Editing Malady (section)

==Death==
My friend marcus has been throwing up for nigh on nine hours. I
am doing my best to take care of him, but there's not much I can do
besides tell him that he's going to be alright, at some point, he's going
to be alright. Aristotle heaved once, and then it came, one sad,
pathetic surge of hydrochloric acid and half-digested animal fiber. It
was all over the kitchen counter of his apartment, a little in the sink,
but he hadn't had time to aim it completely. He hadn't seen it coming.
He had known he was about to vomit, but he hadn't seen coming the
phone call from his sister quite early one morning in the winter of his
twenty-sixth year. He could not have known that his parents would
perish. Not so soon, I mean, and not in the way that they had. In
separate cars, headed opposite directions. They had been divorced for
almost ten years, and in that time both they and their children had
grown accustomed to the fact that they no longer travelled down the
same roam - not in life, and unless is was by that quantum gravity of
fate, not in cars. But this was an act of ultimate quantum weirdness
weirdness, like a bathtub falling through an intact floor. At 11:34 on the
night before the phone call, Aristotle's parents had been traveling in
opposite directions on a road that neither of them took very often.


One or both or neither of them had lost control over their car, and
over fate, and in a single moment, the embers went cold.


At first Aristotle couldn't handle it. He literally could not
comprehend. He thought there was a mistake or a mix up or a
misunderstanding, or that his sister was playing some twisted game.
She had been cruel before, but only a loving sort of cruel, and this was
no game. When it finally sank in that the unthinkable had happened,
that's when the nausea rose, like a tide of blood, or a grotesque winged
lizard surging into an ashen sky. It rose and rose, and finally splashed
against the kitchen counter, covering plates and forks, a little in the
sink. He had been sterling himself for some time, against the
inevitable passing of one and then the other. But this? It was as if the
idea of death had not once occurred. A cracking of the planet.


How dark and fantastic was this onslaught of grief, perfect in its
symmetr y and complete in its destruction. How absolute and
unyielding was the steel that tortured and crushed itself into the
rotten, rotting, fleshless fingers of the reaper. How unbelievably
incendiary was the pain. A searing of the soul.


Aristotle lived in a city now, with Lucy, and worked a fine job. Life
was beginning to take the shape of a narrow road. Now this, and the
storm of sympathy that began to flood in like the melting of a glacier.
It was a torrent, unstoppable but unwelcome just the same. An aunt
and an uncle, a cousin and a friend, associates and enemies, people
Aristotle didn't even know. The phone was ringing, and the phone
would not stop ringing. Lucy did her best to handle the condolences
while Ari stared at the ceiling, wondering what was above it, and
wishing that his hand would not shake.


There was no time for the shaking of hands. There was no time for
the molten sorrow which seemed to flow from behind his eyes. There
were effects to put in order, arrangements to be made. There was no
time for mourning, there was no time. There was no time, time
seemed to stop. And in a perpetual moment, the world seemed to say -
"you are alone now." it was a loneliness unlike the rest, not solitude or
distance that Aristotle felt, nut the darkness of the sea. He had lost the
harbor lights, and now he had to fight the storm, the surge, and the
sharks by himself. He had lost the harbor lights, and now he had to go
to the harbor.


Aristotle's father had always planned a funeral in New York Harbor.
That is where Abraham, patriarch of the family, had first laid eyes on
this continent, expansive and material. That is where the ashes were to
be scattered, like so much waste of a life so wasted.


There was no time for the shortness of breath, and the weakness of
knees. There were things to sell and things to keep. There was no time
for memory, there was no time. There was no time. Time seemed to
stop, and in that perpetual moment, the world seemed to whisper - "so
completely alone." It was a mourning unlike the rest, not nostalgia or
regret, but the extinction of a species. Fire had consumed the last of
the forest, and now he had to travel to the burnt fields, lay witness to
the destruction, and hope to find a seed. Fire had consumed the last of
the forest, and now he had to go to the forest.


Aristotle's mother had always planned a funeral amidst the
California timber. That is where she had travelled throughout her
years, as a girl and a girl-woman, and finally as a woman. That is where
the ashes were to be scattered, like so many trappings of a life that was
trapped.


They say that symmetry and beauty are inextricably linked, but
aren't the most beautiful things often worthy of destruction? They say
that time heals all wounds, but aren't those wounds inflicted by time?
Or timing, at least, which is the face of time that brings death at
random, strikes out at the innocent and the still-too-young. They say
that death is not the end, but the beginning, but isn't it regressive, to
destroy what's almost done?


