The screaming raced across my dreams in the wee early morning hours. It has happened before. But there is nothing to compare to it now.
And I snapped awake. The glowing embers of my red digital alarm clock impassively exhaled 3:49. The darkness still engulfed me. The fan pushed a cooling breeze trying to calm my sweating body. Apparently I had been crying from each and every pore since I had begun flapping and screeching like a wounded duck on the far-far side of midnight.
When you’re alone there is obviously no one to reach out to. So you hold your moist head in your dumbfounded palms, wrestling your anxious breathing – trying to arrest the moment.
And that’s when I heard the BBC still broadcasting on my radio that the Malaysian airliner had crashed in the Ukraine. Shot down by a missile.
And being a private pilot myself I know what those highly trained commercial pilots must have been frantically going through – recalibrating, realigning, readjusting to salvage the unmanageable, rescue the plummeting ship. Save the nearly 300 lives that were falling and screaming out of the sky. From 33,000 feet. Over six miles high. At 32-feet per second squared. Hoping against hope. Knowing they were doomed, but not knowing why.
And then everybody began to lie.
And that’s when I must have begun screaming. Probably not so much because more people had died. But that more and more and more sinister buffoons with little de rigueur were about to lie… and lie… to lie and deny… until the dead got lost in their stories.
My screaming awakened the neighbor’s barking dog. And I couldn’t stop. Neither one of us.
We kill without conviction. We arm the menacing to kill the innocent. And bye and bye the children die. Or have their legs cut off by the very Mexican railroad cars they are trying to leap into, fleeing for freedom.
And I found myself screaming about this and so much, much more… and more. All the things that one has forgotten screams for help in our dreams. When you’re drowning, you don’t say ‘I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,’ you just scream! And like a baby you don’t scream from fear, but from rage.
I screamed about Putin. How he loosed the drunken masses. Why is it that the haters always scream the loudest? I screamed about the Palestinians. Because all the Hamas do is hate… and hate. I screamed about the Turks accusing the Israeli’s of genocide. The Turks, who lie and deny the slaughter of 1 million Armenians. I screamed about the Balkans. And Iraq. And the pusillanimous Taliban who shoot young girls in search of an education.
I even found myself screaming about my ex-wife. She lied. And denied. And even when the courts discovered the truth they let her slip and slide – flee away with everything.
Obviously a lot of drama begins with screaming. And without a doubt I came into this world screaming and kicking – and haven’t ceased. And what I have ascertained is that while it may be bad for the voice, it is good for the heart.
Or so they say. Yet in spite of my bad genes, DNA and quadruple bypass I’ve been quite okay.
It’s quite amazing to lay there in the dark and scream away. It’s almost as if I found blood on my hands. So much blood for such little mitts to catch. And sometimes I really don’t know what to say except that then and there a scream seems much better than a thesis.
You don’t need me to remind you that the world is quite mad. And that it can be quite maddening. For our own sanity we are practically forced to become inured, up any avenue of escape. It isn’t so much that so many are performing such deadly sins, it is that we all end up paying a toxic price. Even for what seems like brilliance.
I mean, the night before I had been reading about the genius of inventor Nikola Tesla. His alternating current brought the bright lights to the world a mere hundred or so years ago. However, in lengthening our days we have shortened our body’s biorhythmic need for darkness in order to produce vital melatonin. That is the natural substance which helps regulate our sleep and wake cycles as well as assists in protecting us from diseases such as cancer.
Yet there is no doubt that between good and evil, I’d rather die from the good. It only provides me with choices to make. It doesn’t make me scream – at least not so insanely — in the night, falling into the never ending abyss.
Some insist we are just living too long and all the craziness just backs us up. However, my brother the heart doc just turned 69 on Monday. And there he was vacationing up in British Columbia kayaking away and away. And my mother turns 94 next week. And she’s happily bingo-ing away in her senior home where she stays and stays, and doesn’t ‘list’ amidst all this.
So why am I screaming in the dark? After all, the dead are dead. That horrid descent in the Malaysian flight has ended. And all that is left is the buffoonery of lying and denying and defying. The truth, once more, is irrelevant. It’s not going to bring the dead back to life. Or make their screams haunt me any less. It’s just seems to be another price we pay for surviving. Only the living suffer.
I guess I am left searching for answers, once more. The why? The what for? I mean don’t people live for a purpose and die for a reason?
At least that’s what religion teaches. Even the atheist cries out in the moment of ecstasy or in vain.
Inevitably the dawn begins to lighten my day. But my screams refuse to diminish and go away. I merely bury them in my writing. It goes on… and on. Obviously I am just not drinking enough. For that used to tame the pain to ease the royal way.
Then again, perhaps it truly is as a writer friend informed me once or twice: What may seem depressing or even tragic to one person may be an absolute scream to another, especially after he has had between five and seven beers.
In other words, everybody has a story… and a scream.
And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…