New Art: I'm on Fire

I'm on Fire

36" x 48" Acrylic on Canvas, Mixed Media

All the close-minded crap that was crammed into my head as I growing up set me on fire.  For years, I smoldered in confusion, angst, and self-pity, wasting away as I searched for positives in all that fury.  Now, I've arrived at a place where the burn feels fantastic; I never want it to end!  I've found a way to reflect it back to the world in my own unique way.  Woohoo!  That's what this piece says to me.  

Detail Pics:

Coaster Rider: Dario Posada

"This journey has been like a roller coaster."

During the last week, I completed the draft of my latest novel, DUST.  I also finished a new painting.  Amazing authors Marya Hornbacher and Darin Strauss recommended me for a Guggenheim in fiction.  My agent gave me some encouraging news, and I had lunch with a VP/Associate Publisher of an A-list publishing company. On the same day, I got a call about a Senior Director position in the pharmaceutical industry.

It sounds thrilling, doesn't it?

I'm on the ascending arch of a gigantic coaster.  The anticipation is electrifying.  I'm wondering if I should prepare to hold both arms up in the air and scream my guts out.  I try not to focus on the inevitable drop ahead.  It always comes in some form or fashion.  Down, down, down, I go, and it's terrifying.  I've learned over time that the drop is easier to take if I scream bloody murder, if I let myself experience the absolute, pure emotion of it, the life.  Doing so enables me to recover more quickly, and dig up the strength to embark upon the next ascent.

That crazy ride keeps me focused in an odd way.  It's delicately controlled.  It's an outlet.  I'm in a seat with safety devices surrounding me.  There's a system, a balance, and a design.  Before I mustered the bravery to get on that ride nearly twenty years ago, I was all over the place, spinning in a crazy, unsafe, circuitous world of emotion, ideas, and frustration.  I didn't know what to do with myself; I was getting nowhere.

My guest today, artist Dario Posada, says that painting keeps him sane.  No matter what happens in his life, he must paint.  It's his big, beautiful coaster.

This week, as I drove toward the Trenton train station, heading to Manhattan to meet with my friend, the Associate Publisher, I asked myself, "What do I really want?"

See, during the course of that busy morning, I realized how much I miss my commute to work.  I miss reaching over to take my travel mug out of the cup holder to the beat of my favorite tunes.  I miss seeing interesting people day to day, and having a shared vision and mission.  I miss being part of a team, and leading teams.  I came to the conclusion that, at some point, I want all that back again, but wished I could find it within the publishing industry.  Then I realized that if and when I do find it within a publishing house, it still won't be a daily gig.

I'm a writer; I will always be alone in that role. And I also want to be alone.  I need to be alone, submerged in my own internal world, with my words and the clicking sound of the keyboard.  I need to reach for my coffee cup while feeling the ecstasy of a perfect sentence.

Below Dario talks about how he realized that painting is about more than just brush strokes and color.  This week, I remembered that being a novelist is about more than a computer and words.  It's about expressing the experience of life and its exquisite complexity.  The personal coaster I ride somehow illuminates humanity for me.  It cracks open and teases apart layers and layers of preconceived notions and self-limiting ideas. It gives me something to chew on, and quenches my never-ending thirst.

Who knows what will happen next? But no matter what, I will keep writing.  It keeps me sane.  In the end, it's the big, beautiful coaster I ride.  It doesn't need to look like yours.

What's your story (in a nutshell)? 

My first mural was done at the age 12.  I painted Che Guevara.  I didn't even know who he was, but I liked his image. I was born in a poor country that was engaged in war (Colombia).  I studied fine arts and environmental engineering. It took four years to convince myself that I should only be painting.

This journey has been like a roller coaster: Colombia, Germany, Spain, Italy, USA, Kenya.  I've been  in each of those countries, both legally and illegally.  My paintings have always taken me further than I expected. She's (the art/talent) stronger than me.

With regard to your current creative focus, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?

In 1998, as I was leaving my house to take a painting to an exhibition that I had that same evening, one of my paintings fell out of the truck that was transporting it to the gallery.  The canvas split in half. I didn't know what I was going to do.  The show was just minutes away.  So I decided to sew it and put oil on top to cover the holes that could be seen from the sewing. That's when I understood that the painting was more than just brush strokes and colors.

 

For you, is art more about creation or expression?

I believe art is an expression that has its on language.

How would you describe the life of a true artist?

A true artist is always sensitive and sincere to himself and everyone else.

Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being highly creative have caused you aberrations in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations, or both? 

By nature I'm a very aggressive person,  Painting helps me channel my strength onto the canvas.

During difficult or challenging times in your life, does painting sooth or inspire you? Is it therapeutic in any way?

Going through tough times has never changed what I am painting--just the way that I paint.  Something is happening, coming out onto the canvas.



I think people understand when they see the success.  The best test that you can give them and yourself is by exhibiting your painting at an art gallery. People will see it differently than the way the see it at your studio.

Have you developed a specific creative process that enables you to meet your artistic goals? Where do most of your ideas come from?
No, I don't have a process. I don't know which painting will be the next one created or sold. My ideas come from everywhere.

What do you believe places an artist apart from his or her peers? An artist needs to be alone with his painting in order to create it. So many are highly talented, but what makes one stand out as truly gifted?

Discipline--meaning constantly working.

What is your primary motto or mantra in life? Why is this important to you?

Paint no matter what happens. It's what keeps me sane.

Dario's work is currently being shown at the Area 23 Gallery in Miami.

Beating Back Grief: Darin Strauss

 "... grief, (and even the weird feeling of guilt without culpability) if not vanquished, can at least be beaten back."

Last week I had a challenging conversation with my chronically troubled mother. After she lectured me on how to vanquish the grief of my disturbing childhood by finally apologizing to her for my failures as a daughter, I explained that my grief can never be completely vanquished, only beaten back and put in its proper place.

She didn't get it.

Maybe you can understand.  I'm quite certain that my guest today, Darin Strauss, will get it.  In fact, I wish I'd had his interview answers in mind during that frustrating conversation with my mother.

I would have explained to her that during my childhood, she and I were headed in opposite directions. As I innocently drove toward some kind of magical future, she swerved time and time again, trying to escape the present. She crossed established boundaries, crashing into me. Each time I saw it coming, I desperately tried to miss her--to save her--but it was impossible. I did the best I humanly could to end her unhappiness and pain, the repetitive death of her spirit.

I do not owe her an apology.

Instead, I explained that because I was so young, because my body and soul were evolving at a cellular level, those experiences contributed to the core of who I am, bit by bit.  To reach into myself and yank all that out now would cripple me. I'm stronger with them than without them.

To quote Darin, "... of course I would change it if I magically could. But short of saving her life, if I were given the power to change places with my friend who sat in the passenger seat--in other words, someone who was pretty much unaffected by it--I wouldn't."

As Darin and I both know, some folks have it much worse than the two of us.  Everyone has their own aberrations and crosses to bear.  On Aberration Nation we've read about a woman who lost her entire family to war, a man who was stabbed 39 times as a child, people who were physically abused, etc.  Realistically, we'll never know who feels pain the deepest, who cries the most tears, or who has the most regret.  We all live in our own self-contained emotional jungles. Even when we're blessed to have visitors who share our internal world, they must still see it through their own eyes.

I suspect my mother's view has always been distorted by all that constant swerving and crashing.  When I was a child, she used to inform me with a harsh tone, "This is not your life, Penelope."  That always bothered me, as if she were belittling my very existence, turning me into some sort of ghost revolving around her.  I remember standing there, thinking, but I'm here, aren't I? I'm living. I desperately wanted to be in my own life; I wanted to be the hero of the story.

Darin has gifted me with the notion that perhaps in a way, my mother was right.  As he so simply phrases it below, "It was her story, and my part in it was to go on living."

What's your story as a writer, and how does your new memoir HALF A LIFE factor in?

I always loved books, and first attempted a novel as a 4th grader (Army of Frankensteins, a young American general, shockingly bad writing). But I didn't think of becoming a writer professionally until college. I didn't know anyone who'd tried it. But PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT changed my life. I thought: I can write about this?