Yesterday, I passed a dog lying dead in the street. It filled me with
rage, and I wished to set it on fire. I wanted to destroy the evidence of
its suffering, and pretend that animals do not have to die. It is not so,
we all must die, and we all must burn, or rot, or be shot on rockets into
the void of space. It does not erase our suffering, etched by endorphin
into the fabric of time. The geometry of the cosmos says we cannot
reach into the past. The burning of a body only tempers the bones.
They had the bodies burned.


They gathered for the first time in many years, eldest daughter and
eldest son, intermediate male child and Aristotle. All the fission of
their young lives reversed its course, and a heavy nucleus came out of
the furnace. That is the way, when atoms collide. One reaction follows
on another. Fusion and then fission and then fusion again. A joining
and a splitting, and a final unity. They burnt the bodies, and though it
was only combustion, something atomic was at play. Marion and Avery
had split in life, but now in death they were resolutely joined. Even if
one became a part of the Atlantic, and the other joined the Pacific, all
oceans flow together, and soon their molecules would once again mix.
This is was had created the four of them in the first place, and that is
what turned them into children once more.


Avery had always loved autumn, and Marion had always loved
spring. They would scatter the ashes in the season that seemed most
appropriate, and avoid having to decide which jar of carbon to get rid
of first. It was winter then, and in the biting air of an unlivable season,
they set about the liquidation of two lives.


At first they thought to dispose of replaceable things - washing
machines and refrigerators, bed frames and knife blocks. Two of
everything was given or taken or thrown away. If Aristotle's finger
lingered a moment too long on an object full of accidental memory,
then someone was there to say "Brother, let it go." If he sat too long by
the fire, touching his knees or unfolding his hands, someone was there
to say "Brother, there is work to be done." If Aristotle wept, then
someone was there to weep with him, but it did not matter, because in
the end we weep alone. Everything was gone in a week's time, and it
was good that houses devoid of life had become unlivable.


What remained after that were the boxes. Coffins, really, though
they were made of cardboard, and contained no remains. Boxes full of
pictures and letters and lists, full of noise and memory, and the
frenetic, kinetic myth of life at 5400. Piles of boxes, which no one
wanted to be the first to open, for fear that their mother or father
would spring forth and say 'don't touch that 'till I'm dead.' but they
were dead, and the boxes said so, because now they had no choose but
to look inside, and to try and make sense of how they had become.


Aristotle was short of breath. So much dust which seemed
distinctly like ash was not the culprit, though it also didn't help. He
held a letter he had written to his father, held it, but did not read - he
knew what it said. Aristotle was short of breath, and soon enough he
was not breathing at all. In that moment he wanted only one ing. He
wanted one of his brothers to hit him. He wanted violence, sweet
loving violence to erupt around him, rumbling the walls, ruffling the
pillows, wrinkling the sheets. He wanted to return to that sacred
violence of boyhood, which had made him resilient, made him into a
man. The pain of punches he had had to handle, that was the order of
things, and it had made him strong. But this pain was chaos, and it did
not strengthen him, but made him unable to breathe. Someone places
a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he hoped that they would
squeeze until it hurt, but those days were gone. Now he had only the
pain of comfort, no the comfort of pain. Now he folded the letter,
inhaled and looked back. It was Lucy. He reached out, and continued
to breathe. That is how it was in those days, not just for Aristotle, but
for his siblings, too - forced breath, long moments, and a desire for
pain.


When all the memories had been folded neatly, and moved, and
sealed anew, there was nothing left but the money. They had put it off
as long as they could. Now they would each receive almost half a
million dollars, and the money brought little besides guilt and shame.
Half a million dollars, but what good would it do? Aristotle could start
a family now, but the chaos of death had made life seem somehow
hollow. Half a million dollars did not ease the pain. The houses were
sold, and the savings were split, but no inheritance was left. It was only
a pile of ash. Of course, Aristotle knew that he would want the money
some day, but it was all too soon. He called his banker and had the
money locked away for fifteen years. He had never been very good at
saving, and he knew that if he could, he would put the money to
frivolous use. That is not what his mother or father would have
wanted, and so he locked himself out. He hoped that someday he
would get wise, as his parents had been.


