how to take antipsychotic medication
by dm gillis
to sleep like a seed &
dream of a garden the
stem I will be
bent under late snow
voices & oils on
canvas their lips their
stilled tongues but rapid eyes they
think of me as family from a
tragic buttoned distance a
manic Christmas poet psychotic
still as a century dire oh dire
sleeping the Seroquel sleep the
Olanzapine street corner raving
at the yellow lights in my
take at bedtime the
label says or
when the angels gather
round you like jungle animals &
hum your name like a
wordless song or
do not take them at all &
fall in with those angels instead &
walk with them their
* * * * *
the Amazing Rubeni
by dm gillis
His suspicions regarding the overall poverty of height had transformed from an abstract concern and into a genuine source of anxiety faster than he could ever have imagined. Would such a short fall adequately fill his needs? After all, he’d chosen the rooms on the fifth floor, from which he’d just jumped, for their gentle north eastern exposure and faux Rococo styling, not for their hands-down utility in the event of some desperate suicidal leap. He was also, in that instant, perplexed by the disturbing elasticity of time. Falling such a short distance seemed to be taking a very long while.
It was irrelevant now, but he knew from casual inquiry that the weight equation defined weight, or W, to be equal to the mass, or m, of an object times gravitational acceleration, represented by g, or W = m * g. The value of g was 9.8 meters per squared second on the surface of the planet, and gravitational acceleration decreases with the squared distance from the center of the earth. For most practical problems related to atmosphere, he knew he could take it for granted that this factor was constant.
The drag equation told him that drag, D, is equal to a drag coefficient, Cd, times one half the air density, r, multiplied by the squared velocity, V, times a reference area, A, on which the drag coefficient is based. In other words, he was being opposed by aerodynamic drag – that was the point; he was always being opposed by something, and he resented it.
Another thought he had, as the wind whistled quietly in his ears, was one he’d had several times before: Why was success considered the only logical outcome of perseverance? This was an unsolvable mystery. He had practised perseverance throughout his life, without success. He was diligent in his perseverance, painstaking. One could even say assiduous. Wasn’t that how his psychiatrist described Rubeni’s bipolar personality? Mania was perseverance and depression was empathy. The psychiatrist had said this as though it was the firmest, most fundamental of universal truths. Why wouldn’t have Rubeni believed it?
But now that he thought of it, the psychiatrist had never said that to persevere was to succeed. It was everyone else who’d said that. His psychiatrist had just written Rubeni a new prescription and told him that the appointment was over. That was no way to have ended what was supposed to be a therapeutic appointment, of course. But he’d always been unlucky with psychiatrists, their profession so undervalued by everyone but themselves. Who could blame them for being bastards?
As he continued to fall, Rubeni rolled round in space and looked up at the balcony from which he’d just leapt, and saw three faces looking down at him. It was the two plane clothes cops and the priest, his small personal choir that had, up until a moment ago, been singing a hymn called Don’t Jump. Why had they brought in a priest? Another mystery. Rubeni was Jewish.
“All things come to pass,” the priest had said when it was time for his choir solo, after the cops had recited their scripted homily of reassurance and acceptance. “These feelings you’re having, they will pass.”
“And I’ll feel better?” said Rubeni, his back to the priest as he pondered the pavement below.
“Yes, that’s the idea,” the priest said.
“And I’ll be able to cope again?”
“Yes, yes.” The priest was pleased with the idea.
“All things come to pass, then.”
“Yes,” said the priest.
“Then these bad feelings will pass and be replaced by good feelings.”
“But then,” Rubeni said, “if all things come to pass, the good feelings you promise will also pass, and I’ll feel like shit again, or even worse, and want to kill myself all over again, maybe even more than I do right now. It seems very iffy, this theory of yours.”
“Our moods and emotions can be a burden at times, I agree,” said the priest. “Some of us are prone to dark thought. You must pray always, but even more strenuously and sincerely when you are struck by these extreme feelings.”
“Have you ever felt like ending it all?” Rubeni asked the priest.
“That is a weight God has spared me.”
“So,” said Rubeni, noticing his undone shoelace, “you’re really talking outta yer hat, aren’t you? I mean, this is something they taught you back at priest school, isn’t it? Not the all things come to pass thing. I mean your presumption that I will without doubt be delivered from this distressful circumstance to some peaceful equilibrium. It’s not anything that comes out of your own lived experience, is it?”