HALF A LIFE is a big part of my story.  I was a normal high school kid who had a car accident. A girl cut across two lanes of a busy highway and crashed right into my car. She died. I was changed by this in ways I only fully understood 20 years later. The book is an attempt not just to tell the story and make sense of it, but to also show that grief (and even the weird feeling of guilt without culpability), if not vanquished, can at least be beaten back.

With regard to HALF A LIFE, was there an "ah-ha" moment you can tell us about?

My new book is all about ah-ha moments. I thought I would never write about this. (I published three novels before this book, and assumed I'd just go on writing fiction.) I found myself feeling better about the accident than I ever had before. I didn't know why, but dealing with it as a writing project--something you tinker with, shape, and turn off at night--helped. I felt some guilt about that--the fact that it was getting easier.

Then I learned that the way psychologists now deal with Complicated Grief Disorder (a disease of people much more floored even than I was) is that they have sufferers speak into a tape recorder about what is the most painful thing for them. And then the patients have to play that tape for themselves every night. This sounds like mental torture. But the transformation of personal grief into an object that can be turned off is the best path to healing. And I stumbled into it.

But when you write a memoir (something as a fiction writer I was sure, again, that I'd never do) you learn things all the time. If you're doing your job, anyway. Oh, yeah--I forgot that this happened. That was a notion I had daily.

Aberration Nation currently focuses on creativity, but it's also about how life's aberrations (whether physical, emotional, or situational) can become the kernel of our strength. In Half a Life, you write about a tragic event that shaped your life. No one wants to believe that someone's

This is kind of the nexus of the book's questions. Someone died. So of course I would change it if I magically could. But short of saving her life, if I were given the power to change places with my friend who sat in the passenger seat -- in other words, someone who was pretty much unaffected by it -- I wouldn't.

That's something I never would have believed in the years and years I was agonizing. But it made me who I am. The accident happened when I was 18. It wasn't my fault that she died; she swerved in front of me, and I tried my best to avoid her. Going over that one-tenth of a second for decades was an act of futility. I tried my human best to miss her, and I didn't miss her, but that was all I could do. And so I realized it wasn't even a story about me. It was her story, and my part in it was to go on living.

But yes, it made me stronger, I hope. And I also hope more thoughtful (in every sense).

When tragedy strikes, many of us tend to wallow over our imperfections and situations as if nothing could possibly be worse. We feel sorry for ourselves, guilty, and undeserving of happiness. We forget that there is always someone out there who has it worse than us. How were you able to avoid letting those emotions sabotage your happiness and success?

I was both wallowing (I felt terrible guilt).  I was also deeply, heart-hurtingly aware that people had it worse than I did (the girl who died's parents).  After they told me they knew for sure that it wasn't my fault--and that they expected me to live twice as successfully and well now, because I was living for two people--and then followed that up by suing me for millions of dollars, I was very wallow-y. That was heavy for an 18-year-old. (If the court case went terribly wrong for me, I could have had my wages garnished forever.) Plus I kept wondering if I could have swerved differently, or done something. So those thoughts did diminish my happiness. Which seemed fitting; again, even though it wasn't my fault, a girl died because my car hit her. That will change you. The key was not letting it define who I was.

Do you believe some of the various attributes related to being highly creative have caused you aberrations in life, helped you deal with life's aberrations, or both?

I think my career has caused aberrations for my wife. As a writer you're never 100 percent off-duty. So sometimes I'm not as present with her as I should be; I'm thinking of a character, a plot turn, a metaphor. But that sounds pretentious. I think it's also been great. And as Philip Roth wrote -- a character who was a writer was at his brother's funeral, and deciding how he would stage the scene in a novel -- this job even fucks up grief. (But that's probably to the good.)

For you, is writing more about creation or expression? It could be both, but does one dominate with regard to your need/urge/desire to be a writer and why?

I think writing is all expression. Expressing a detail, an idea, a half-formed idea. But expression is creation, right? I mean, for a writer -- expression equals creation.

In general, is writing therapeutic for you? How was writing HALF A LIFE therapeutic?

I used to subscribe to something that the writer William Gass said. (And I'm going to misquote it, probably.) "If writing is cathartic, you're not doing it right, because it's so hard--getting the prose and the form right--you can't have time to think about yourself."

But that is what makes it cathartic, I now realize. Losing yourself in the "craft" aspects of it, finding the write punctuation mark, deciding if this paragraph should follow that one, this is the kind of thing that takes you out of your grief.

Have you ever had to deal with people in your life failing to understand your creative personality, interests, or drive? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?

I had girlfriends who didn't get it. I once told a woman that I'd had a hard day, and she laughed. "How hard can it be? You're just making stuff up." That kind of thing.

My wife is very understanding. But it bothers her, even now, how much I work. I wrote for a few hours yesterday (Labor Day), and that drove her nuts. It's something we always have to deal with--manging each other's expectations.     

Was there ever a time when you just felt like giving up? On yourself? On writing? If so, how were you able to cross that bridge?

Sure. You feel that all the time. To quote Roth again, "The difference between an Olympic swimmer and a professional writer is that the swimmer doesn't feel like she's drowning every time she goes in."  So we all feel it--even the Philip Roths of the world.  But the key is: keep getting in the pool.

If you could tell the world one thing about overcoming tragedy, what would that be?

Too hard to answer. I guess, try to face it. Do the Complicated Grief Disorder therapy that I mentioned above. When you're ready--and only then--force yourself to play the tape over and again.

New Art: Pipe Dreams

 Pipe Dreams

 30" x 40"

Acrylic on Canvas, Mixed Media

My vision for this piece originated from some chunky, colorful pipes I came across last year in Salt Lake City.  While they obviously served an important purpose, they also provided interesting urban art for those strolling by.  I thought about those pipes for at least a year before deciding that I'd like to portray how sucking the color away would transform them into the dull and ordinary.  This concept became the spark behind this piece.

As with all my art, black and white represents close-mindedness.  The piece demonstrates how close-mindedness can transform our fantastical visions into mere pipe dreams.  Sometimes that damaging perspective comes from our own doubts about what's possible, our capabilities, and our opportunities.  At other times, it comes from society, our relationships, etc.

I'm not sure if I love this piece yet.  I have a feeling it's one that will grow on me.  I hope I've successfully demonstrated the idea of what it feels like when I put limitations upon myself, or when others seek to limit my dreams, ideas, and visions of what's possible.

I'm terrified that my visions will become run of the mill pipe dreams that ultimately amount to nothing.  That the colors and light inside me will slowly transform into the dull lifeless rocky pipes I see everywhere.

I don't want that to happen to any of us.

Additional Pics:

Renaissance Flair: Penelope Przekop

The joy on my 11-year-old daughter's face as she races through the wind captures how I'm feeling today.  Her smile evokes a surge of youthful hope and the belief that a grand adventure is on the horizon.

Woohoo!

I just finished the draft of my fourth novel, DUST.  I also expect to complete a new painting that will be one of a handful of pieces shown by Monkdogz Urban Art before the end of the year (details to come).  My novel, BOUNDARIES, zooms out to YA editors, and my novel CENTERPIECES heads out to a few new editors as well. 

As a backdrop for all this yummy stuff, dtown Magazine, a popular local publication has featured me and my work (both writing and art) in their September print edition.

Read it here!

Watch for Darin Strauss, author of HALF A LIFE and  CHANG AND ENG, this Wednesday on Aberration Nation!

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (The End)

Note: To learn more about Penelope Przekop's novel, BOUNDARIES, and to start reading at the beginning, go here!  It all comes down on October 1st.  Don't miss it!

Chapter 12: Peter (continued) 

Do you still not understand?