At the end of three long winter weeks, the children again alit ways.
It was back to their wires and their lives and their kitchen knives. They
had to go on, because that is the order of things, even if violence holds
infinite sway. On a Sunday morning, they gathered with saddened,
swollen, sunken eyes. It was the last time in their lives that the four
children would be together. Next time they met, they would be siblings
still, but never children. For one last morning, they were a family, a
nucleus, a molecule locked together by the strongest force. And then,
with a pop, they parted, and could not bear to look back.


I am filled with a sadness as I write these words. I do not want the
family to end. But that is the way - your way, too. They say no man is
an island, and that may be true, but we are all particles in this atomic
zoo. We can belong to only one atom at a time. Up quark or down
quark, electron in the cloud, we are subject to forces that are beyond
us, disturbances in the field. I am just glad that I'm not a neutrino,
though some people certainly are. The neutrino is the saddest particle,
traveling alone through the void, traversing a milling miles of lead
without slowing even a bit. Time gives way to the fusion of life-stuff,
but it's not so easy a physics makes it sound. Fusion is a painful
process, and so it was for Aristotle and Lucy.


For the first time, they fought. It's not that they had never
disagreed, or even become quite livid, but something had changed.
Lucy was all that Aristotle had now, but she still had both her parents.
Even though she tried, she could not understand his grief. They fought
now not to resolve things, but to make sure that the other was still
there. Lucy accused Ari of being distant. Ari knew she was right, but
he called her unsympathetic instead of admitting that he had changed.
Lucy knew she could be more understanding, but she was no longer
sure that Aristotle was a man that she wished to understand. In April, a
month before Marion's funeral, Lucy left.


I know that I told you I had a good feeling about Lucy, but what
does that mean? That was then, years ago, when their love was new
and unshakable. If it comes as a surprise to you, it is an even greater
shock to me. They really were perfect for each other, but sometimes
thees just no such thing. They learned from each other, and grew in
their years together, but now Aristotle had to go it alone.


He went alone. Took a cab to the airport, and boarded a flight for
San Fransisco. It was time to out his mother out to sea. He had not
told his siblings about Lucy. They liked her too much, and would only
have blamed him for not holding on to the best thing he had. He'd
never been good at saving, and it was his rawest nerve. He went alone,
and he left everything. He didn't know what he would do, but he was
sure that he didn't want to be in that city anymore, or that state,
maybe even that country. He went alone, and he arrived at dusk. His
siblings were there already, and they greeted him with a sadness that
had already begun to get stale. They were living their lives, and so
many months later they hadn't the time to ruminate as Ari did. But
they greeted him, and they held him, and they spoke with a softness
that he needed much. Ari wore black, but his siblings, and their
spouses, and the children they had had, they wore all types of cloth.
Marion had wanted her funeral to be beautiful, and Ari knew that she
would not have approved of his attire, but he couldn't help it - he
indulged fully in the sadness which he felt was his right.


In the morning, they followed a very precise set of instructions to a
tree that their mother had truly loved. She had been a hippie, and a
feminist, and an artist deep within. In these woods she had danced
with a fearsome liberation. In these woods she had discovered herself,
and won herself, defeating a patriarchy so deeply imbibed. It was a
battle against herself which had been fought here, a battle in which she
had nearly died. But she emerged victorious, and with a new, steely
womanhood, she had set out to make a family. She had wanted her
children to be healers of the sick, and helpers of the poor. She had
wanted to instill in them a fierce love for the planet, for all its bounty,
for its lushness and its song. She had succeeded - by the end she was
sure. She had given life to a new breed, devoid of the oppressive
tendencies she had had to fight in herself. Now her children gathered
in the California woods, and spoke of their mother as best they could.
Any human life is hard to sum, but they spoke of her as they knew her,
one by one.


The oldest spoke as only daughter could. Her words had the same
soft resolve as their mother's, and at times it seemed that it was
Marion who spoke. A memory of her teenage years, when her mother's
understanding had doubtless saved her. A memory of her early days,
when she had learned that femininity was not synonymous with
silence. And a memory near the end, when her mother's unflagging
support had steadied her steps, allowed her to climb to great heights.


The oldest male told a story of redemption - how he had come so
close to losing her love. But through voice choked with tears, she had
refused to give up on him, and her faith was not in vain. He had heard
her cry. He had loved her so. He had taken her love, and forged from it
a life that was full of meaning. He had loved her so, and she was gone
too soon.


