No Name #2

blessed are those who

wait for the day in silence

with open watchful eyes

Noose Moon

from the start of time

the moon has hung by its neck

dangling from a noose

it has no control

wavering dead porcelain

letting the night lead

Rules

“To be or not to be”

Hasn’t that always been the question?

I hate how the world has molded my mind, has squeezed and folded, shaped it to think that things are bad when they are perfectly fine
to think that something is wrong with me when there actually is not.

Rachel Corrie once wrote, “freedom is the rule.”

But recently I have begun to think that freedom is the exception.

Boundaries are the rule.

Personal awareness bordering the line of conceit.

Social acceptance.

These are the rules that we live by and we can never return.

We are already up to our chins in filth. There is no turning back now.

I thought the modern day promised to supply an infinite stream of knowledge?

No longer am I satisfied.

Perhaps it has become the source of a certain knowledge that I no longer wish to acquire.

For in the end, it is wisdom that I seek.

The ability to look at this world with an unfiltered eye.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 6 (the end)

There was only half a moon in the sky, but it was just as bright as one that was full.

            The stars were invisible underneath the fluorescent streetlights and neon bar signs, but I still knew they were there.

            I found myself sauntering over to the canal where the industrial ships motored through towards the docks. If the weather was pleasant, I would sometimes come here and just sit for hours. Being by the water was such a comfort for me. I loved to just sit on the edge and let my bare feet dangle over, crossing my arms on the lowest rail and leaning my chin into its nook. I would stare down at my reflection in the water, watching the tiny waves distort the image.

            But now, as I sat there on the concrete, my reflection looked more foreign than ever. It was barely visible in the light of the moon and far off street lamp- barely recognizable at all.

Maybe that will be you someday.

I was hurt now, but I had also been hurt countless times before. What could I possibly expect? This wasn’t disappointment. This was just the aftershock of my own selfish fantasy. Even after all this time, I still seemed to always expect something more than the worst. 

The wind began to pick up slightly, whipping my hair around in my face, pricking at my open eyes, making them tear.

I thought of Karin. I thought of what he could possibly be doing at that very moment. Had he fallen back asleep? Was he pacing his room with all the lights flicked on? Was he out in the streets looking for me? No. Stop that.

He didn’t understand. How could he?

I thought of the Christian at the heavy metal door, with the sweatshirt and the clipboard. I wondered if Karin would ever be turned away someday.

I was pulled out of the depths of my mind when I felt a wave of water wash over my foot, cold as the ocean in January. I was stunned to see how rough the water inside the canal had grown to be. I had never seen the water splash up so high. The wind didn’t feel strong enough to cause such a riot.

Suddenly, an enormous crack of thunder resonated through the city, rumbling the pavement. A wave sloshed completely over the edge of the canal, drenching me through my clothes. I jumped up and held onto the railing with both hands. I couldn’t see any other person.

Before the earth could recover from such a blow, another shook the city by the roots. At the same time the thunder rippled through the night, the entire sky lit up, an endless white, blinding me, washing the entire city out by its austerity.

For five seconds, all was quiet. Nothing throughout the entire city of Philadelphia stirred.

But just as quickly as the silence settled over, chaos broke out again as a massive earthquake rumbled the pavements. A giant crack raced through the city, speeding with the sound of an atomic bomb dropping thousands of feet.

White. All I saw was white. All I heard was the buzzing, a shrill sound, like an insect flying into my ear.

Then, the earth gave way underneath me, the railing jerked out from my reach. I fell into the crashing water and was pulled under the diabolical waves. And all was silent.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 5

The full moon outside shed a surprising amount of light into the apartment. It was funny how the room seemed so dark, yet I could see all around me. A paradox.

I sat up on the couch, my boney legs crossed in front of me. Karin had given me an old sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. But the pants were so large, they were uncomfortable, so I had taken them off and settled for the tattered sweatshirt, which hung down loosely past my knees. I twirled a strand of hair around my finger, but it quickly bounced out my reach back up towards my scalp.

Across the room, I saw the shape of Karin’s body under the blankets on his bed. I watched his chest heave up and down with every methodic breath.

I was so cold.

I felt so alone.

I wondered if Karin felt the same way.

Quietly, I stepped off the couch. The wooden floor was cold on my bare feet. I began to walk towards the bed; very aware of every step I took, yet not really thinking at all.

Now I could see his face.

His eyelids were black. Or it could have been that they were extremely sheer, and his bottomless eyes were showing through. He slept on his side, hunched over away from me. He had pulled the quilt completely around him, so that only the skin of his head was visible. His mouth parted a little as he breathed in and out.

Maybe that will be you someday.

Before me I saw a wounded man. A husk of a human being whose insides had been unfairly taken. Someone who was afraid to fight back. Someone who was very, very alone.

Someone like me.

Every muscle ached to lie next to him; to climb under the quilt and feel his warm skin against my own, to bury my face in his tangled hair. I wanted to tell him I understood, that he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

So I did.