Mark 8:21

Peter’s soft bed fails to cushion my aching body. Bruises, tiny painful reminders of the guys who carried me to that final, deserted place, begin to surface. He sits next to me and pulls his peanut butter brown blanket up around my face. The baby powder he uses to chase away that anatomy lab smell clogs my head. I think he might kiss me but instead he says he’ll be on the couch.
     As I drift to sleep, I pray that Matt will forgive me and that I can forgive him. I wonder if I'll ever look back and laugh at the notion that I loved him at all. Part of me hopes I’ll laugh until I cry, but the other part— my heart—knows he’ll be the one I’ll never laugh about. In time, I’ll forgive my mother because forgiveness and love are inseparable; feeding off each other when there’s nothing left.
     I wake to find Peter sliding between the sheets. His underwear rubs against my legs as he slithers over me. In a dark, sleepy daze, I hold him close, waiting for the realization that he’s the one I should have loved all along. His shaking hands encircle my waist. I kiss his neck and shoulders. My name, uttered from his lips, floats through the air. It sounds nice. It feels good. I’m through feeling bad and sad, tired and lonely.
     Outside, a car sputters to life; I listen until the sound of its engine fades away.
     I gather Peter’s rough face in my hands. His twinkling eyes usually make him seem older but now he looks young.  A cheerful, panting puppy, finally free to play, stares at me.
    The sun filters through the blinds, easing across his room. I look over his shoulder expecting to see the same white, ordinary ceiling I’ve seen over Matt’s. Instead, a gigantic splash of red, white and blue hangs overhead.
     The confederate flag.
     My hands drop from his face. I suddenly feel older.
     “What’s the matter?” he whispers.
     "Why did you paint that flag on your ceilin’?” I ask. “You said you weren’t creative.”
     He twists his head to look up. “There’s a lot more to creativity than just bein’ able to perform the tasks involved, you know, bein’ crafty. I copied what I saw. It took me a long time.” His eyes glisten. “I have one at home, too, but this one’s better.”
     “I don’t understand what people see in that flag.”
     “Why?” he asks. “It’s about pride. What’s wrong with that?”
     “I just cain’t understand people who cling to the past, to defeat. It’s weak.”
     His eyes fall and he kisses my cheek. “Peyton, you and I aren’t so different.”
     “I have to go,” I say, scrambling out of the bed.
     “You don’t have to go anywhere. That’s your problem. You need to stay with me.” His eyes follow me around the room as I gather the few things I'd brought. I can’t find my shoes. The part of his face that isn’t covered by his beard turns red. He gets out of bed and paces beneath the giant flag.
     I have the sensation that it’s falling on me. “I have to get my shoes.” I want to leave. “I left my shoes at the frat house.”
      He eases me against the wall, sliding his hands under my shirt. “Peyton, I’m your best friend.”
     “I don’t want you to touch me.” I shove his hands away. “It’s not right.” I hook my belt around my waist; try to smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt; and then head for the door. I can feel Peter’s breath on my neck as he jogs down the stairs after me.
     Just as I reach the landing, he bolts around me, blocking my way. “Since when have you done what’s right? You know, if you’re gonna screw the whole town, you could at least screw somebody who gives a shit about you.”
     “You don’t know who I’ve screwed.”
     “Thangs get around. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
     I push past him and walk outside with my bare feet. The concrete isn’t as hot as I expected. “Nothin’s wrong with me. Nothin’ that cain’t be fixed,” I say without turning around.
     “I was your friend! Every single time you needed me, I was there!” He yells from the doorway. “I’m probably the only friend you’ve got.”
     “Becca’s my friend.”
     “Yeah? And where was she last night?”
     I fumble for my keys. “Just leave me alone.”
     “It doesn’t matter who you think you are, or how many stars you gaze at when you’re all alone. It matters what people think.”
     I stand by the car, wondering why I don’t just get in and drive away. “What people think is not supposed to matter,” I yell back.
     “Your actions—the choices you make—define who you are. You can think and say whatever the hell you want to tell yourself, but the sum of your actions is a sign you hold out in front of yourself. Everybody's lookin’ and don’t think they’re gonna treat you any other way than how they think they’re damn well supposed to. You have to carry that shit with you for the rest of your life.”
     “I don’t plan to carry anythang
     “You cain’t go around actin’ like a slut and just forget about it.”
     His voice echoes through the morning air and I wonder if Matt will hear. Then I realize it was Matt’s engine I heard fading into the distance, going toward the hospital and to his father. He’s gone.
     “You think about that for as long as it takes!” Peter says. “Think about that when you think about all that other crap you think you’re gonna forget.” Peter stands in his underwear, proud. “And that flag stands for somethin’ you better hope you’re capable of. It’s got nothin’ to do with defeat!” he bellows. “Do you hear me, Peyton? It stands for resilience.”
   
Something happened to the frat house during the night. It sits on the sun burnt yard like a big, pale ghost who longs to be human again. Its body long dead, the soul clings to life through those who laugh and jump and sing and cry inside its walls. In the early morning hours, only the brothers remain: asleep and tucked away where they belong. A ripped screen door is my only barrier to getting inside. The rooms, clear of people, tension, and chaos are hauntingly melancholy, as if something real can finally be seen. The flat, poster faces lining the walls seem like an attempt to display family pictures when, in truth, there is no family.
     Strips of light peak in through two long windows draped with sheets. My old shoes sit side by side where the light meets the floor on the opposite side of the dining room. It would be nice if they sparkled like Dorothy’s red slippers. I could put them on and tap my heels and say, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” My family and friends would stand before me with outstretched arms, welcoming me back from a bad dream caused by an unexpected storm.
     But the shoes are dull. Once black, now they’re smoky gray. Someone put them there as if they knew I’d come back.
     I look around, worried that someone will see me. I yank the shoes from the dusty floor and head for the door. What seems like a thousand faces of Peyton Bound peer at me through the tacky tile mirrors lining the foyer. Jagged gold lines running through the glass separate each reflection into a million tiny pieces.
     No one is there but I don’t feel alone.
     When I step back out into the fresh morning air, I take a deep, hot breath. I savor the warmth knowing that fall and winter will come soon enough, just as they have before and will again. The calendar doesn’t matter after all. I know change will come.
     One of the worn, dusty shoes slips from my hand.  I squat to pick it up. I slide my fingers into the dingy leather and feel its imprinted sole. They held up for so long and seem to match everything. They’re comfortable but they’re junk now. I imagine them lying in the back of my organized closet next to the other discarded things I once valued.
     Finally knowing what I need to do, I stand up, throw my head back, and toss both shoes high into the air. A colossal cloud hangs far above the whirling dark objects; it looks like an angel of mercy. I don’t look back to see where they land.
     I just leave.
  
This parable ends with all of us staring at each other wondering who truly loved and who truly hated. Perhaps we’ll never know; life is like that. All I know for sure is that once upon a time I saw a powerful glimpse of truth that set me on a new path.
     Maybe you can find it in your heart to love me now. 

____________________________________

More than twenty years later, a thousand miles away ...