The intermediate male spoke of simple things, of ordinary things,
of ways and habits and sayings and laughter - from these things he
made a great testament. He affirmed the values that his mother had
held dear, provided irrefutable evidence that she had lived these values.
From the tiniest moments, he crafted a tribute, and no one doubted
that she would have approved.


Aristotle spoke last. His words were choked and barely audible
above the skritter and slip-slush of the foliage. But his mother would
have been sad to see him this way, and he knew it and was ashamed.
He held himself for a moment, and then let fly a bewildered moan. He
could not speak, but in his silence the others saw truth. Their mother
was beyond words, as all mothers, and no eulogy was fitting enough.


They walked together from the forest to the field, and on to the
edge of the Pacific. The ashes seemed at first not to fall, but then
slowly, gravity worked its strange magic, and she was released. The tide
lapped as always at the behemoth rocks, and she was released. The
water carried her out and out, and for a long time there was only the
sound of the planet's beating heart. They turned and walked away.


It was a beautiful ceremony, and nobody held it against Aristotle
that he had not been able to speak. As much as he wished for his
siblings fortitude, they wished also that they had been overcome. They
were only glad that someone had, and they told him so. Their love was
strong, and though they were no longer children, they were still a
family, at least in some sense. When Aristotle finally said that he did
not plan to return to his city, each of the others offered up their home.
He would go with whoever lived the farthest. It was the intermediate
male child.


"Ignatius, are you sure?"


"Yeah, it's no problem."


"Thanks, Iggy. I hope I'm not too much of a drag."


But Aristotle was a drag. In the company of his brother he realized
that his mourning had become his life. Still he could not help himself,
and every day he dined heartily upon the buffet of grief. Ignatius said
nothing, a resentment began to build. He tried to help his brother. At
first he consoled him, told him that the grief would pass, that life
would go on. He quickly saw that there was no use. Ari barely moved
on most days. Then he tried to prod him, told him that he needed to
get over it, that life would have to go on. This also had no effect. Ari
said that he was trying his best, but that he was tortured by his psyche,
by the fateful, haunting nature of their parents' demise. Finally, Iggy
resulted to an ultimatum. He told Ari that he had to either get a job or
find another place to live. It was hard for him, to have treat his brother
like the child that he no longer was, but it worked. air got a job as a
codemonkey, and went each day to work. But though he was up now,
and acting, that's all he was doing. It had always given Ari great joy to
work with his machines, to speak to them, and command them so
fluently. The joy was gone. He resented the machines for their cold
lifelessness, yearned for his Lucy, who had been so warm. His work
suffered, and where he had once been excellent, even gifted, he was
now only competent, a joyless monkey writing code all day. The
summer dragged on. It had been three and half months since that day
in woods, found a half since Lucy had gone. His life was disintegrating
around him, and soon he would have to come face to face with the
specter of his father, who had always expected from him great things.
At the dawn of September, Iggy told Ari that he shouldn't come back
once they went to New York. Ari understood.


The city was alive as ever on that Saturday. The time had come to
release that second, final jar of ash. When Avery was alive, he often
spoke of what he wanted for his funeral. His children had know what
they would have to do even before they read the plans, laid out in
excruciatingly verbose detail in their father's will. They were to charter
a boat, and dressed in their finest, most formal attire, they were to sail
into New York Harbor at dusk. As the sun set, they were to speak,
release the ashes overboard, and then start the party. The will included
a playlist, which Avery had always promised would be his last word. He
wanted the world there, and he wanted the party to be unforgettable.


They met on the docks. Passers by mistook them for a wedding
party. Not least because of the tuxedos and ball gowns, but also
because they seemed so elated, so full of life. But that was their
father's way - always full of glee, even in the darkest hour. By seven
o'clock the boat was full, and they made their way out into the harbor.
In view of lady liberty, and the island where his family had first set foot
in the new world, they began the eulogies.


The oldest spoke first - that was the order of things. She spoke of
laughter, and has always been her gift, she made everyone laugh. She
poked fun at her father, but without cruelty, and only with the
sincerest adoration. Again she spoke with the voice of the dead, with
her father's same audacity and wit. Almost as a tribute to her father,
she held the stage just a bit too long, but it was never too long, and the
sun had not set.