            Holding my breath, I lifted the corner of the old quilt, revealing his bare back. His skin looked even more ghostly in the moonlight. He didn’t even stir.

            I climbed onto the bed, kneeling first, then slipping my legs under the covers. The mattress springs creaked. But it was a pleasant sound, a sound of home and affection. Again, Karin didn’t budge. Cautiously, I released my breath.

            Leaning on my elbow, I starred. In the milky light, his hair was a million tiny threads, swirling in different directions.

            Suddenly, he began to move. I held my breath again as he slowly uncurled his legs, stretching them out before releasing them again, pulled up the quilt around his shoulder, and sighed.

            He was so wounded. I could see him bleeding.

            When I was sure he was completely still again, I lay down so that my head was on the other pillow, still facing his back.

            He didn’t have to be alone.

            I lifted an arm and gently wrapped it around his chest, the quilt and the sweatshirt between each other’s skin. My fingers played with the edge of quilt, grabbing the worn fabric so it rubbed between them.

            Karin stirred, but I did not pull away. He inhaled, and then exhaled long and dramatically. He turned over onto his back so he was looking at the ceiling. My hand lay on his chest, palm down, fingers limp.

            “Your home,” he mumbled.

            I smiled at the words.

            “Shhh, it’s okay. We both are. It’s okay.”

            My pointer finger traced a circle on his chest, around and around.

            He grinned a toothless grin in his sleep.

            I was helping him.

            His eyes didn’t seem quite as dark anymore. But maybe it was just the light.

            He mumbled something.

            “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay go back to sleep,” I cooed.

            He grinned again.

            “Maggie. Mags, your home.”

            My finger stopped, mid-revolution.

            As quietly, as I slid into the bed, I slid out, padding across the floor to gather the little I had.

            “Mags, come on, girl. Please stay. Please stay with me,” I saw him sitting up in the bed. His eyes were the only part of him visible in the darkness. No longer did they seem so distant. As I stared back, they looked yellow and glassy, like some kind of creature. Creature fear.

            So relatively fucked.

            Before he could say another word, I vanished out the door and into the night. A faceless phantom with nowhere to go.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 4

   Karin lived in a large apartment complex on the outskirts of the university campus. It was an ugly building, probably built in the 70’s, boxy, brown, simple, cheap, about ten stories high. Light blazed through a few windows in the second floor and I could hear the heart-shaking beat of a base keeping time to some one-hit-wonder. A metal fire escape wound around one side of the building, and I saw the silhouette of a woman on one of the higher levels, holding a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

            I followed Karin up the front stairs and into the main hall. As I stomped up the stairs in my heavy, degraded boots, my footsteps loudly echoed off the white bare walls.  Karin was silent in his Chuck Tailors, barely making a sound.

We walked up four flights of stairs.

            Finally, Karin walked down a white hall and dug a hand into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet, then a key, which he then used to unlock the door. He had to push pretty hard since it was a bit jammed, so when it finally flung open, he was sporadically thrown into the room under his own efforts. He flicked on a switch by the door and a lamp lit up somewhere.

            I expected the apartment to be a lot messier. Isn’t that how most college kids lived?

            But the space looked quite organized. It was small, really just one large room, split by a brown concrete half wall. One side held a bed and a large corner desk; the other contained a kitchenette and round card table with two folding chairs. I noticed one closet, and one simple wooden door leading into a bathroom. Maybe it wasn’t organized though, maybe it was just empty. I remembered him saying something about roommates, but I saw nothing that indicated that Karin shared this space.

            Karin put his keys and wallet on the table, then shrugged off his jacket and hung it casually over the backs of one of the chairs. At the sight of this simple gesture, something in my heart dissolved, something in my mind screamed HOME HOME HOME DADDY I’M HOME.

            As he walked around the apartment turning on more lights, I sauntered over into the kitchen area and gazed up at the simple pleasures I had forgotten.

A microwave. A microwave to pop a bag of popcorn, then remove the bag and run and leap onto the couch in the family room next to a friend. To eat while watching a movie, laughing at the character’s falls or crying for their pain.

A sink. A sink with a faucet to wash your hands before sitting down to a dinner table surrounded by family members and generational dishes filled with steaming servings of mashed potatoes or casserole or Hamburger Helper.

A bowl. A bowl to put in fruit, or ice cream, or cereal, or soup. To fill with tiny candies and place it on the coffee table for when company comes. To fill with little treasures found throughout weeks of summer, to place on your bedside table so you can touch them before you go to sleep.

I could feel Karin’s eyes piercing through mine.

“Cynthia?”

I turned around but still didn’t meet his eyes.

The walls were painted a pale green. If they weren’t contrasted against the brown trimming, they could be mistaken for white. His bed was made, sheets stiff and smooth, a patchwork quilt lay folded at the foot. In the far corner, Karin had leaned his guitar case against the wall under a floor lamp next to a pile of paperback novels with names like Lolita and Frankenstein.

