Truth Is Not Fact

    
This piece is a slight departure from previous The Space Between... writing styles because it highlights the intended purpose of these posts. Hope you enjoy.

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I'm not sure what to write about today. I know I want to write, and I am happy that I have been writing, but ask me what to write this morning and I'm at a loss. I know I need to generate/mine my life for more The Space Between... topics. There really should be endless material. But the stories of my mind and memory are only loud in spurts. Then, they fade. Finally, they are gone, and I am left only with echoes and reverberations of detail and emotion. I am left by myself looking backwards with everything out of focus unable to discern one event from the next moment from another time altogether. It makes capturing anything near impossible.

I remember my mother crying hysterically in the basement, but I do not recall how she got there or why she was crying. I remember breaking bread at bible school with second graders, but have no memory of when it occurred or what happened before or after. I remember emotions surrounding the fight that ended our six-plus-years relationship, but ask me why we broke up and the only thing I can tell you is "It was time."

These bits and pieces are beautiful and real. They hold more truth than the facts of the events or the details of my life. They are like the colors on a painter's palette: they inform the image that emerges but are not the image itself; they influence and shape direction and choice; they work together to craft story, theme, character, and setting. These moments hold an essence that must be conveyed, and fact will never convey that essence.

The Space Between... stories are never fact. I make absolutely no claim that the details are correct. Hopefully, they unveil a truth: that we as humans are complex, intricate, and connected.

I wasn't sure what to write today. But I think I found it.

The Red Dot(s): Buena Vista's Legendary Pink Dots

    

I had to just get out of the apartment and wander today. The dream, my growing collection of red dots, and my wavering sanity complicate my life too much. I want the simplicity of before, when as I walked to work I ignored everything around me. Ignorance was my motto. Now, I walk to work and have to choose to either pass by the mural that started it all of avoid it. Each choice requires thought and comes with consequence. I hate this kind of existence. So I emptied as much as I could out of my mind, opened the door, and let my feet and Echo and the Bunnymen carry me away.

The emptiness didn't last too long. I started thinking about my uncle when I found myself on the top of Potrero Hill. When I was really young, about four, we'd come up here and sit at the top of the hill and stare at downtown. There wasn't much here at the time, and people generally avoided the neighborhood. My uncle loved seeing how the skyline changed. And this was a better view to witness that change than Twin Peaks. I miss those days of quiet observation. There was a certain detachment that could be achieved if you pretended not to care or didn't get emotionally attached to a particular building or patch of grass or tree. If you gave everything the same value, there really wasn't any difference between the new condos going up and the historic home being torn down. One replaced one. Therefore, all is equal.

Continue reading.

Memories Worth Capturing

 
We fought the entire ride up to the North Shore, a total of 3 plus hours. It was a miserable car ride made more embarrassing by having a friend along for the trip. I didn't want her to see this side of my family, this side of me.

We got to the cabin, and it was beautiful and luxurious, something we could only afford because it was owned by a friend of the family. Once there, the fighting ceased for a bit. It picked back up again whenever a decision had to be made. Everyone wanted a hand in decision-making but didn't want to be the one to decide. She removed herself at these times. I wanted to but was too stubborn.

In the spaces between arguments, I drew, wrote, took pictures, and hiked. I had fun. My friend is responsible for these times. She helped me escape.

I thumb through my old notebook and photographs, and I see only these joyful and content moments. They were the only ones worth capturing.

The Border of Clarity and Reality

  
He sat in the sunshine enjoying the kids playing in the park and the shirtless men tanning themselves (even if the men were in Speedos). The music played in his head as an echo of the evening before. The scent of marijuana and cigarettes mixed with the memory of stale beer and sticky floors. A breeze rushed past, its coolness crisp from its long travels over oceans. He rode that breeze and lost himself among the borders of clarity and reality.

Peace of J-Town

 
We wrestled him to the ground in the middle of J-Town Peace Plaza right in front of the pagoda. We were on a field trip to get ice cream. He was becoming defiant and violent, and we were afraid he would hurt himself and others. He was eight, and his meds affected his thyroid. He was large for his age.

"It's okay everyone...No really. We can do this....It is for your own safety. Please back up. He will hit you."

The crowd grew along with his temper and the five other youths' excitement. We were nearing a chaoric melee.

"Go! Take them all back to the Center. Walk back. We'll catch up." I said as I sat on top of him, his arms pounding the concrete, his legs kicking.

"You sure?" She replied.

"Yes. It'll only get worse if you stay. Keep everyone else safe."

The crowd continued growing.

"Really...I'm certified to do this. It is okay." I flashed my badge.

"No! It's not! I'm pressing charges. You wait and see, you FUCKER! Get of me. I'm going to punch you in the face!" He screamed.

Realizing things were okay-ish, the crowd dissipated. His audience gone, he calmed down.

"Everything's going to be okay." I said to him. "I just want to get home safely. You'll feel better there. I promise."

"I'm fine now. I've calmed down. See." His breathing was normal. His voice low. I stood and helped him up.

"Can we go now," he asked.

"Sure," I said. "We're walking back."

We made it back to the Center safely. I had to drag him a block or two when he realized there would be consequences when we returned. He apologized to everyone as a part of his consequences.

Whenever I return to J-Town, I hear his voice and see his face. Sometimes, I smile at the absurdity of the situation. Sometimes, I'm saddened recalling the story that put him in the Center in the first place. Always, I remember him.