I've been a little quiet lately, huh? There are a number of reasons, I promise, and though many of those reasons are related to the newest title in the Legend of Zelda series of video games, there are a few more legit reasons, too. The biggest thing standing between me and putting out my desired quantity of writing, both on this blog and in my current LGBT romance novel endeavor, is my quest to become a Certified Financial Planner. I've been cramming for my intro course exam, and unfortunately, I'm worried the test is going to go a little like this:
Here lie Abi's hopes and dreams. (Source)
I'm a weird kid with a bachelor's in psychology, a minor in studio art, and a tendency to become emotionally attached to horses in video games. My primary media are the written word and acrylic paint, so the often abstract and number-based world of finance feels especially foreign to me. Don't get me wrong: I love a good puzzle, and I like the idea of helping people plan for their futures, but I'm studying philosophy in a language I never learned. Plus, I'm 88% sure Kelsey and I will never afford things like a house or children or maybe even lunch tomorrow, so what gives me the right to manage someone else's wealth?
But, before I knock myself down too far into the Pit of Unworthiness, I must remind myself that this is an introductory course. This is dipping my toe into the water and exposing myself to the chill of it. Haha. Exposing myself. AHEM. As I've been told, there always must be a first experience, and so much of financial planning seems beyond me right now, I am picking up on things as they're repeated to me, and it's OK that I still have a long way to go.
Alrighty, there you have it, the personal update, AKA: Why Abi Has 30 Half-Written Entries Saved in Her Drafts That She May Never Get to Complete.
For the sake of sharing at least some content while I work on bigger things, I thought I'd include a rough piece I wrote a few years ago, after my grandmother died. This is half fiction, gathered from several surreal and casually existential conversations with my dad with a healthy dollop of artistic license. It's a bit grim, and I describe my wonderful father in perhaps an unfairly unflattering way for the sake of the visceral mood of the essay. I definitely put my own words into his mouth as well. Sorry, Dad. Like I said: little fact, little fiction. Lotta drama, to be honest.
Without further ado:
Air Hunger
The glass case in the front of the China Inn restaurant contains a mint-in-box Elvis doll in his white bejeweled suit, a series of McDonald’s toys from around 2007, and a set of Star Trek Pez dispensers. It’s easier to look at these American souvenirs than to look at my dad as he spoons the stringy, salty slime of egg-drop soup into his mouth between sentences.
“We call it air hunger,” he says and washes the soup down with Japanese beer served in a Bud Lite glass. “When she was gasping for air right at the end. She made that gurgle-hiccup sound in her throat for a few minutes, remember? Like uururggh-aah… uurrrrghhh-aah.”
When he tilts his head back to imitate death he reveals an impressive forest of nose hair creeping from his nostrils. I nod to signify that yes, I remember. He slides his hand over his smooth head and the harsh lights reflect on the sheen of grease there.
“The body doesn’t want to die, even if you think you’ve psychologically resigned to death. All this afterlife stuff you may tell yourself over the years doesn’t mean shit when you’re lying there about to die in a stiff hospital bed. I think she saw that. Suddenly, it’s not Jesus and glowing gates in your future. It’s nothing. It’s curtains. The end of your narrative. Not even darkness, just void. There’s no peace there, and however much you may be suffering, it must be horrifying to face that sudden stop to everything you could ever comprehend. People don’t want to end.”
The kung pao chicken arrives and we silently scoop our portions onto our rice. My chopsticks fail to snap completely apart but I pretend not to notice. My dad continues with his speech.
“We evolved to sense something bigger out there, some reason for existing. We’re complex organisms with a hyperactive frontal lobe that constantly reminds us: ‘hey, you’re going to die, and there is nothing that you can do about it.’ And so our brain forms a mysterious, wondrous perception of a world beyond our own that explains what we don’t understand and provides a continuation of ourselves once our meat rots away. Religion. Extremely important to psychological well-being and social cohesion. Divisive too, sure. That would have been an adaptive characteristic for a group of people thousands of years ago. Shared beliefs created camaraderie and distrust of other groups with different beliefs was a trait that could save your family.
"She believed in the Christian afterlife, or heaven and hell. Maybe God exists,” says my dad the Sunday school teacher. “But if an actual god exists, why would he need to give a reward to 'good’ people? Or punish 'not good’ people? For eternity? After our tiny blip of existence? That makes no sense. Being good for the sake of an eternal reward is cheap, fake. We must be good for the sake of being good and contributing to the health and happiness of other humans. If you know you’ve done that while on your deathbed, that must be heaven.”
The vegetables are savory but a little tough. A few dark, dry pods are strewn through the meal and when I bite into them they burst with a fiery, flavorless burn on my tongue. My dad collects a few of them in one bite, which he chews languidly as if he were numb to their shock. I can’t think of anything to contribute to the conversation. Much of Christianity has labeled me as inferior because of my gender and damned because of my sexuality. It’s a relief to hear my dad discount that belief system. It means I’m spared and that those rules are as stupid as I always hoped they were. But for some reason I feel hollow.
“Now Hell,” says dad gravely as the fortune cookies and check are placed before him by a white woman in athletic shorts, “I know that exists too. Hell is when you’re lying in the certainty of death and you realize you’ve failed completely at the human mission. You’ve done nothing of significance to anyone. You are ending forever and you’ve left no act of kindness, no great thoughts, and no legacy behind. You’ve made no impact in all your years. As you die, you remember the stories you didn’t tell, the helpful impulses you ignored, all the days you spent doing nothing. You amount to nothing. You are a carcass still hungry for a little oxygen, but what does it matter? You are void. And that is Hell.”
My dad reads his fortune to himself as he chews the cookie. He then tucks the paper into his breast pocket and pulls out his wallet to pay. There is no fortune in my crushed shell.