Karin’s desk appeared to be the messiest thing in the room. Countless piles of papers were sprawled along the surface, held together by giant clips. Multiple books lay open while others were turned uncomfortable upside down.

Above the desk, Karin had taped dozens of photographs. As I wandered closer, I saw the faces of strangers. Some smiling, some making funny faces. Most seemed to be posed, but a few looked like candids. Those struck me the most. In a candid, genuine emotion is shone. No one can hide behind the “Say Cheese!”-type smile forced upon by the photographer. They are truly able to capture true moments in time.

In one picture, Karin was sitting in the bed or a pickup truck. He looked different. Younger, yes, but also just more…usual. His hair didn’t seem quite as white, and his eyes not as black. He wore and old t-shirt and baseball cap with his hair bursting out from its seams.

He had is arm around a girl, sitting beside him. She had long legs, thin as rails, one straight out in front, the other bent at the knee. Her hair was red and curly, but very tame. She wore black aviator sunglasses and had her head turned in towards his chest, laughing, the top row of teeth showing perfectly.

Karin himself had his eyes pointed downwards at the top of her head. His mouth was shut, but his lips were pressed into a crooked line, as if we were suppressing a smile. His eyes really weren’t as dark. Although it was just a photograph, they didn’t seem to have that same magnetic pull that I could feel now. Instead they were shallow. It was as if you could skim your finger right through them and be able to touch bottom. But still, they were much clearer, his emotions manifesting obviously.  I saw contentment, longing, and happiness.

I took a step back to look at the collection of photographs as a whole, and noticed that the girl appeared in a majority of them. Strangely enough though, she wore the same pair of sunglasses in every one. Strangely enough, Karin’s eyes looked exactly the same in every one.

“Cynthia?”

Finally I turned to look at him, allowing him to meet my gaze. Karin, there, today, in the living flesh. There was no lens. Just our eyes.

I cocked my head towards the wall.

“Whose she?”

His eyes darted again, the same way they frantically jumped when Polly had awkwardly introduced him to us that night. He was uncomfortable.

“She’s not entirely in the picture right now,” he said slowly, dragging out the words.

I chuckled at the ironic reply, and I saw him starring at me from the corner of my eye.

He looked hurt. I began to wonder if his hollowness was a result of this girl. Had she shoveled him out? Leaving nothing but a carcass? His eyes…it was like he had put up opaque, black screens, impervious to any emotion escaping.

But then again, she was just a figure in a 3X5.

I heard Karin clear his throat.

“So, I only have one bed here in the apartment. You are welcome to sleep on the couch. Or I might have an air mattress somewhere…I could try to dig it out if you’d prefer that.”

I shook my head back and forth in short little jerks.

“No, no its fine. The couch is fine.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll grab some extra sheets. The bathroom is over there,” he pointed to a cracked wooden door on the other side of the room. “You can use that if you’d like. And, um, if you need anything just ask.”

I nodded.

“Thank you.”

Without any response, Karin turned around to open a giant, two-door closet behind him. He pulled on a chain hanging from the ceiling, causing a single bulb to illuminate, casting his long, lonely shadow across the floor.

Then I too turned around, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 3

 “Where you studyin’ at?”

“University of Pennsylvania.”

“What year?”

“Huh?”

“What year are ya?”

“Oh- I graduate next year.”

“So you’re a junior?”

“Yes.”

We were sitting in the large common room of the church- a cold, drafty room with tile floors and a stage that had somehow transformed into more of a storage space. Tonight, it served as our dinning hall. Round tables had been rolled out from behind the stage curtains and set around the room. Stackable chairs were placed around each. There was never enough though, and some people were forced to sit on the small chairs from the kindergarten rooms and eat off their laps.

The Christians liked to spread out during dinner and try to strike up some conversation with their company for the night. Sometimes another local church would come and eat with us. When the church with the red door’s youth group stayed, they usually just sat there, smiling awkwardly, then exchanging giggles with their friend sitting in the seat next to them. What was there to talk about though? Neither of us was in a situation where we wanted to be. We didn’t want pity; they didn’t want to sympathize.

The special dinner guest tonight was Karin. When he slid into the chair across from mine at the table, I knew it was because I had sang along with his song (which I do not normally do in church), and I said a silent prayer of thanks to God.

The boy who sat next to him had not stopped firing questions in his direction ever since he sat down. He looked young- about nineteen or twenty. His hair was dark and greasy and he had horrible acne across his forehead. I noticed when he scooped up a mouthful of spaghetti onto his fork, that he had the date “7/3/07” tattooed across his wrist. I could see Karin’s eyes begin to wander around the room, looking for some escape from this boy’s petty questions. He wasn’t putting in an ostentatious effort to try and make friends with the rest of us at the table. He was only being himself.

            “I was supposed to go to Temple, but decided not to,” he continued. “I just didn’t really like the whole idea of this system. These colleges are machines, man. They just spit out this shit- forgive me Lord Jesus. It’s a habit. I at least try to stop when I’m in this church every night. You know these are good people, man. Trying to help us out and all. I chose this life, but it’s hard, man; damn hard. But I think I’m better off than I would have been if I went to that school.”