Only my father remains in Louisiana but my guess is that he’ll be leaving soon. It’s taken him years to realize there’s nothing holding him back. Just last month he called to say that he finally tore open that walled-off closet. He said it was time to get things done, make changes. He removed each item, blew off the dust, and stared at it for as long as it took to decide if it was just junk or something worth treasuring. He wept over the things he’d forgotten. Then he cried over the junk.
      It turned out that everything had meaning.
      My mother married a man who goes to church every single Sunday. She continues to take multiple medications. Her home has a room devoted to painting. Just last summer, she stood for hours painting a picture of me. When I saw it, I cried knowing that although I’m far away, she could clearly see me. She seeks redemption in the long distance grandmothering of my children and every summer they travel to see her.
     But they don’t travel south.
     She left it behind even before I did.
     Although I packed up a moving truck of my own and drove away in 1991, the South refuses to leave me. It calls my name on stormy nights and hot days. I ache to go home, but when my bedroom flashes white or sweat beads on my back, I feel too close and it frightens me.
     Trucks crowd the congested Jersey roads I navigate on my forty-five minute commute to and from work. During those long drives, I watch the weather change, day-by-day, year-after-year. Here I experience seasons that are nearly perfect. Falling leaves blow across my car like colorful swarms of life. Snow covers everything I find ugly with thick, white blankets. I see the cold beauty and the warm beauty. When winter lingers, when March comes and spring doesn’t, I search for that bit of struggling life I once hated. But I’ve learned that Spring comes in the North just as it did in the South, the seasons always change, and that patience is the hardest lesson.
     With every turn of the weather, the past falls farther and farther behind.
     I have seen my life reborn.
     The scar on my back is worse than I ever imagined. It’s easily ignored, hidden behind me, covered by what I choose to drape over it. But sometimes late at night when my husband’s hands glide beneath my long hair, when he touches that unchanging ridge that seems to divide me, the scars he cannot see or touch split open. Their blood washes over me like tears, falling again from that third eye I developed long ago, and I’m reminded that many of my wounds remain. Once in place, the third eye never goes away. Then his arms, strong with real love, hold me closer than I ever thought possible. He whispers that he loves me; he doesn’t care that I’m not perfect. In those moments, I feel God again … holding my hand, saying He loves me, too. God doesn’t care if I still can’t meet Him in His home, in His church. He meets me where He can.
     Some people walk toward adulthood on a carpeted flight of stairs, some climb a ladder. I scaled a mountain with only my bare hands to hold me up. It may not have been as steep or jagged as my neighbor’s but it was mine. It was all I could find to lead me forward and I won’t be ashamed.
     I’ve come to the top of that mountain and I see now that there are demons everywhere. They hide in the scar on my back. They instill in me the horror of knowing how close I came to taking a life and to losing my own. They are memories I can’t erase, but I’m finding a place for them. Like bags of sand in the trunk of my car, they hold me steady when the road grows cold and slippery. They ground me. They remind me that no one saved me and no one will ever have to save me again.
     I will save myself.
     The sirens Matthew Adler spoke of are wailing in my ears. I’m running toward them on a road that stretches endless before me. The traffic has fallen far behind.  
__________________________________________________

BOUNDARIES will be posted on Aberration Nation through October 1st.

To find out what BOUNDARIES is about and start reading at the beginning. go here.

BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.

AN News: BUA "POPS"

Justin BUA is on his way to Aberration Nation! 

In the meantime, he asked me to pass along information on his upcoming LA show. 

BUA, the legendary urban artist, proudly introduces his newest collection of original art, entitled BUA “POPS”, as well as showcasing some of his classic works on Saturday, September 11, 2010, at Hold Up Art, located in the heart of Downtown Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo district. For BUA, POPS represents more than just popular cultural representations and iconography or the style of art made famous by the likes of Warhol and Haring. Known as the artist “for the people, of the people, by the people”, POPS continues BUA’s message as an homage to the artist’s fan base as well as creating pervasive hip hop imagery recognizable across cultures.

BUA is internationally known for his best-selling collection of fine art works and prints—“The DJ” being one of the most popular selling posters of all time. Born in NYC’s untamed Upper West Side and raised between Manhattan and East Flatbush, Brooklyn, BUA was fascinated by the raw, visceral street life of the city. BUA’s distinct style born on the city walls and subway trains — “New Urban Realism”, captures the essence of contemporary culture as expressed through the memories of BUA’s turbulent youth, navigating the streets and underground worlds of the urban jungle and the birth of the hip hop scene. Following in the footsteps of the great masters, BUA represents the lives of both the revered and the marginalized, the heroes and the underdogs of our time.

BUA "POPS" @ HUPA
Date: Saturday, 9/11/10
Time: 7:00-11:00pm
Address: 358 East 2nd Street; LA CA, 90012
Telephone: 213.221.4585
Email: ben@holdupart.com
Website: www.justinbua.com
www.facebook.com/buafans
www.holdupart.com
www.facebook.com/holdupart


Watch for his Aberration Nation interview!  It's coming soon!

Christianity and Creativity: Eugene McBride

"Oh, life is bigger
It's bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes."

R.E.M.

When I was a tall, gawky eight grader with braces at Northwood Jr. - Sr. High School back in 1980, our Student Council President was a guy named Eugene McBride.  To me, Eugene was a "big man on campus."  He always seemed to have all the confidence I lacked.  He strolled around as if he belonged exactly where he was, which I found interesting, being lost as I was. He always had a smile on his face. Thirty plus years later, I ran into Eugene on Facebook.  He's now the pastor of one of the churches I grew up attending.

Due to my Southern fundamentalist upbringing, one of the themes I tend to gravitate toward in both my writing and art is the close mindedness or "black and white" mentality I have encountered in some of those who dub themselves Christian. The basic religion itself has never confused me but, whether intentional or not, many of people who practice it have managed to twist my understanding until it nearly strangled me in my own guilt and self-hatred. I'm not so sure the belief system has failed me, but I know some of the people have. People whom I trusted and loved. I've never once stopped believing in God, but, like many people, I've lost faith in organized religion. 

Eugene has been reading my writing and loves it because he recognizes it's honesty. His support of my work lead to a friendship that has ultimately brought him to Aberration Nation today. Regardless of your beliefs, I think you'll find our exchange of ideas thought provoking. Both Eugene and I would love to read any comments you may have regarding the interview content.

Because the interview is long and quite meaty, I'll not go on and on.  I'll just say that from my perspective as someone who grew up in a fundamentalist environment, I think one major error that has brought harm to what has traditionally been the foremost American religious institution is a failure to recognize and accept the basic blood and guts humanity of its people. I don't believe we were ever meant to be God-like. When we try, we fail. When someone tries to stuff us in the God box, most of us can't stay.  We kick and scream to be let out. We can't breath in that environment because it lacks the appropriate atmosphere. When we jump out, those who sought to stuff us in chastise us for not staying.  They say we've failed and must be forgiven. It's a painful place to be when all we really need is for someone to see who and what we truly are ... and then say, "I love you."

What's your story? Was the journey on a straight or twisted path? Are you surprised by where you are today?

I was born and raised in Shreveport Louisiana, one of four boys in a Christian home. At the age of 15, I felt the call of God in my life in a strong and real way. I went on to marry my high school sweetheart and graduate from LSUS with a degree in Marketing. In 1990 I was working for a fortune 500 company and was relocated to Texas. My wife and I helped to establish a little church there that would eventually grow to 1500. In the course of doing this, I realized how far I had strayed from the calling that God had placed on my life. In 1998, I left the business culture and went into full time ministry.

In 2008 I was asked to come back to my home church in Shreveport and minister. The church has been through a lot of changes in the 20+ years I have been gone. Even though I said I would never move back to Shreveport, we moved here in September 2009 and I now Pastor New Life Center/Life Tabernacle. I look back at the many decisions and turns my life has taken and I am thankful to be home. I know that God has brought me here for a specific purpose.

It seems to me that being a pastor requires a certain level of creativity. You are required to write an interesting and worthwhile message at least once a week. How do you get ideas for what to share with your congregation each week?

I love communication and the written word. It was only natural that I would be in a calling that required public speaking and an immense amount of reading! I love to read a variety of literature and stay up to date on current events. I do like to keep my messages real and simple, so the majority of my inspiration comes from real life. My family, my own struggles and victories, and from the world around me. The least effective thing I can do would be to teach another generation of believers to live life in a fairy tale world of “proclaimed” prosperity and success. The truth is that life on this earth is not easy, but we are only passing through!

Some people believe that Christianity (and religion in general) requires a certain level of creative thinking. Otherwise nobody would believe it. Others call it faith. What is the difference between imagination and faith?

To some, it is a stretch to imagine that all that we see, all that we know to exist, all that is real, could possibly be the creation of one supreme being. It is in that understanding that we can define both faith and imagination. To imagine something is to “see” it as if it were real. In our imagination we can create worlds of our own, God’s of our own, and ultimately morality of our own. Faith is different in that faith is not the substance of things seen, but is actually a belief in the things NOT seen. The Bible tells us that faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. So for me as a Christian, faith is my belief in what I have not seen with my own eyes, but know in my heart to be true.