The oldest male spoke of virtue, in a most classical sense. The
virtue of curiosity - lifelong, steadfast, and genuine curiosity he
extolled on behalf of his father. That had been the greatest gift. That
had been the brightest light. That, in part, had defined the man. He
spoke with a seriousness - the seriousness that his father had had when
he had spoken if serious things. There was a power in his words, and an
eloquence. He did justice to a curious, eloquent man.


Ignatius spoke of joy. He recounted how his father had pursued joy
in all its many forms - through sport and song, through food and drink,
through people and through solitude. He thanked his father for that
boundless joy, for showing him that happiness is anywhere, if only you
make it.


Aristotle did his best, but again he could not speak. He wished to
speak of confidence, the resilience to defeat defeat, but for the first
time, he realized that his confidence had left him. His siblings came to
his side, and he was relieved. In their embrace he felt more certain, but
the sun had set, and the time had come.


The wind carried the ashes, and they were churned in the wake.
Sky and sea colluded to collect the remains of a man too big to
contain. The motor kicked on, and the lights of the city began to
emerge against a darkening sky. They started up the playlist, and the
hit up the bar. The first song was Soul Man by Sam & Dave. The
people danced and the siblings spoke, but Aristotle was taciturn still.
He downed a gin and tonic before the song was over. Another by the
end of Otis Redding's A Change is Gonna Come. Another with
Georgia on my Mind. For every song, a drink. Aretha. The Staples
Singers. James. Dusty. Reverend Green. The Temps.


Soon the gentle rocking of the boat became a violent tremulation
of the entire world. He could hold it no longer. As he had on that
winter morning when he first heard the news, Aristotle regurgitated all
the sadness in his belly. This time, though, the putrid melancholy kept
coming. Again and again he heaved into the water, and the same wake
that had churned his father's ashes was forced to churn his putrid
malaise, his pathetic stupor. There was not a little shame on the faces
of his siblings, and they helped him, though they were unsure that they
really could. He was beyond their steadying arms now, but they held
him just the same.


Aristotle awoke the next morning in his hotel room. His siblings
had already gone. He was alone now, really alone, for the first time.
The expenses for the funeral, hotel room included, had been paid out
of the estate. Our friend, my creation, Aristotle the cynosure was
penniless, homeless, and desperately alone. He paused a long time as
he exited the hotel - he did not know which way to go. He wondered
what he had become.


I wonder, too. Clearly this is not the end for Aristotle - there are
simply too many pages left for that to be the case. Still, it nearly broke
my heart to write this chapter, and I'm not sure that I'd like to
continue if it's to get much worse. It's not that I've lost control of Ari -
he is still my creation - but I do have to be honest. What would be the
point in writing this if I didn't tell it like it happened? I mean, I
suppose its my responsibility - I made him the way that he is - but it's
not entirely my fault. He had some choices in there, and whether by
constitution or consciousness, he really didn't do so hot. I hope he can
forgive me for the death of his parents. His siblings, too. But parents
do die. I suppose it was a little spectacular, what with their getting in a
fatal crash with one another, but shit like that does sometimes happen.
Life doesn't go the way you plan. I mean, if his parents had died of
congestive heart failure or lymphoma or renal failure, sure, it would
have been sad. But then Aristotle would have just stayed with Lucy and
led what amounts to an ordinary life. At most, a life fulfilling but plain.
Terrible shit can make or break you. It looks like Aristotle is broken
right now, but I wouldn't count him out just yet. Of course, there's
always the possibility that things will not get better. Maybe this is a
tale of destitution and sadness - there have been plenty of those. But if
I know Ari, and I do, his spirit remains strong. I guess we'll just have
to find out.


Stylistically, though, I think I'm doing better. I know that I could
probably use more dialogue, but I'm working on that. I do think I did
a few things well in there, though. The vomit thing, for instance, just
sort of made sense. Did you think it worked? Who knows - maybe you
thought it was cheesy.


I would also just like to add that I hope people will forgive me if
they feel I've stolen from their real life. I mean, I do have siblings,
after all, and parents, and it's hard for me to write about Aristotle's
folks without at least thinking about my own. We are quite similar,
after all. Anyways, whatever theft you may think I've committed ought
to pretty much be over with at this point. I've been taking Aristotle
down a path that is a least parallel to my own, but I do believe that
that path is about to veer wildly. I'm ready for the worst, but I'm
holding out hope that Aristotle will prevail. Only the words will tell.