I am a bomb but I mean you no harm.

That I still am here to tell this, is a miracle: I was deployed on May 15,  1957, but I didn’t go off because a British nuclear engineer, a young father,  developed qualms after seeing pictures of native children marveling at the mushrooms in the sky, and sabotaged me. I could see why during that short drop before I hit the atoll: the island looks like god’s knuckles in a bathtub, the ocean is beautifully translucent, corals glow underwater, a dead city of bones, allowing a glimpse into a white netherworld. I met the water and fell a few feet into a chromatic cemetery.

The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don’t share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.

Merry Christmas to you all.

On August 12, I realised that my asthma was an unwillingness to take life in. That I was alive nevertheless, and remained so, was, for me, one of the many paradoxes of existence, strewn across our path as unsolvable riddles, tough mind candy to chew on. I did not care for His jokes.

On August 13, I had decided to end my life. I instantly knew how I’d do it: I would jump of Jefferson bridge and enjoy the short flight. I calculated that I would fly for 6.34 seconds. In this time span, I wanted to see and experience everything as if for the first time. I was looking forward to the intensity of a prolonged moment of birthlike magic.

On August 14, at 14:45, after an incredibly good Pizza from Joe’s, an otherwise little noteworthy Italian hole in the wall on Grammer St, I let go off the railing and flew towards my death. Earlier, I had sat on these railings for about a minute. Not too long to develop deep fear and not too short, because I did not want to do anything in haste. This was too important.

All the while, though, if I’m honest, I hoped that something or someone would save me.

In fact, I did have my flight, and it was unbelievable. I could not possibly put it into words. You’ll have to go there yourself. The flight was 0.07 seconds longer than I had anticipated due to strong winds that created an updraft, which slowed me down. Those are details.

The interesting thing is that I never hit the surface but found myself instead eyes closed  in a fetal position on my bed at home. I don’t know what happened and I don’t care. I will not, I repeat, I will not do it again. I stopped having asthma attacks, too, and I’m going to get married tomorrow, thank you very much for your good wishes.

i cry my name from the bottom of a tibetan bowl. i wind my shawl closer round my neck & i close my fly for fear i might take flight at the first sign of fear. i ask her, What’s up with you – you seem down, and she does not answer because she’s mad at me. not mad per se, mad at me and around me, burning the air with accusations. What did i ever do? i say. Nothing, she says, and that is the problem. You don’t do anything for me. i quiet.

i felt sick most of that day because we had fought in the morning. i hate those mornings. they make me feel all unhinged and hammered. i drove to work with a chest as tight as a duck’s arse. bits of negative newsflakes were wafting around in the small space between me & the window & the tiny chinese bell that someone gave me who later died a death & i went to his funeral: afterwards, hearing the bell always made me sad so i hid it under the dashboard. thoughts of how the oil would be running out & we’d all have to stay home & make love all day or walk to work or stuff like that provided much-wanted distraction for a moment. suddently i’m back on the self-pity rails: there is a train waiting for me any time of day, with plush pillows & exquisite service: Would you care for another cold cup of tea with a poisoned biscuit on the side, Sire? Yes, please, and make it extra strong. More needling comments on your wrinkled wee-little willy-winky, Sire? No, thank you, I am slashed enough already. on and on the carriages roll on their journey towards my personal shangri-la.

later, we watch cuban women rolling cigars on their naked thighs. we wade through the pastiche of our own time: do you remember when we used to do this, and that? yes i do, no i don’t. or: i can’t be bothered to think about the past, i want to look ahead. what do you see there? i see me & i see you & others. my vision is blurred. someone hands me glasses. they don’t help. i see asian women enjoying themselves with asian men, piercing and pierced with pleasure. i see fathers & mothers & children holding hands & walking out of creation into a curtain of the dustiest dust. the investment of dirty nappies bears heavy fruit. i see prayer, i see pain. somewhere, someone crunches credit under their boot. financial institutions crumble while i’m still struggling with definitions. where was nietzsche when i needed him? how exactly did i become who i am?

my hands were made of iron: i built a faraday cage to shield my manhood from curious looks. thus armed, i left work & went for a walk in the park that always makes me peevish, but more so when i’m horny and upset. i watched the people pass through their lives & i wondered how they might feel on the inside: furry or feverish or simply red-hot. i sat down on a bench to read, munching carrots and sandwich prepared by her for me, lovingly i had to give it to her. the sun melted my resolve to remain a grump. teenagers hopped along, listlessly. no radiowaves ravished my soul. calm & collected i  got back to work, lead my team astray & postponed deadlines like an expert undertaker.

You need to fold your clothes, she says. i take her by the word and swirl her around, my sweet chariot wife, she bakes compliments better than bread. we end up in bed, on the unfolded clothes. many of my journeys ended here, ’tis a pleasant place of childlike wonder, a place to go yonder. it takes a lot longer to understand your body than it takes to learn maths. once you figured it out, what it wants and when and from whom, you can move on to figuring out relationships. chances are, you already passed through a few by the time good hard knowledge rolls around like cash on a day at the track.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt. first published on Metazen