My faith begins in the Word of God. Many struggle to accept that this one book could possibly be the inspired Word of God. But really it comes down to this, everyone has faith. To say you do not believe in the Bible or in God is to put your faith in your own understanding of what eternity will be. Someday, one of us will be proven wrong. If we get to eternity and all that I had faith in was not true, then I really have lost nothing. But if all that unbelievers placed their faith in is not true, they have lost everything.

The Bible is the most widely read, sold, and referenced book on Earth as well as one of the oldest. Aside from being a religious book, it has all the great elements of literature. Some find it hard to believe that the stories actually happened. And of course, there are differences in interpretation. Is it a good idea to get hung up on how exactly true the stories are? Are the underlying messages more important or are we to believe and accept it all verbatim in order to truly understand the power of God?

To characterize the Bible as anything other than the greatest book ever written would be an injustice to its very nature and inspiration. The Bible is a collection of 66 individual books, written by over 40 different authors over a span of 1600 years. There has been so much research done to disprove the Bible and the claims of Jesus, its central character. Interestingly enough, every major religion in the world acknowledges the life and existence of Jesus. But to answer your questions, I do believe that too many seek to discredit or not believe the authority and power of the Bible because of some difficulty in explaining or accepting one aspect of one story in the Bible. For some, this becomes a stumbling block of faith.

Every denomination and division in the Body of Christ can be attributed to some disagreement or interpretation of some aspect of the Word of God. It is sad but true none the less. For me, I read the Bible daily, accepting its authenticity and accuracy by faith, and find that the moral and life guidelines it encourages bring me security, peace and a reason for being.

When I was a little girl, it was so much easier to believe all the Bible stories and also the underlying messages. It seems to me that there are two groups of people who grew up in the church, particularly in more fundamentalist cultures: 1) those who seem to maintain that childlike believe, faith, imagination (whatever it's called) as they become adults, and (2) those who evolve to another level of thinking that makes it more difficult to believe it all. They take drips and drabs of it with them into adulthood. Is the first group filled with better people/Christians? If so, it almost seems unfair since we're all wired differently ... and God wired us.

I have endeavored to try and answer each question here without quoting a whole lot of scripture and verse, but to be honest… we are encouraged to have a “child like” faith. Having said that I too have seen this great abandonment of faith. As “church” kids grow up, and in their own way of thinking, become more educated and learned, there is a tendency to reject what we cannot explain, or do not fully believe. But to put it simply, it really is not that important if you accept or reject the stories. What is imperative is do you accept or reject that Jesus is the Son of God, sent to this world to be the ultimate payment for the sins and failures of mankind.

This blog is also about the aberrations life throws our way. Have you struggled with aberrations of your own, and if so, how have you overcome them? I know God can heal and bring hope to those suffering but doesn't it also take something within ourselves to stand up and say, "I will not be defeated!"

My life has been an incredible journey marked with great opportunities, worldly success, and also utter despair! I suppose all of us can point to a specific incidence or event that formed us and shaped us into the people that we ultimately become. For me, that moment came when I was about 8 years old. I will make a long story short, but to summarize it, I overheard my mother and father in an argument one night. At the time, my father’s mother was living with us. She was an alcoholic and was dying from cancer. The stress of it all had overwhelmed my mother to the point that she was ready to just leave. My parents thought I was asleep, but in the midst of this argument, I hear my mother tell my father she hates his mother. A few moments later I hear her begin to tell my father of something I had done that day, and how she felt I was just like his mother. Then, I heard her say she hated me too.

I slipped out of the house and ran away. Of course they found me the next morning. Mother tried to explain to me that she did not mean what was said but to an 8 year old boy, it had quite an effect. I became an overachiever. I began to do anything and everything to be loved and accepted. The long term affect is that on the outside I appeared to have it all together and succeeded at everything I did, but on the inside I was a deeply insecure and lonely person. It was only a few years ago that I was truly able to get past this insecurity and come to grips with who God created me to be.

 I do agree that we must decide within ourselves to get up, keep going, and not give up, but I also know that sometimes, despite our best self-help efforts, we need the healing that comes from a relationship with the Lord. Only he can totally erase and replace the hurts that are formed within us by others.


In his book, The World's Religions, Huston Smith wrote, "It is possible to climb life's mountain from any side, but when the top is reached the trails converge." Sometimes it seems closed minded and arrogant to believe that even with the Bible in our hands, we can profess to know and understand the bigger picture. Why would such a phenomenally creative God narrow His plan to only include certain people who agreed to follow certain rules? This confuses me and perhaps others.

It really is simple and I believe that the simplicity is what makes it so hard for some to accept it. There are many who want to believe that “all roads lead to God”, and that ultimately every person will find their way to a meaningful eternity, even if we not agree on who God is, or how to get to this place of eternal peace. Although you used the terms closed minded and arrogant, believe in Jesus Christ is anything but this. My faith is based on 3 simple things. First is the universality of sin, that is all men have sinned and no one is worthy of eternity in heaven based on our own merits or deeds. Second is that because of our sinful nature, some form of punishment is required. According to the bible, the wages of sin is death, or simply put we are eternally separated from God. Finally, I believe that Jesus came to be that punishment for every sin I have committed, and the sins of all mankind. So to summarize this, God has not narrowed his plan to exclude anyone. It is his will that NONE should perish, but that all should have eternal life.

I interviewed a woman on Aberration Nation who felt that being a Christian is one of her aberrations. Have you ever had to deal with people in your life failing to understand your religious passion? If so, can you tell us about it and how you've dealt with it?

To be honest, I am sure there are many who struggle to understand my passion for God, his son Jesus and my faith. There are even many professed “Christians” who think that it is possible to be too passionate for Christ. The truth is that everyone is passionate about something. It may be for Nascar, or the New Orleans Saints, or golf. I have seen people act completely crazy in each of these venues but then question how I can live my life so committed to what I believe. I can sum it up like this. Belief creates attitude. If I believe that the New Orleans Saints are the best team in the NFL, then I my attitude will show that in my fanaticism to support them and defend them. Then, my attitude creates my behavior. My believe creates the attitude, the attitude is demonstrated in my behavior.

The same is true in my faith. I believe that Jesus Christ came to this world as a payment for the sins of mankind, including mine. Because of this belief, I have an attitude that says “It is no longer I, but His spirit within me”! Because of this attitude, my behavior reflects that. I live for Christ, I love my fellow man, I seek everyday to be a reflection of the Christ who now lives within me.

I'm just finishing a novel about a man who goes to his "afterlife," meets God, and finds out that it wasn't quite what he was expecting.  Do you think there are people who miss life because they are so focused on the afterlife? There are those who say life isn't important because it's what they will have in heaven/the afterlife that matters. Well, what if they're wrong? Or what if God intended them to explore and be all who they are as individuals in order to play a critical roll in his plan? How can they do that if they're only focused on what comes next?

There is a saying in church circles that goes like this: “That person is too heavenly minded to be any earthly good.” I believe that eternity is in the heart of every man. Even the unbeliever has eternity somewhere within his heart. If that were not true, there would be no fear of death. God did create us to be individuals, with different abilities, desires and purposes to fulfill in this earth and the life we live on it. I personally seek to use all of the unique gifting God has given me on this earth, but also remembering that my primary purpose here is to be light in a world of darkness, and to share the same hope of Glory that I have received in my relationship with Jesus Christ.

Some people may not like this comment but over the years, I've observed what I call the "Christian personality." For me, this is a person who, overtime, seems to sweep who they are as an individual under a rug and take up a recognizable personality that focuses nearly 100% on Christ. And I do have to say that I observed this more in the Deep South. They put Bible verses on Facebook. They listen to religious music and read religious books. They mention scripture, Christ, etc, in nearly every conversation they have. In the end, I almost feel that they have the same exact smile and twinkle in their eye. They may say that it's the love of God I'm seeing. Honestly, this is who my mother would love for me to be. But I never wanted to be like everyone else. I just couldn't, and I felt that the part of me that couldn't was the part of me that God made, so how would I ever be able to take on the "Christian personality?" What are your thoughts on this phenomenon?