“Would my presumption be a more valid proposal if it did?”
“Then I am sincerely sorry for never having been in a suicidal state, so that now my words would reflect that personal experience.”
“Thank you for saying so. I believe that’s the first honest thing you or 5-O has said this morning.”
“Consider me your student, Mr Rubeni.”
“Don’t ruin it, mister priest.”
“I’ll try no to.”
“Is there any material thing I can get for you?”
“No. Just back off for a while. I need to think.”
It was nice when the priest finally backed off and Rubeni could breathe. He wasn’t a religious man, certainly not a Catholic. Who could be Catholic, anyway? A religion ruled over on Earth by a man they considered infallible. A man, therefore, who didn’t have the word oops in his vocabulary. A man who couldn’t, by definition, be implicated in any mishap or, apparently, even trip on a curb. Had they built Vatican City without curbs, he wondered. That would certainly decrease the chances of the Pope tripping and unintentionally saying oops.
And it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. Rubeni knew God wasn’t dead; God was alive and well, and fucking with the world constantly. It was just that he couldn’t connect the God of Exodus and Leviticus with the God of iPhones and Gangnam Style. Where was Rubeni’s burning bush? Where was God’s code whispered in the leaves and deciphered in Rubeni’s dreams? Absent, he deduced, as he fell, seeing Mrs Wilshire, the tenant who lived below him on the fourth floor looking out her window.
Their eyes met, and Rubeni felt slightly ashamed. There was good-bye in Mrs Wilshire’s moist, elderly eyes. He’d carried her groceries and had looked after her three cats when she’d gone to Saskatoon. Now she was witnessing him fall from above toward the merciless pavement below. There were nightmares in her future, all of them his fault. Perhaps he should have chosen another high spot from which to jump, but that was silly.
As he once more marvelled at the slow passage of seconds, Maria came to mind. Maria, the tall dark idol he’d worshipped and nearly married. There she was, vividly driving her Smart Car through the city with her yoga mat in the back seat and her bag of organic grapes riding shotgun. What could be the point of this new torture? He had adored her. It was Maria who’d called him amazing. The Amazing Rubeni, she’d said, as though he were a circus act. He didn’t know at first if he should resent it. Had she been laughing at him?
But she’d meant his poetry, his confidence and intensity in a world too frightened to correctly name its trepidation. She’d said she loved him, that she wanted to marry him. That was until she witnessed his mania, how it had manifested out of his artful sub-sanity into shambolic inner rage that tore him to pieces. Had she known about his bipolar disorder? Of course. There were no secrets. And she’d had the greatest of empathy, until he showed symptoms. Then it was no longer a conceptual thing defined in textbooks and hidden behind a curtain of medication. Then it was too much and she’d run away to her Buddhist retreat to count her breaths.
Hadn’t it always been this way? Wasn’t this the reason for him, in this moment, arcing out through space, compelled by the downward tug of the planet’s molten core? — the world always impressed by him in the beginning, then equally appalled as he imploded into confused, teary eyed calamity, again and again, as he wrote each suicide note in rich, cataclysmic pentameter? His irredeemable couplets tattooing the red brick back alleys walls that mapped out is volatile mind. There was no pill for this shame, no prayer. No nanosecond short enough or equation comforting enough. It was an episodic landscape of jagged slopes throughout adolescence and into adulthood, mountain ranges of mood with valleys deeper than the darkest imaginable stanza.
Wasn’t it all a comedy? If so, then surely there’d be good-hearted laughter any moment, no?
His mind returned to a second before, and saw the priest approach him once more.
“Have you had time to reconsider, Mr Rubeni,” the priest asked.
Rubeni looked down at his untied shoelace. “Tell me one hopeful thing, mister priest,” he said.
“If you choose not to jump,” said the priest, “this will turn into a story of personal strength and redemption.”
“Is that it?” said Rubeni.
“Where there is life, there is hope, my son. Your escape from this will bring hope to others.”
“That ain’t much, but fuck it,” Rubeni said, and commenced turning away from the empty space below. “Maybe that was the one right thing to say, mister priest.”
The priest smiled. If Rubeni came in off the balcony now, there still might be time for racquetball at the seminary, and a previously scheduled lunch appointment.