            Karin nodded and took a sip of his water. His eyes caught mine for a moment and quickly I looked back down at my empty plate. Even under the strong florescent lights of the room, his body was still such a paradox. His skin and his eyes, his voice and his appearance; he was deceiving. Even after all he had told this young boy, it was as if there was still so much he didn’t expose.

            “Do you live on campus?”

            By now I was beginning to get annoyed with his pestering. It was as if he was asking all the same questions and getting all the same answers.

            “No, I have an apartment nearby.”

            “By yourself?”

            “I share it with two other guys.”

            “Wow, roommates. That’s pretty sweet. I gotta tell ya, man, I give you a lot of credit for trustin’ people that much. That’s another reason why I chose to live on the streets here. I learned that you just can’t trust people all the time, even your friends. It’s just better to believe in ‘every man for himself’ and all that. People are just happier that way. We are selfish, man. We’re all just selfish. Isn’t that what Jesus said? You know to do to your neighbor what you want them to do to you? Man, I just want people to get off my back. I think that’s all that anyone ever wants.”

            Karin played with the end of his knife between his thumb and forefinger for a minute than set it down on the edge of his plate.

            “You know, I firmly believe that even Jesus would not have been able to make such an impact on the world without having friends who he could have faith in, and who returned it. Even the Judases,” he said in his hollow, breathy voice.

            Even the Judases.

            Then, he took the paper napkin off his lap, wiped his mouth, and crumbled it up on his plate, still half full of spaghetti and salad. The boy had opened his mouth to speak, his forefinger pointed at Karin’s head, but Karin stole the words right from his mouth.

            “I’m sorry but I have to go,” he said, standing up. “I have to catch the bus over to the other end of the city. And if I miss it, it’s a long walk back.”

            A few people around the table gave an “aw” and a sad little chuckle.

            “It was wonderful to meet you all. May God keep you safe and well. Goodbye.”

            We all wished him a good night, some more enthusiastic and audible than others. I watched him as he went over to the table where Polly sat, and tapped her on the shoulder to tell her he was leaving. Then he went over to the stage, shrugged into his coat, grabbed his guitar case, and pushed through the doors that led to the church foyer.

            Karin’s voice echoed in my mind, still retaining its intimate whisper. How different he was. How extraordinary. How unpredictable.

            Daylight had now begun to drain from the sky, leaving behind the empty canvas of black night. One by one, electric lights flickered on, illuminating the city, sending a bright haze into the open air. It was as if the streets had suddenly awakened with blinding bulbs- headlights, store lights, restaurant lights, streetlights, polychromatic flashing lights.

            The passing crowd gradually changed over from students and mothers with strollers to couples in fur coats and cashmere gloves. Occasionally, a group of teenagers would strut by, girls in high heels and long naked legs, boys in untucked oxfords, leaning against each other, walking in little bursts of shrieks and laughter.

            I knew I couldn’t sit here all night, but I didn’t exactly have a plan either. I couldn’t bring my feet to push myself off the concrete, so there I sat, embracing the pain, almost like I was testing myself to see just how far I could go.

            When I heard the door open and shut behind me, I didn’t bother to look and see who it was. Because whoever it was had come from in there, a place I knew that I was not allowed. I heard footsteps quickly jog down the steps, then stop with a little jump when hitting the sidewalk.

            At first, I couldn’t; even see the shape of the body. I heard the quick flick of a lighter, and a little flame suddenly broke through the dusk. The lighter was brought up close to the face, the tiny glow reflecting off a mass of wavy hair, thin threads the color of the moon.

            “Karin?”

            As soon as the name escaped my lips, I gasped, as if trying to suck the words back inside my mouth. I was delusional, exhausted- my survival instincts had taken over all sense.

            He turned to face me, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The lighter went out.

            “…Sorry…what…?” he asked slowly, cautiously.

            Now my feet suddenly felt the need to move. I pushed myself up off the concrete and pulled my scarf off my head, letting it fall on my shoulders.

            “I’m-I’m sorry. It’s nothing really,” the words clumsily tumbled. “It’s just that I, I was at the church last night, you know when you sang and stuff, and I sat at your table for dinner, and you know you gave that advice to that boy…”

            He starred back. The white in his eyes glowed behind his black pupils.

            “I-I guess I just wanted to say that… you have a really pretty voice…and you said a really nice thing to that boy. That’s all.”

            But it wasn’t. I wanted so much more than just to give him a compliment.

            “Oh…oh, okay, well thank you.”

            He turned towards the street again, keeping his eyes down. He lit his cigarette then inhaled and exhaled slowly, sending a long stream of gray smoke to saunter lazily around his head in the cold air.

            “I didn’t know Christians smoke.”

            I heard him chuckle, still watching the cars go by. It sounded just like his voice when he sang, only lacking the passion, much more whimsical and causal. It was marvelous.

