Seeing August 

Kevin Thorpe

“As the moonwinds kick up sand, the sun turns ousted God and falls beyond the rocky expanse that cups the desert within its jagged hands. Stillness comes over these dunes, quelling the unrest from day, killing the heat that antagonizes these yellow plains”.—August 17 (L.141)

I’ve watched that transition countless times now and I’ve only just gathered the words to express it. Stuff in motion is hard because you have to remember whatever it is you’re looking at after it’s gone and that can feel a bit like trying to hold a broken yolk. When it comes down to it, you have one of two options:

A: Diligently take notes as said event occurs.

Risks: Imperfect immersion in said event could lead to inaccuracies in written recall.

B: View said event sans note-taking and attempt to recall said event after the fact. 

Risks: Imperfect recollection of said event could lead to inaccuracies in written recall. 

Ultimately, I decided to go with the latter and, in truth, I think I did pretty well. To be completely truthful, my description feels a bit dishonest because the sunset here isn’t as beautiful as I’d have you believe. This place is real scabby and sort of dull-looking and I’d much rather be at home writing about the societal implications of neoliberalism, or whatever, but this is fine for now. 

It might be, however, that this place is in truth, beautiful and it is actually I who lacks the emotional sensitivity to appreciate it. I mean, that probably is the case because I’ve never really been into that sappy faux-beauty thing that older people seem to be so obsessed with. I think that’s in part due to my generation’s early indoctrination to hyper-stimuli. It’s almost like in order to feel anything, anything worth talking about anyways, we pretty much have to be slapped across the face with it. When you really think about it, that’s probably why my generation doesn’t really go to the circus anymore. We sort of already know the “danger” the trapeze artist puts themself in is artificial and it renders the whole performance virtually unwatchable. It’s not just me who thinks this way. 

I mean, all my life I’ve watched older people react to things that happen here and across the world and they cry and quiver and get angry at themselves for not doing enough and I’ve never really felt that way. I’ve never felt anything like that, really. When I really think about it there isn’t a single time I can remember where something really made me feel anything. I mean last year, back when I lived at home, there was this accident near our place in the city. I was walking to the store to pick up a few things and I remember waiting at this semi-busy intersection, the kind meant for cars, cyclists, and pedestrians. After a while, the light changed and I stepped onto the street and as I started walking I saw this cyclist pedal past and as she crossed over into a new lane a truck slammed into her head-on. I remember it sounding a bit like a water balloon hitting the asphalt and I just stood there, watching. There was this stuff that had sort of settled onto the truck and pavement and surrounding cars and I knew she was dead but I couldn’t see her because she and her bike had slid underneath the truck. I stood there for a while, in the middle of it; car horns, vehicles screeching to sudden halts, cameras sounding off synthetic shutters, mothers consoling children, men parsing through the sequence of events, distant sirens coming closer, closer, closer, and I felt nothing. 

I almost wanted to pretend to feel something, like I would’ve fallen to my knees and cried into my palms in distress but I decided not to because I knew no one was watching. I told Mom what had happened and she insisted I go to a couple of therapy sessions to work out what had happened. Mom said it would be healthy for me and I agreed because the office was sort of far and I liked the idea of having somewhere to go. A couple of sessions in I ended up telling Dr. Grand what had happened and he arranged this conference with Mom and he pretty much said the behavior I was exhibiting was likely a result of an amalgamation of various whatevers. He suggested I be put on some medicine and I pretty much zoned out because I knew nothing was wrong with me on the inside because most people my age feel this way. Plus, I wasn’t ready to commit the kind of emotional suicide necessary to warrant scarfing down some pharmaceutical scam. Mom agreed that drugs shouldn’t be our immediate solution and they decided to send me to this camp in California that’s supposed to specialize in treating whatever it is they think I have. 

I’ve been here for about four months now and I can’t say anything has changed.  One of my assigned exercises involves trying to find beauty in desolate places and then communicating that beauty to others and I think I’m pretty good at it. Well, I’m more so good at cheating the system because I usually know what people want to hear. You write about birds and flowers and love and longing and people just melt into their seats. For my own sanity, I’ve taken a more analytical approach. I’m capturing seconds of time like gnats in a screen door, it isn't beautiful but it’s real.  Sometimes, before bed, I’ll pry my eyelids open so my eyeballs get really dry and irritated and when I close them my eyes flush with water and I cry. I do it because I want to cry for that woman. I hope I get the chance to.