It really does disturb me that some abandon the faith that has so sustained me because of the perceived shallowness of the “Christian Personality”. The truth is that many do put on the Christian persona, without truly living the Christian purpose. I will take exception to your statement that the “Christian Personality” you are lamenting is about “sweeping who they are as an individual under a rug and taking up a recognizable personality that focuses nearly 100% on Christ”. A true believe is one who will be a total reflection of Christ. Having said all of that, I find it quite amusing that the more liberal individuals in our society are relentless in pushing their liberal agenda and beliefs on the rest of us while at the same time utterly refusing to allow the very mention of Christ or Christian morals and principles in any public forum.

I grew up with the understanding that Christianity was about loving your neighbor, accepting others, etc. If this is true, why do we see so many fundamentalist Christians judging other groups of people? This is disturbing to me as I don't believe it follows God's message of love. Who are we to judge others or to take up residence as God's army against something we don't feel comfortable with? This mentality was pervasive during our country's long, tragic history of slavery.

One of the biggest lies that exist in the mainstream thinking today is that because the church speaks against such things as abortion, homosexuality, and other liberal issues that we do not “love our neighbor.”. To love something is to seek to preserve it, protect it, and ultimately save it. It is our belief that living a lifestyle contrary to the Word of God will ultimately lead to eternal damnation. Now I could choose to just ignore it and watch many continue in that lifestyle, or I can choose to love them, serve them and hopefully by the example of the life I live for Christ, bring them into a forgiving and loving relationship with Jesus. I agree that slavery was wrong that our country prevailed upon the God given freedom of our fellow man. But that does not change the fact that the bible specifically speaks against sin and there will come a day when every knee will bow before our creator. Some will bow in honor and praise having chosen to live their lives for Christ on this earth. Others will bow in fear and regret for having not accepted the love and the truth of Jesus that I seek to share with all men.

Growing up, I often heard, "I hate your sin, not you." But in many ways, we are our sin. Sometimes there are deep, complex reasons why we make the choices we do. And some of those choices feel like the only choices at the time, and we learn tremendous lessons from them. They ultimately help mold us into who we are. Hatred of my sin implies a judgment against me and my life. Instead of saying "I hate your sin, not you," I would rather someone say, "I love you." Isn't that a much more positive message? What are your thoughts on this?

I do believe the message is love. John 3:16 says that “God so loved”- even when we have sinned, and failed and rejected him. “That he gave”- God gave us a way out… a way to find the peace we seek and desire. Other religions of the world require you to work to obtain your salvation, or to rise to some level of reward and achievement. “His only Son”- Jesus came as a total and final payment for the wrongs this world has committed. “That whosoever believes”- this is not limited to a select few, or a narrow group… anyone who believes in Jesus as the crucified and resurrected Son of God will be saved. “will not perish but will gain eternal life.”- there are two choices… believe and gain salvation, choose not to believe and perish.

That is the most powerful love letter ever written.

What is your primary motto or mantra in life? Why is this important to you?

If I had to sum my life’s purpose in one statement it would be this:

I have a God to serve, a world to save, a devil to harass, and a message to live. 

Everyday I am reminded that I live to worship and honor God my creator. As I worship him I am a reflection of His Son Jesus to a lost and dying world. Every opportunity I get, I am going to resist the devil and stand in victory over him, and ultimately live my life for a higher cause.

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 28)

Note: To learn more about Penelope Przekop's novel, BOUNDARIES, and to start reading at the beginning, go here!  It all comes down on October 1st.  Don't miss it!

Chapter 12: Peter

Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.

Mark 1:17

           