            “Smoking is not a sin. It may be a health hazard, but it’s completely self-inflicted. God doesn’t mind as much if we hurt ourselves., Only when we hurt other people,” he spoke in little bursts, like how the drunk kids walked by, stopping and starting, as if contemplating each string of words, then spitting them all out at once.

            Again, I was taken aback. Everything he said was said with such meaning. Every word was chosen with a purpose.

            We stood there in silence, each one not entirely sure what to do next. Karin continued to smoke his cigarette, shuffling his feet or shifting his weight every once in a while to keep warm. He looked at the traffic, I looked at him.

            A siren suddenly sounded, disturbing the consistent hum of the city life. An ambulence came speeding around a corner farther up the street and continued to fly down past where we were standing. Two police cars were right on its trail, red and blue lights flashing frantically. Karin and I both watched them drive by, our heads moving back and forth together. Karin crossed his arms, holding his cigarette between his fingers, his palm facing up near his mouth.

            “Wonder where their headed to…” he pondered aloud.

            “Maybe that will be you someday,” I suggested.

            He quickly turned his head towards my voice, as if he had forgotten my presence. I couldn’t quite make out his expression.

            “I mean, you would be the one driving, “I quickly corrected myself, “or one of the doctors that sits in the back and helps the person who’s hurt. You wouldn’t be the hurt person.”

            I saw his head slowly nod up and down, taking in another breathe of his cigarette.

            Again, we sat in silence.

            “I’m Cynthia,” I said, because there was nothing else to say.

            “’Pleasure,” Karin replied, quite quickly.

            He walked over to the nearest trashcan and stuck is cigarette butt in the ash trash that sat on top. He shuffled back over, hands in his pockets.

            Somewhere in the distance, over the hum of the rolling wheels on the pavement and the buzz of city nightlife, the sky released a deep, long shudder of thunder.

            Karin coughed into his elbow. It was so hollow and wispy it sounded more like an old man’s sickly wheeze. It took over his body, making him seem like he was barely there at all.

            “I should probably be heading home. Looks like it might rain soon,” he said looking up into the sky.

            I hugged my body in my large winter coat and leaned over so that my chest touched my knees on the step below where I was sitting.

            “Hmmnmmm.”

            Karin slowly meandered closer to the steps.

            “Any big plans for the weekend?”

            It must have been a Friday. Or maybe a Thursday.

            “Nahhhh. Nah I don’t really go out on the weekends,” I answered, avoiding his eyes.

            He nodded.

            “I know what you mean. I get so tired during the week that when Friday night rolls around, I just want to crawl into bed and not get out til Monday,” a little smile crossed his face, causing his teeth to glow through his parted lips.

It was like the idea excited him, of crawling into a warm cave of blankets and pillows, of giving your body over to sleep and endless rest. Of being safe in an apartment with windows and doors, pots and pans, a refrigerator, not having to worry about what you will do tomorrow, how you will eat, where the next bathroom is.

I tried to smile back.

“That sounds real nice,” I murmured.

“Where are you headed? I’ll walk you as far I can.”

            Where I was I headed? I, number seventy-seven, turned away from a bed and meal by the Christian guarding the door.

            “Just a few blocks down towards the station,” I lied.

            “I’ll follow your lead.”

            Silently, we began to walk. I walked in sort of a saunter, looking down at my feet, placing one foot across the other, wobbling back and forth. Karin had lit another cigarette and casually held it between his fingers, occasionally lifting it up to his lips to take a drag.

            “Do you want any?” he asked, offering me the burning stick.

            “No thanks.” This was instinctual. Not just because I had it ingrained into my brain by countless superiors that smoking was bad and eventually lethal, but also because I had become so accustomed to refusing to take anything from anyone. Even just one drag from a 10-cent American Spirit.

            We walked and we walked, either of us exactly sure of our destination. More couples and shoppers and students passed. And we were just part of the passing crowd.

            After a good fifteen minutes, we turned down a quiet side street. No one was in sight. A few dogs barked somewhere in the darkness. Karin turned and walked away towards a trashcan to squish his tiny cigarette butt.

            “What street are you staying on?”

            “Oh, its not that much farther,” I replied, avoiding his eyes.

            He walked back towards me, head down towards the pavement.

            Just say it. Just get it over and say it. The longer you wait, the bigger the hole, the harder it will be to climb out. Just ask.

            “If I ask you something, do you promise to answer with no questions asked?”           

            His head jerked up, surprised by my question. His thin lips were parted a little, so his white teeth glowed through the dark shadows cast down by the nearby streetlight. Somewhere in the distance, a taxi honked.

            “What do I get in return, for not asking any questions?”

            He looked serious.

            “Well, what do you want?”

            Karin ran his fingers through his hair and smirked.

            “Can I let you know later?”
            I felt a little smile lift up the corners of my mouth, such a rare gesture.

            “Fair enough.”