But turning round on that small ledge, on the wrong side of the balcony railing, was more difficult than it appeared, and Rubeni stepped on his loose shoelace. It happened just in time for him to make eye contact with the priest, and they both knew then that he’d lost his balance. The priest lunged forward and Rubeni reached out, never having wanted to live so badly. But the priests hands failed to grasp his, and the Amazing Rubeni fell.
W = m * g
* * * * *
secret daughters of autumn
by dm gillis
The sky smelled like smoky tea and was lit at the edges, curling like orange leaves. That evening, a wife he’d once had would celebrate her birthday like a Japanese princess. Their daughters bowing in improvised paper kimonos, somewhere on another side of town now mysterious to him. He sat in an abandoned doorway dry-mouthed, developing plans. To somehow find shoes. To somehow find a meal. He plugged his ears with his thumbs, mere finger wouldn’t do. He squinted, his face rigid and grimacing. But he still heard the voices. A determined choir singing. Birthdays demand gifts. If he could find shoes and food, or if he couldn’t, he might deliver one.
Shoelessness in a world of plenty is a perplexing thing. He sat in the doorway at shoe level, with his spare change can. It was impossible from this vantage not to notice that all of the people passing had shoes. Some were very nice. Others unfashionably chosen from sale racks. Still others, he saw, were in varying states of disrepair, heels and soles worn past reasonable limits. Even a pair of these would suit him now. But who would give him shoes? When quarters and dimes were so hard to come by. Maybe it was his guru looks. He was wild eyed and unshaven. Should a raving holy man walk the planet well shod? Perhaps shoefulness was unholy.
Voices surrounded him. Some told him lies of love. The honest voices hated him. Birthdays demand gifts. A gift for a Japanese princess is no small thing. She’ll despise it, no matter what. But he knew its importance. She had been beautiful enough to love once. Beautiful enough for there to be children. The two daughters who he remembered smiling. Forming their words. Learning to use their index fingers to point at things in the world. The honest voices hated him. He stood to walk. There are believed-in journeys, a voice had once told him.
He was an unincorporated son, barefoot on the autumn sidewalk. Impatience on the crazed faces of the sane. The light saturated him. He was a mural; he was a mirror. Tell us what can be done. Give him food not money. Where is God? God is in His Maui timeshare. God is on the internet. God is an NRA gun advocate. When choosing a gift for Shogun royalty, simplicity is best. A length of silk, vermilion as a Torii Gate. A hand fan of tsunamic arcs, the doomed depicted humbled before their deaths. A red light is a sanctioned invitation to stop. Take it and reflect. He recalled gifts at their wedding, money and shining things. He had heard the voices then, too. But he had kept them secret. He pretended they were part of the ballroom crowd. The wedding guests would have laughed if he’d told them. Then burned him like a witch. He had remained well standing and worthy in that marriage. Until the night brightened, and the angels coaxed him away.
He saw a yōkai demon in a shop window, tattooed upon a smooth coughing stone. There were just simple nickels, silver in his pocket. They were perfect poverty. He saw more then, too. The blunt attenuating prescriptions. The haughty knowingness of assigned strangers. Voices shouting run. And now this unhaveable thing. Carnal. Like a dog. But glorious. When it cried out, the children heard. In the darkest of childish nights. And it changed them forever. His feet were too naked for so prosperous a city. Even café dishwashers had shoes. Open, said a sign on the shop door, like an accusation. The wife he’d once had had accused him. A voice had once told him to drown. But he could only swim.
There was his reflection in the shop window, and a glut of stones in the city. The stones once departing on a train. In railcars strictly reserved for stones and shadow. There was nothing left to breech this plate glass horizon. He remembered the blue clan mondokoro in their daughters’ eyes, and the dolls of Hinamatsuri watching him from shelves. He had heard the hiss of their whispers. Oh for a stone. The police and their fear. Fearsomeness in their fear. The two-way crackle. Mental male. It was a cop mantra stanza. There were no poems about it. No paragraphs in novels. No hasty wise graffiti. His fists were not stone. But the glass shattered, nonetheless.
Blood is always a surprise. How it resides like a neighbour, behind its own sober walls. We gaze upon it when it comes, pooling in Einstein’s gravity. Razor swords in paper rooms. Contradiction is a forgiven lie. The wife he’d once had had never loved his gifts. He reached in and took the thing, anyway. And escaped.
Somewhere that evening in the deciduous city, their daughters, who were still very young, served tea to the wife he’d once had. On their bended knees, geisha-like. Their beautiful eyes and small busy hands.
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