break on through

One of my most favorite books in the world is The Stand, by Stephen King.

I have read most of his other stuff-Carrie, of course, and Cujo. Needful Things. The Langoliers. It (not my favorite), Secret Window. Pet Semetery. Some people find King tiresome, seeing as though he takes ten pages to describe one fucking tree, but this does not bother me. The longer the book, the happier I am. Yeah, the guy's seriously bent, but he never really gave me chills until I read The Stand. I bought it via iBooks when we went to Gatlinburg last time, and I gobbled it up like steak fajitas and a raspberry margarita. I read it often enough to where I have come to consider it a worry stone of sorts-no matter how bad things are, shit isn't The Stand bad.

The Stand begins with Captain Trips, a deadly influenza that gets accidentally released at a military base and effectively wipes out more than half of America's population. The survivors who don't get killed off by accidents or suicides are strangely immune to the virus, and so, just like stubborn, filthy Americans, they set about trying to make a new life out of the wreckage. An entity they refer to as 'The Walkin Dude' (a role which my brain stubbornly insists can only be filled by Matthew Mcconaughey and Matthew Mcconaughey only) is a dark power trying to burn and conquer what little they have left. It's terrifying because except for the Walkin Dude, it could happen. Some underpaid military hack at a plant could press beep instead of boop and pop goes the fucking weasel.

I am rereading The Stand right now because as I said, it is a very effective worry stone. I don't know how many conversations I've had with this book, but the following passage jumped out at me this time around.

I think I've changed. Somehow. I don't know how much. He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: He's come out the other side. That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

The Other Side. Huh.

Despite having a raging hard-on for runaway description and dark whimsy, Mr. King sometimes hits things bang on the head. In Carrie, he says: nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not on the subconscious level where savage things grow. Yes. That sounds about right.

I know all about that level, where subconscious and savage things grow. Sometimes in the middle of a perfectly normal thought

like

Should I make meatballs or my jalapeno cake for Brad's party? I'll get one that sounds a lot like

empty out your 401k throw your dog in the car and fucking disappear and the thought is so fucking beautiful that it takes every bit of self control I have not to go home and log into Vanguard and get Jack all excited about going byebye.

But who doesn't? Who doesn't think that way? I'm hardly the first. I won't be the last.

And before you say it: yeah, it's getting old. Believe me, you preach to the choir. I get so fucking sick of these fucking thoughts in my head that at the end of the day I want to climb out of my body and escape ME. But I can't. No matter where I go, I follow.

And for those of you who tire of me speaking in riddles, believe me- no one is more tired of me than me. However, we live in such a bubble here that I have little doubt that one day (maybe soon) you will all know what the fuck is up.

There are choices that need to be made.

Choices I make every day, even against my will. Choices I KNOW I have to be sure of. And I'm not sure. Choices that concern not just me, but people I care deeply about. Choices that I can't just ignore or procrastinate with. Choices that literally make me feel as if I am in the middle of a vast ocean, treading water, and very alone. But I know I'm not. That's sixteen year old emo Rae, trying to fuck with me.

Last week, I was eating my lunch, trying not to let all of this take me down, and not having much luck. Tee called me at that moment-totally random, out of the blue. I said, "Hey, what's up?" and she said, "Hey, I had a feeling I should call you, so I did." For her to call, on my lunch break (I take lunch pretty early, around 10:30am) out of the blue like that...something, somewhere, gave way. She told me I was going fishing with her on Saturday (me, fish? I know, trust me) and I said sure, what the hell, no problem. Can't hurt. I calmed down. Something gave way.

So I woke up at 4AM last Saturday and met her in Luling and we drove out to Lafitte, where I demonstrated that while I might like boats and the idea of fish, my duties as Captain have more to do with being charmingly drunk than fishing or steering. We actually got stranded way out there (flooded the motor) and Tee had to jump into gator infested water to unwrap the rope from the propeller. She also beat the shit out of a gator with a fishing pole. Never a dull moment. And though I probably drove her nuts, Tee was there for me, as she always has been. Went home, got cleaned up, met up with Scott, went to the Alligator Fest, where we spent way too much money on jambalaya and seafood stuffed pistolettes and simply orgasmic deep fried Oreos. It rained (wee) so we didn't spend much time there. Besides the food, Alligator Fest is not the same as it used to be when we were young, when it was where Walmart is now. They didn't even have the Gravitron. What kind of chickenshit bullshit is that?

I'm feeling my way through this. That's the best I can do, the best I can offer. I am afraid of making the wrong move, saying the wrong thing, taking the wrong leap. Of course, I know I can't stand frozen forever. Of course, I know being human is made up of these moments, and the worst thing I can do is do nothing. If I do nothing, I cause irrevocable damage. To others. To myself.

So, between I have to go and get my Halloween costume and I need to get this fucking blonde out of my hair and I wonder if those shoes on Ebay will stay there until payday and I need to just sit here and stay quiet and still because if I do that I can hurt no one, I keep on thinking of the Other Side that Mr. King spoke of. The Other Side I am blindly trying to stumble towards, the Other Side that promises nothing but the absence of this. The Stand is, of course, much more than The Other Side-ultimately, it is the battle of good vs. evil, that same old song and dance. I am not the good and I am not the evil. I am just in between. In flux. Other.

In the meantime, I will do things like go to work and schedule and wash my hair and go to Battle for the Paddle and see Aladdin with Sid and Lacey and go to housewarming parties and swimming excursions and think

think

think

about the other side.

There are no maps of the change.

You just . . . come out the other side.

Or you don't.

-Rae