            The street was lined with mostly towering brownstones left over from past centuries with English ivy climbing up towards the upper floors. They all had big brick steps leading up to the front door with black ivory railings. Karin walked over to one of the houses now and sat down on the lowest step. He put his elbows on his knees, but his legs were so long he looked quite uncomfortable.

            “Shoot.”

            Without hesitation, I slowly and clearly pronounced,

            “Can I stay with you tonight?”

            Karin looked up at me; lips parted again, a lock of hair falling over into his face. What did he see? A girl in tattered clothes and knotted, greasy hair, probably smelling like subway smoke and dumpster. Could he finally put the pieces together? Could he see that I was homeless?

            But his eyes were so dark, so opaque, I could not look inside. They just stared, black holes, sucking me in with them to the point where I could not think. I felt like I was drowning.

            Say something.

            I tried to force a smile, somehow break the frightening trance.

            “You promised no questions, remember?”

            Slowly, his eyes seemed to release me, like he was progressively coming out of his inside thoughts and back onto the city street, loosening his angry grip.

            “I didn’t ask any.”

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 2

The four of us walked together up the stairs, down another hall, and into the main foyer of the church. A few people were still sauntering around outside the sanctuary doors, gazing up at the outdated photographs of new church members and posted announcements for different ministries. They had the look of a foreigner, looking at all at a landscape so different from what they were accustomed to, the same look as the women downstairs. Their eyes were wide, slowly inhaling and exhaling through their mouths. One woman had her hands clasped behind her back, her chin cocked to the side, as if admiring a display at a museum.

Another Christian was standing at the threshold of the entrance, holding a stack of papers (I knew that they were the typed lyrics of hymns so we could follow along to the music). He wore paint-splattered jeans and a shirt advertising a church name- not the one with the red doors. One I had never heard of before.

“Hello,” he said with a smile, handing all of us a paper. I nodded in reply and walked in.

The sanctuary of the church with the red doors is not very church-like. First of all, there is no pulpit at the top of two small staircases, there is no breakable ancient communion set, no heavy purple robes to put on. There were a few rows of wooden pews, but they were in the back of the room and off to the sides. All faced towards the middle of the sanctuary, so that you are looking at the people sitting across from you, rather than the person speaking. The organ resounded above from the loft in the back. At the front, there is a long mural spread across the wall of different shades of browns and greens and purples, interlocking like puzzle pieces. A wooden cross, painted white, hung above it. It seemed to be the most normal thing around the room.

Chairs had also been added, aligned like the pews, but closer to the front, between which the speaker would stand. Every chair is different- some painted aesthetically, others painted by mistake, some were dining room chairs with mismatched cushions sewn on by hand, others were just metal folding chairs. It was like a dinner party where the host did not have enough seats, and invited the guests to bring their own. I guess a lot of people came to the normal Sunday service.

All of the people, besides the few stranglers in the foyer, had taken a seat in one of the chairs. There were exactly seventy-five, and we were always told to fill up the closest rows. I inched my way between the bodies and chair backs to an open seat. A few snapped harsh remarks of “watch it” as I accidently stepped on a shoe. Only a few talked to their neighbor. When I sat down, the woman to my left was rubbing her face, then looking at her hand, as if trying to rub something off. The man to my right appeared to be sleeping; his chin drooped down to his chest. There was a horrible smell of cigarettes and human urine.

I turned my head back, letting my neck rest on the back of the chair and my mouth slightly open. I don’t really remember any of the other churches I have been in, at least not the details. So, I like to think that every church has a ceiling like the one with the red doors. At a first glance, it looks like there is no ceiling, just a starless black sky extending into nothing forever. Invisible wires were strung from the organ pipes in the back to hooks on the wall in the front. Hanging from them, just a few meters above your head, were hundreds of paper origami cranes in practically every color imaginable. When the organ played and the pipes trembled with the sound, they shook the wire, casting the birds into a convulsive flight. 

Suddenly the organ finished, and birds relaxed into a gentle sway. I heard the door in the back close, and the Christian walked down the aisle. A women rose from the pew where all the Christians sat, and he took her place as she continued up the aisle and into the space between the two sections of chairs.

“Friends, welcome. Thank you for joining us tonight in a celebration of thanksgiving. Although we may not have much, the Lord has still blessed us with one special gift tonight; the friendship and hospitality of fellowship.”

Her name was Polly. She always organized these nightly services. Her head was small and her legs were thin, but her middle bulged out unflatteringly from her blouse. I had always thought she was kind, until the night I walked into the church kitchen and heard her yelling at the volunteers who cooked the meal. She said the soup was cold and the toast was burnt. I’ve never looked at her the same way since.

“Now, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, who has willingly agreed to lead us in worship. Please welcome Karin Hayes.”

Some people applauded, but it was uneven and scattered, incredibly insincere.

A tall man stood up from the pew, blending in with the rest of the Christians, and began to walk towards Polly. His dark jeans and sweater hung lose on his body, like he was just an awkward middle schooler. He carried an acoustic guitar by its neck in one hand, and a Bible in the other.

