anytime you want.” She said.

  “I don’t know how!” I said.

  “Who are you being miserable for?” She said.

  “Myself?” I said.

  “You are wrath- with no one around to injure you, you turn your blades on yourself.” She said.

  A common madness; a portrait of unresolved pain- my mind wages war, a civil war, but a war none the less. Alone.

  “Everythi
ng has sucked for so many years- divorce, disappointment, loneliness, rejection again and again.” I said.

  “The storm is over, time to rebuild.” She said.

  “I can't watch the lightning anymore?” I said.

  “Do you want to live?” She said with candor.

  “I love my pain.” I think about her words.

  Break ups are hard.

  “Whatever.” I said.

  “Whatever …” They continued, but I stopped listening.

  They left, or I left her. I broke their heart, or they broke mine. Kill or be killed. Predator or prey. Mutually assured destruction. Ethereal, between the airs and beyond the strands of time. The outsider, the interloper, consciousness a parasite latched onto this body- feasting on pain and delight.

  I ascend.

  Faster and faster, the plane takes off and I grip the arm. The world does not shrink, my perspective merely changes. I can see my house, my street, my world grow smaller until they are but motes underneath a shroud of flowing ivory.

  “What's funny?” She asked.

  “I had a fucked up thought, what if this is already done, and I'm day dreaming about my rose-colored times in university?” I said.

  “How could we still have free will if this is your day dream-” She elbows me and laughs. “Also, you HATED, university, why daydream about something you hated?”

  “People dream about all kinds of weird things.” I said, shrugging. “Go ask Freud.”

  “Or Jung.” She said. “Makes me question free will though. Lacking but believing in the same. Puppets in a play, characters in a book, our fates fleeting as…“ She said.

  “Perchance to dream?” I said, drunk.