When we get to Peter's apartment, he unlocks the door with a key he keeps hidden beneath a scorched azalea bush. Like me, for months it’s struggled to survive in the tight boundary between his door and Matt’s. He holds my shaking hand and leads me into his apartment. It’s identical to Matt’s.
     In a surreal moment I wonder if I’m drunk again. I see Matt sitting on Peter’s couch. He bolts for the kitchen. He distances himself but I can still see him through the narrow serving space above the bar. I wonder why it always seems as if he’s running toward me when he’s actually running away.
     Peter squeezes my hand until it hurts. “This is unbelievable,” he says, dragging me farther into the room. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” he asks Matt. “You were supposed to put my car key through the mail slot, not show the fuck up.”
     “I called her mom,” Matt says, shifting in our direction while hugging the back doorknob.
     I sit on the couch. The neutral walls, the hardwood floor, and the out-dated kitchen are too familiar. It’s the same place. I keep ending up in the same place. I can’t stop crying.
     “You think her mom’s gonna help?” Peter asks. He stands beside me, stroking my hair like a man strokes his puppy. “She’s crazy,” I hear him whisper just loud enough for Matt to hear him. But anyway, you’re the one who got her into this crap.”
     “You don’t know anythang about it … about us,” Matt says, his eyes confused. I want to tell him that it’s not his fault. It’s mine.
     I murder the innocent.
     “You drove her nuts, and flunked out on the way.”
     “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up!”
     “You’re so stifled by your dad that you cain’t even have a normal relationship.”
     “Leave him out of this.”
     “At least I have a dad who cares about thangs that matter.”
     I never thought Peter could be so cruel but then realize I shouldn’t pass judgment since I’m the one who just pulled the trigger.
     “I have a good father,” Matt says, but we all know he doesn’t believe it.
     “You have a career advisor who’s dyin’ and you’re too chicken shit to face him. Instead, you had to go to that party because you knew she’d wanna see you.” Peter seems unnaturally calm despite his heavy words. “Jesus Christ, you’ve been havin’ trouble for months and instead of just admittin’ it, you used her to boost your ego.”
     “Shut up,” Matt begs. “Please, just shut up.”
     I wonder why he doesn’t just open the door and leave but then I remember—friends tell the truth.
     The truth shall set you free.
     Peter says, “Welcome to the crowd, Matt. Welcome to the real world. It looks like bein’ smart couldn’t keep you out of it after all.”
     They both stare at me, waiting for my reaction, but I can’t speak. I know I don’t want to be one of the crowd—and I know Matt feels the same. It’s a terrible place to be. To want to be different, yet long to be the same.
     The doorbell cuts through our silence.
     Within moments my mother hurries in without an invitation, primed to save me all by herself. She looks different. Her bathrobe clings to her thin body like a shroud. Her hollow face, free of makeup, looks like someone else’s.
     A siren wails through the neighborhood.
     “They’re comin’ to get me,” I cry, pulling my legs close to my chest. “Don’t let them get me.”
     “Peyton, honey, look at me.” My mother’s soft fingers run over my cheek. It’s a painful touch, one I felt on warm cuddly nights being her best friend, hearing her grown up secrets, trying to tell her what to do when I couldn’t even make two plus two equal four. “Nobody’s gonna to take you away. You’re gonna be just fine.”
     “That’s what everybody keeps sayin’ … but I wanted to kill him,” I say, looking at Matt. “I’m a murderer. I’ve always been a murderer.” I pull up my skirt to scratch my bare legs. “I have no respect for life.”
     Peter sits beside me. “You probably just needed to get some repressed anger out of your system.”
     “Anne’s dead,” I sob. “My friend’s dead and I feel like I killed her. I cain’t stop thinkin’ about her no matter how hard I try.”
     “Peyton, how can you say such a thang?” my mother asks.
     “I just feel … so angry.”
     “It’s a natural reaction,” Peter says, as if reading from a psychology textbook. “It’s one of the first steps in the grievin’ process.”
     “She had hobbies and collections and posters of cats all over her bedroom walls. She didn’t leave one single spot uncovered. She knew what she wanted, and she died and then I realized that I haven't even lived. Not like her. I’ve never lived, Mom. I’ve never really lived my own life.”
     “I don’t understand,” my mother says, sitting down on the other side of me. “Of course you’ve lived.”
     My mother and Peter press against me as I stare up at Matt. His knuckles stretch white and flat across the doorknob. “No, I’ve always lived your life. You told me it wasn’t my life. You always said, ‘This is not your life. It’s my life. When you grow up it’ll be your life.’ And you told me … I’m a murderer.”
     She rubs her head and then her tears. “You’re angry at me. I just knew it. I knew this was all about me.” Her face looks old. “But all that stuff you’re angry about is over. It’s all in the past.”
     It will always be about her.
     “I’m just sad,” I say. “I feel so sad—like somebody actually died tonight.”
     “The sad, mournin’ stage usually comes after the anger,” says Peter, sincerely trying to help.
     Matt’s nervous eyes roll.
     My mother says, “Don't you worry about that right now. You listen to me.” She takes my chin in her hand. “Maybe Anne’s childhood was better than yours and maybe that’s my fault. But believe me, there are truckloads of people out there who had it worse than you. When you get older, you’ll see that I did the best I could.”
     Her touch makes me sick and I jerk my head away. “But sometimes your best was shitty.” I expect her to react but she just stares at me.
     She finally says, “It’s taken me years to forgive my parents for all their mistakes. Now I know they never meant to hurt me. Over the years I’ve tried to figure out why they acted the way they did.” She wipes my tears. “Peyton, parents don’t make mistakes on purpose.”
     Matt’s words run through my head. Everybody and his brother has an excuse.
     “But some parents seem to screw up everything ,” Matt says. My mother, Peter and I look up, surprised that he spoke. “Don’t you think people ought to pay or accept the consequences for their mistakes?” he asks. “You think parents are immune to that?”
     Peter says, “Matt’s dad is dyin’,” as if it explains a lot.
     “We don’t know that,” Matt snaps.
     “You’re right,” my mother says to Matt. “Parents are responsible to deal with their own problems.” She waves her hand through the air and I wonder why she never understood that I'm separate from her, that her problems should never have been mine. “The sad fact is: we pass all that baggage on to our children along with all the good thangs we try to give.”
     As she speaks, Matt silently forms the words, truck bodies. I read his lips knowing the others can’t possibly understand. The beautiful and horrible thing that connects us, that feeling I can’t explain or find a word for, passes between us and I know he’ll never forget me.
     “But I don’t want that!” I yell. “I don’t want your baggage. I don’t wanna spend my life tryin’ to figure you out, or Daddy, or anybody else. I just wanna be happy and normal. I need to have my own life.”
     She ignores me as usual, and says, “We do pay for our mistakes. We start payin’ the first time we see our children makin’ the same mistakes we did. We pay when we see you hurtin’.” She looks toward Matt as if to offer an excuse. Then her face changes and she looks happy, as if she just figured out something that will save us all. “Peyton just doesn’t know how to be happy because I didn’t know the first thang about it either.”
     “I can’t care about your life anymore,” I say, shaking my head. “You cain’t make me care; it’s just too hard. I’m so sorry for you but I can’t care anymore.”
     “But that legacy is part of who you are, just like what their parents gave them is part of who they are,” she says, motioning to Peter and Matt. “You have to accept it but you don’t have to let it ruin your life.” She points at Matt. “He’s not the real fisherman.” She has the voice of an expert and likes it; I can tell by the satisfied look on her face.  She's happier about saying something profound than about actually helping me.
     Peter and Matt look at each other, puzzled, as I realize her legacy has already ruined my life. I’m sure she’s going to start talking about Jesus, the fisher of men, but instead she says something altogether different. “Your life so far, my life, our past—they’re all just a big pack of fishermen standin’ on the side of your life. Like I told you before, you have to swim away.” She spreads her arms out as if to hug me. “Swim out into that ocean. You cain’t be afraid. It’s the only way you can be in a new place with no fishing lines, no chains, nothin’ holdin’ you back. You always talk about that ocean like it’s somethin’ bad but I don’t think it is. I think we’re all just tryin’ to survive in it. It’s where we live and nothin’s ever gonna change that.”
     She’s speaking my language. The one she taught me but then refused to hear. Since the day I was born, she’s been fishing at the dark side of my life, pulling me out and throwing me back in again and again with a thick, heavy hope hooked to my heart. I walk to the door feeling like her words are a trick that she doesn’t understand herself. I open it for her to leave. “I cain’t help it,” I say. “It’s too late for all that. I have to get out of your ocean.”
     “But it’s not too late,” she says. “I know I look like a monster right now, like some kind of sea creature tryin’ to drag you down, but I’m just a mother. Besides you need different things from me now.” I try to close the door, but she holds it open with a strength I didn’t know she had. “And you’ll still need a mother when you’re thirty and forty and fifty. I swear to God, Peyton. I’ll always be your mother.”
     “I cain’t just say I forgive you and start all over,” I say through the crack in the door. “It’s not that simple.” My voice falls to a whisper. “I wanted to kill somebody tonight. Do you realize how that feels—to feel so much hatred in so short a moment that you actually want to end a life?”
     “But you don’t really hate Matt,” says Peter behind me.
     I spin around to face him and snap, “I do and I don’t.”
     My mother’s desperate voice rises behind me. “Peyton, please don’t hate me. Please don’t blame me for all of this.”
     “I don’t want to,” I say, turning back to her for the last time. “If I blame you, I’ll hate you. And I’m never gonna let myself feel like that again.”
     I watch her face grow small and disappear as the door finally closes.
     “How can I hate her when I love her?” I ask Matt, searching for an answer that will evade me for years.
     A tear, the kind that men cry, rolls down his cheek. As he quickly wipes it away and leaves through the back door, I think of all the tears we've lost and found.
     Peter stares into space. “My parents were always pretty calm.” He smiles, desperately trying to make things better.

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Read the end of the novel on Thursday!

To find out what BOUNDARIES is about and start reading at the beginning. go here.

BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 27)

Note: To learn more about Penelope Przekop's novel, BOUNDARIES, and to start reading at the beginning, go here!

Chapter 11: Bartholomew (continued)