As he came closer to the lights, I was able to see his face more clearly. His wispy hair was incredibly blond, almost white, blending in with his translucent skin. He kept his eyes on his shoes until he reached Polly but when he looked up, I saw that his eyes were dark and impenetrable. It was if he was a black and white photograph.

“Karin is a student, studying medicine. But he is a wonderful guitar player. I keep telling him to trade in his stethoscope for a microphone.”

Polly gave a short, pinched “ha!” and playfully slapped his arm. Karin politely grinned back.

“We’ll, I’ll let you have the floor now,” and Polly left him alone, the lone object around a hundred and fifty strange eyes.

He walked out of the light the front wall and brought back a wooden stool. Someone had painted it with a light blue, sponge painted white clouds scattered along the legs. He placed in the center of the rug, sat down, and strummed a cord.

“I thought we would open with a song.”

His voice was deep and raspy, almost inaudible. It startled me to hear something so empty, yet see something so complete. I suddenly had some deep, compelling desire to go up to him, press my face into his blond wisps, and smell his shampoo, to wrap my arms around him and take in the odor of his wool sweater, a mixture of laundry detergent and cologne. But I didn’t. My lingering smell of homelessness would overpower his of a ritual and secure life. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t let those two worlds gain contact. They were too different; polar opposites that reason ruled would never touch. And I have learned it is always best to listen to reason. So I sat on my hands in my seat, held my breath, and gaped at his unattainable reality.

“Feel free to follow along. The lyrics should be printed on the handout you got at the door.”

His music was ordinary; it seemed to have no affect on me. But his voice was somehow fuller when he sang than when he spoke. It was still breathy, but not completely emaciated. It was as if he was singing into my ear, his breath tickling my skin. But I could see him straight in front of me.

Weak and wounded sinner

Lost and left to die

O, raise your head for love is passing by

Come to Jesus

Come to Jesus

Come to Jesus and live

The woman sitting next to me sang along, joining in with the other separated voices around the room. I could see a few across from where I was sitting had raised their hands in praise. The man to the other side of me did not stir, a puddle of drool beginning to form on the white scruff of his beard.

And with your final heartbeat

Kiss the world goodbye

Then go in peace and laugh on glory’s side

Fly to Jesus

Fly to Jesus

Fly to Jesus and live

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Part 1

            All hope was blighted when I saw the line of faceless bodies snake around the corner of the church with the red door. I took my place in the back and pressed my cheek to the side of the building, hoping to suck up even just the slightest ray of heat contained within the bricks.  It wasn’t snowing, although I had heard that there was a chance of a storm tonight through the scattered conversation of passersby’s that day. The January wind was violent, whipping at the bare skin of my face like thousands of pins. It made you actually want it to snow instead.

            I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and nose. It reeked of smoke and week-old trash. Quickly, I pulled my hood farther over my head, and then darted my hands back underneath my armpits and into the two holes there in the fraying fabric. A gust of wind thrashed my tangled hair into my eyes. Somewhere a taxi gave a long honk, making all the bodies in front of me jerk their heads towards barbwire fence that separated the courtyard from the street.

            The sun had just crossed over the horizon, shedding a pink glow over the sky and highlighting the shadows of the skyscrapers. For once, something in this city was beautiful. I wondered if anyone in line was thinking the same thing as me.

            Most of the pedestrians on the sidewalk over the fence seemed to be college students. In groups of twos and threes, most had backpacks and cardboard coffee cups. Some walked their bike, a burning cigarette held between their fingers. A few couples passed, holding hands and multiple shopping bags. One man dressed from head to toe in tight thermal spandex sprinted, panting, his breath clear and spastic in the air. These were the sights that I saw everyday, and though it is hard to believe, I have practically become numb to their emotional impact, the strong image they convey of the life outside the small circle to which I was confined.

            The body in front of my stirred, and the line began to slowly trudge forward, like weary soldiers marching off the battlefield. I felt my stomach tighten as my feet began to shuffle. The Christians here only let seventy-five people stay the night. For a long time, I did not know why. But I have come to understand that this was only a good thing, because they only wanted to protect themselves from the bad people. But I always think about the good people- the people like me who won’t hurt anybody, who just come to rest- and I always worry that someone like that will be left outside. I know it happens everyday.

            As I turned the corner of the building, another body came running through the fence, nearly crashing into my back.

            “Shit, that was close.”

            It’s a man voice. I can feel his steaming breath on the back of my neck. Suddenly the air smells like rotting vegetables, and I hear the smacking of his lips.

            I couldn’t tell if his statement was directed at me, so I didn’t turn around. It’s always the safest thing to do.

            We don’t enter through the red door. That’s only open on Sunday mornings when the bells chime and families go to service. Instead we go through the heavy metallic door at the side entrance that leads down a long hall. A Christian is always guarding the door. Tonight, it is a woman in a sweatshirt and reading glasses. She smiles as the line slowly feeds through the door. She holds a clipboard in one hand, and checks it with her pen whenever a person crosses the threshold.