God, why cain’t you make me love Peter this way? Why does it have to be Matt? Shouldn’t I be allowed to choose?
     I pull away from Peter, thinking that if I can look into his eyes—if I can just feel okay about it—I may be able to kiss him, and feel something more. But as I create some distance between us someone bumps into me. As I’m pushed away, I look into Peter’s eyes for a moment—long enough to know that I don’t want to kiss him. So instead, I let myself drift in the direction I’ve been shoved.
     The crowd throbs to the beat of a pain above my left eye. Without Matt’s body to block it, the kitchen light blinds me. Turning from it, I wade through the house, squinting, head swimming, searching for him. I know Matt wants me; he loves me. Loving and wanting go together like Siamese twins, twin cities, and twin peaks—impossible to separate once established.
     When I’ve come full circle to the kitchen door again, I stumble through it, and head up the narrow back stairway of the old house. The unnaturally steep stairs have no handrail so I slide my arms across the walls to steady myself. When I reach the top, I take a step that isn’t there—like a climbing dream that strikes before you realize you’re sleeping. Matt’s laughter echoes through the second story hallway, a homing device, a mating call. A siren.
     He’s in the room just ahead to my left.
     Before going in, I stand at the doorway for several minutes. A damp, musty smell fills my head. The large room has two sets of bunk beds; each holds a clinging couple. Two of the couples make out at a speed adults recognize as private, but that's commonly seen at high school dances and college frat parties. Matt and a frat brother named Bart are sprawled across a long window seat. Bart’s girlfriend pokes each of them in the ribs as fast as she can. They laugh, yelling at her to cut it out. She’s a slight girl, light enough to walk on water.
     It strikes me as odd that Matt’s even in the room. He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s the odd man out. I wonder if he’s hiding from me, but then decide that if his purpose is to hide, he wouldn’t be laughing so loud. Furthermore, he wouldn’t have told me about the party in the first place. After all, only a week ago he waited outside my jungle. He knew I was coming then, and he knew tonight.
     After taking a deep breath, I breeze into the room as if I have every right to be there—as if I’m the missing link for the odd man. The closer I come to him, the louder Matt laughs. It isn’t real. The uncomfortable sound continues to pour from his mouth until I stand directly in front of him. I smile, fighting back tears. “What are you doin’ up here?” I ask in my cheeriest voice.
     Bart pokes me in the ribs and says, “Just goofin’ around.”
     Laughing, I poke him back.
     “Hey, don’t poke my boyfriend,” his girlfriend says. “Poke Matt.”
     “Yeah, he needs a poke!” Bart says, giving Matt a hard jab in the side. Matt yelps. But the yelp quickly turns to more laughter as he stares at me through the darkness.
     I try to read his mind, but my desire to touch him clouds my judgment. My guts smash into the front side of my body, the side that faces him, trying to get closer. He has the look of smashed guts, too. But his laughter scares me. His mixed up face is not that of a person laughing. My drunken eyes dart around the room. The bunk beds are like surreal sailboats floating in the distance. The beautiful couples cling to each other as if afraid they’ll fall into the sea rising above me.
     Bart and his girlfriend begin to kiss. Their tongues dart around their mouths until I can no longer tell them apart. Remembering that it’s not polite to stare, I look away.
     The only place for me to look is at Matt. His incessant laughter teases me until there’s nothing I can do, no choice I can make except to lean into the window seat and poke, tickle, prod, jab, nudge, and jolt. All I can feel are my fingers and hands touching him, exploring in the process, loving him in some desperate, pathetic sense, familiar to us both.
     He jumps from the seat, shaken, as if he feels my radiating pain and can’t bear it. He shoves me toward the deep, center of the room and yells louder than the blaring music, louder than any laughter, any siren.  “Get your fuckin’ hands off my dick!”
     The beautiful boys and girls floating dreamily across the green carpeted sea in safe, fluffy sailboats bolt up. Their arms fall from one another as their mouths drop open. Their eyes grow large as they watch Lolita’s juice drain from my head.
     In the oddest moment of my life, I wait as it swirls toward the tiny opening at the top of my neck. It dribbles into my body. As if following a recipe, I can’t go on until the last drop splashes out.
     Somebody snickers.
     Matt’s words echo in my mind. Get your fuckin’ hands off my dick! Get your hands off my dick! Then I hear other voices. They twist through my head, making their way toward the funnel's opening, searching for an escape.  
     Don’t sleep with them.
     You’re a murderer! Do you realize that? 
     GO AWAY! 
     That’s what you get for spreading your legs at the drop of a hat! 
     We’re goin’ to Grandma’s for good this time. 
     You’re not the kind of girl I wanna get involved with. 
     Don’t be selfish. 
     Selfish. 
     Selfish. 
     I heard you were a psycho! 
     It’s my duty to help save these people … these people … these people. 
     Please, just put my baby back. 
     I have seen the face of God!
     If I fuck you, will you leave?
     A familiar band of demons surrounds me as the voices dissipate. The creatures cling to my right arm, slowly pulling it behind me. Just when I think it may snap, my arm shoots forward. The last echoing voice draining through my body settles into my fist as it makes contact with the side of Matt’s head.
     I hear myself scream.
     My arms and legs fly wildly through the tight space between us, hitting, clawing, punching, and grabbing at the boy I want to crawl into. The stitches in my back separate, wetting my shirt with blood. Voices rise around me like those of the drowning students in my psychedelic dream. For several glorious moments, I lose all sense of good and evil, right and wrong.
     Finally, what seems like a thousand hands grab my arms and legs. Fingers dig into my throbbing, lonely skin. I don’t resist as they carry me from the room like pallbearers. They dump me at the deserted end of the hallway and then hurry back to comfort Matt, their wounded brother. Closed doors stretch high above me on all sides. Dirt sits next to my face.
    As the last guy disappears into the bedroom, I struggle to my feet. I yank open each closed door surrounding me until I find the right one. I stick my head in the toilet and vomit. As my head hangs over the fraternity’s filth, I remember what my father said the day he cried. “You’ll make it, Peyton. You’re strong.”
    I will ... never ... give ... up.
    Rhythmic thunder created by hoards of jumping students, upstairs and downstairs, fills the house like tribal war drums. The pseudo home shudders as I tear through the bathroom cabinets, searching for something, anything that will serve my purpose. Dissatisfied with what I find, I move to the hall closet. There, buried deep inside the clutter, I find some redneck frat brother’s hunting rifle or BB gun; I don't know what it is but I know I'm going to use it. I don’t know if it’s loaded or not; I don’t stop to think.
     I go back to the bedroom and only hesitate long enough to spot my prey. Now, dancing students pack the dark space like refugees hanging over the side of a ship too small to hold them while I stand in the doorway, in an ocean, flailing for help. Suddenly the music and the dancing stop, and for a second I see fear in the eyes of a pale, redheaded girl. She looks like Anne.
    My heart shatters.
    I lift the gun to my shoulder and fire.
    Then I stop breathing because the terror of feeling such hatred takes your breath away.
    The blast is loud but as I fall back dizzy against the wall, I hear Peter’s voice. “Jesus Christ!” he says. Light floods the room and a communal drunken roar of laughter, fear, and disbelief rings out as the students realize it’s me.
     I cry as Peter pushes me down the narrow back stairway, and out the kitchen door. Madonna’s voice permeates the thick southern air as he shoves me into the passenger seat of my car. “You sit here and don’t move,” he yells, his normally cheerful face distorted. It fills my view. “Do you hear me, Peyton? You just sit here and pray to God you didn’t hurt anybody.” He slams the door. “You better hope he’s listenin’ because you’re in a shit load.”
     I sit in a trance; my eyes unable to blink. I rock back and forth until sweat from my forehead shines across the dashboard. I hear myself repeating three pain-filled words, “Please save me,” until he finally returns. I sound so far away from myself.
     “I hope you’ve been sayin’ your prayers,” he says, jamming the keys into the ignition. I continue to chant as we drive away. “God damn it, Peyton.” He shakes his head. We’re both shaking our heads. “I don’t know what happened,” he says. “I couldn’t get back into the room. It was crazy.”
     I’d never heard Peter curse. ”Please save me,” I cry. “Just save me.” Tears stream down my face, and blood, like tears from a third eye formed because the two I have aren’t enough, seeps out of the stitched up cut on my back, matting my clothes.
     “Peyton, it’s gonna be okay. They’re all wasted. Nobody seems to understand what happened.” His head darts back and forth between the windshield and me. “Bart just told me to get you out ... like it was nothin’.”
     “God, please help me.”
     “Peyton?” He grabs my leg with his free hand. “Peyton!”
     Then I try to tell him how I feel but the words spew out like foreign language. The garbled nonsense goes on and on. His grip tightens and I know he can’t understand. Salty sweat and tears fill my mouth. My body begins to shake and I can’t make it stop. He finally silences me with a soft slap across the face. The car swerves, nearly hitting a truck, and somehow through the darkness I see the terrified face of the driver, shocked and innocent.
     I hold my cheek in my hand. I can feel my eyes grow larger than they’ve ever stretched. A pain shoots through my head. “I wanted to kill him,” I say.
     “You were drunk. People act stupid—they make mistakes when they’re drunk. You know that.”
     “But I’m not drunk anymore.” In my instant sobriety, I realize that the details of my actions are already slipping away. They are clearing back like doctors preparing to shock a person back to life. The body jolts. The heart restarts. The person lives.
     “I wanted to kill him.”
     “Okay. Just forget about it now.” He reaches again for my leg and begins patting it, lightly at first, but then harder and harder until it seems as if he’s trying to shove something back into me. It starts to hurt but I don’t care.
     “You’re the one who told me to think about thangs for as long as it takes.”
     “Yah, well, I don’t know. Maybe there are some thangs that you just have to force yourself to forget and thank God they didn’t ruin your life.”
     “I cain’t forget this. I’ll never stop thinkin’ about this.”
     And I never have.
     My heart squeezes in on itself and I’m not sure if it’s stopping for good or starting back up again. “Where are you takin’ me?”
     “To my place. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
     “It doesn’t matter.”
     “Sure it does,” He says, smiling. He pats my leg again. “I’ll take good care of you.”
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Read Chapter 12 next week.

To find out what BOUNDARIES is about and start reading at the beginning. go here.

BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.