            Finally, it’s my turn.

            The Christian smiles and says,

            “Welcome! Glad to have you with us!”

            I can feel every nerve go slack in my body as I force a smile though chattering teeth. I cross the threshold like a finish line. Victory. I have been saved for the night.

            As I begin to walk down the hall, following behind the others, I hear the woman’s boots take step and unhook the chain the holds open the door.

            “I’m very sorry, sir, but we have reached our limit for tonight. But I know Meryl’s Shelter on 18^th street will be more than happy to give you a place to stay.”

            I am number seventy five.

            I stop and turn around when I hear the man laugh, a breathy toothless wheeze, and I see him point his finger at her. Then his face turns impertinent.

            “This is because I’m black, huh? Or is it because you think imma all go in there and ruin your perfect Jesus-lovin’ celebration? Bitch, you just think you’re so much better than me-“

            “Sir, I’m sorry but these are church policies-“

            “Fuck you. Fuck you, I don’t need these Jesus-Freaks.”

            Then he spat at her feet, dark and thick, and walked off the stoop into the dusk, still muttering obscenities.

            The Christian closed the door and locked it with one of the many keys that hang from a chain on the belt loop of her jeans. She turned around and began walking down the hall, appearing to be completely unshaken by what just happened.

            When she saw me standing there, wide-eyed and windblown, she was still able to give yet another smile.

            “Come now, honey. Don’t worry he’ll be fine. Let’s go get you warm.”

            But I wasn’t worried about the man. In fact, I was rather happy that I was in here, and he was out there.

            We walked down the hall in silence, her heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. We turned the corner to another hall lined with small cubbies and wooden doors. Day care art projects decorated the walls. Oversized calendars and bright posters were taped to the doors. Some other women had begun to strip off their layers, like makeshift bandages, and stuff them into the cubbies. One by one, phantom bodies began to take on the form of human beings. Faces began to appear.

            “You can leave your things here. Then we’ll go upstairs for the service and meal.”

            She didn’t have to tell me.

            I found an empty space between two cubbies that were already stuffed. It may have just been the dim lighting, but, for a second, I thought I saw something stir underneath the blanket, crumbled and stuffed in the back of the cubby on the right.  Across the top of all the cubbies was a laminated nametag. The one across mine read “Christy” in black Sharpie. A sticker was stuck inside, half of it was just white scrap clinging to the wood, as if someone had tried to take it off but couldn’t get a clean tear. I think it said “excellent work”.

I took off my backpack first, making sure to push it all the way to the back, and then carefully concealing it with my coat. I kept my gloves on. Then I heard an organ begin to play, shaking the ceiling of the basement, and I knew the service was about to begin.

As well as the seventy-five people policy, the church also had another. We are allowed to eat a meal and spend the night, but only on the condition that we attend a service. I didn’t mind it. I wasn’t really sure if I believed in God and Jesus, but I still liked the feeling of peace and hush when I sat in the sanctuary, warm and empty handed. Others were very opposed to the service, and were very rude to the Christians that talked.  Some didn’t even stand when we were asked to, or closed their eyes when we prayed. I resented them for all their crass behavior, and I always felt like I should apologize to the Christians for their intolerance.

“Come on now, we’ll be late.”

The Christian woman was still there, half way up the stairs at the end of the hall. Quickly I walked over to the staircase, while the other two lingering woman slowly meandered over, staring up with gaping eyes.

"To Help You I Must First Fall Down" Preface

The Feeling of Indigence 

When I was a little girl, I felt like I was on top of the world when my parents took me to the big city. All the tall buildings, the bright, flashing lights, the sound of honking taxis gave me this feeling of eminence, like everything in the world was happening right here, at this very time and place. And it was all happening around me.

            Thirty years later, this feeling ceased to exist. Somewhere along the long and winding road of my life, I was plucked from the center of the world, and thrown into the heavy flow of it. Here, I was drowning, struggling to stay alive and keep my head up and out of the rushing waters. Everything in my life flew by me without much notice, let alone attention to detail. I didn’t meet many people, for all the ones I saw were just like me; struggling, letting everything float right by them.  No matter where I looked, I saw living memories of what life was like before. Just when a flicker of hope would ignite, the current would rush by and blow it right out. There was no hope, no possibilities of security and happiness, only the surging water of the world. This is the feeling of indigence.

Introduction to "To Help You I Must First Fall Down"

I am going to release the following short story, entitled "To Help You I Must First Fall Down", in small sections at different times. It is currently one of the few writing pieces that I have both finished and have truly been pleased with.

This story was inspired after I went to Broad Street Ministries in Philadelphia four years ago and saw the affects of homelessness firsthand. BSM is truly an amazing organization working to combat homelessness from the ground up by first responding to the immediate needs of the homeless and then helping them restore the dignity they need to get back up on their feet through fellowship, spirituality, and the arts.

Although inspiration from this story was mostly drawn from my experience at BSM, all characters and events are completely fictional.