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yesnickkern-blog · 7 years ago

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“I cannot tell you how deeply, truly, sorry I am” said the man dressed in black, “but I guess we know he’s in a better place now.” He looked into my eyes as though I was to have some clarity with his statement — as though I hadn’t been told the exact same thing three-hundred times that day. He turned away from me, touched the casket gently, and then walked on down the line of family members to shake another one’s hand. Another person came along and gave me their condolences for my dead relative, though this one through far more tears. “It…it’s so shocking…I can’t even explain how sad it is for him to be gone,” said the old lady. “It’s been quite hard, yes,” I replied with as empathetic of a face and tone I could muster to a complete stranger. “How did you know my grandfather?” “I was his mail lady five years back. Oh! How he loved getting letters from you!” she replied, dabbing a cloth on her eyes and then wiping it on her forehead. I was taken back a little by the relation she had to him. She was crying as though he had spent every day with her, bought her a house, and rescued her cat; not that they ran into each other occasionally due to vocation and the package system. I also never sent him letters. “Well,” she said through a crying stutter, “we know he’s in a better place now.” She smiled at me as though I was to have some clarity with this statement — as though I hadn’t been told the exact same thing three-hundred and one times. She moved on and started sobbing to my family members. Death is an unusual thing despite its rather common occurrence in humanity. I imagine loosing a loved one is somewhat like loosing a thumb. You remember what it felt like to have a thumb, and you remember all the good times you enjoyed whilst having a thumb, but the moment you reach for your coffee cup, the nubby side of your hand reminds you life won’t be the same. I do not mean to offend any of the thumbless reading this, only to say that a part of reality one once had is gone. But when one looses a thumb one does not remark “at least I know it’s in a better place.” I’d imagine one would remark something along the lines on “Ouch! My thumb! How am I supposed to open jars?” before passing out. A grandfather is not a thumb, but one should comfort the grandfather-less the same as the thumbless, not convince them that their thumb is off getting a manicure waiting for the other four digits to join it. There’s a fifty percent chance, I thought, that there is a better place for my grandfather to be in. And there’s a fifty percent chance that if there’s a good place, he could have ended up in a not so good place. But there’s a one-hundred percent chance telling that to me at that moment was the wrong thing to say entirely. As far as I was concerned, reality was becoming less and less real. Dealing with grief is hard enough without strangers piling existential questions onto the matter. With that thought I turned to my mom. “I’m going to catch a breath of air outside for a moment.” I said. “Alright. There’s a funnel cake cart down the way a bit if you want some.” She gave me a smile and her puffy, red eyes crinkled. I pushed my way through the mass of black-cladded people and down the sanctuary hall. When I opened the door to the cathedral, cool sea air rushed past me to fill the stuffy room. The view was opposite to the one behind me: open and endless. The Cathedral sat behind a boardwalk with vendors and some restaurants. Behind the cathedral were the rising buildings of the City. The smaller size and slate facade of the church made it stand out from the tan and brown art deco buildings. But it also stood out from the cerulean sea that lapped the side of the boardwalk. It existed sad and alone. I walked down the boardwalk, inspecting the shops and vendors. The smell of the salty sea danced with that of sweet fried dough. I passed a trinket shop full of little statues that looked like Chthulu or some other kneeling octopus character. Why one would fill an entire shop with such things was beyond me. It must have been an accidental online order. No reasonable person thinks to themselves “I rather think this City would benefit from a shop of tiny carved creatures.” But who am I to judge? A reasonable person, I thought to myself. But then again I did just appear from a slate-clad building full of people in black surrounding a dead body. Who’s to say that’s reasonable? The next vendor I passed was a newspaper stand with a striped red and cream awning. I read a few of the headlines in bold print which were basically yelling at passerby’s to get their attention. “MORGENSTERN ADDRESSES PRESIDENTIAL RUN,” screamed the paper in deafening print. I usually was not one for politics, but this news peaked my interest. Lance Morgenstern had been my role model since I was four. No, make that five. Whenever it was, he had just come up with a planned fusion device. Of course it didn’t work in the end, but the idea added to his name. My friends would all be focused on fiction and fantasy, while I would entranced by Morgenstern’s interviews. He was a terrible public speaker. Absolutely the worst public speaker who has gotten that much attention. But I liked that. His nervousness and occasional off track comments made him human to me. His slight western European accent given to him by his mother made one stay entranced by what he was saying: as if his words were magic. And so when I discovered the buzz about his potential presidential campaign, I was both intrigued and repulsed. Of course the idea of having a competent man, with theories on global warming and extraterrestrial life, would be lovely as president, but if he were truly pursuing presidency he would be less human to me. Politicians are beasts on earth. I wanted my idol to be authentic. In a way, it made me feel more authentic. I went up to the newspaper stand — with some embarrassment I might add, having lost the battle against against an attention catching headline — and bought the newspaper with money I was going to spend on funnel cake. I shuffled through the paper like a young person, not knowing how to properly unfold one, until I had all the news on the presidency. My eyes rushed over the globs of black text until I found what I was looking for: “Morgenstern has refused to campaign for presidency regardless of public pressure in order to continue to pursue extraterrestrial research and maintain his scientific research positions at the UN.” I breathed a sigh of relief strong enough to ruffle the hair on the newspaper stand salesperson. That was good news. Best news of the day, really. I then became sad remembering my grandfather’s respect for Morgenstern. How he had ignited my interest in the scientist. At least on this day, his funeral, Morgenstern’s news would have been appreciated by him. I guess it’s what you call synchronicity. I dumped the paper down on the ledge of the vendor’s booth. By the look on the salesman’s face most people read more than one article before throwing a paper away. But I didn’t want to read about global warming. I didn’t want to read about the famine. I didn’t want to read about the middle east. One stressful headline was enough for that day. Maybe my grandfather was in a better place. At least I was sure wherever he was didn’t have tabloids. I turned and noticed a figure sitting on a bench not fifteen feet down from me. He was antiquarian, for lack of a better word. He wore a dusty, old trench coat — the type I had seen in movies from the 1940s — and wrote in a peculiar journal as he gazed into the sky. His skin was leathery like that of a sailor and his hair was hoar., I stared at him for a while: an unnatural amount of time, in fact. I looked away for a second, not wanting to draw attention, but quickly looked back as if I didn’t have a choice. He was odd to say the least. But not in a bad way. More like one would become if they lived an incredibly lonely life. Well, I decided I couldn’t continue to stare, and as I was all out of money for funnel cake and had nothing pressing to do, I walked over to the bench and sat on the opposite side. I didn’t want to be awkwardly sitting by him on the rather small bench, so one of my legs was off the side to make room: as though I was just sitting for a moment. We sat in silence for a while however. “He’s not running, is he?” said the man to me. I looked around to make sure he was talking to me. “Who?” “Morgenstern. He isn’t running for office, is he?” he said in a wheezy but resonant voice. “No. Luckily.” “You wouldn’t have wanted him to run? He would surely win.” The man was surprised but not offended. “I respect him. I couldn’t do that if he were a politician” “Ah.” the man said. And we sat in silence some more. “Would you be for his running.” I enquired. He sat quiet for a moment, but his mind was obviously turning around thoughts. “I don’t respect him either way.” he finally said. “Ah.” I mumbled. Again we sat in silence. “Have you ever had the feeling” he started, “that reality is less real than it should be?” I was surprised at this statement. I had, but I chalked that up to the passing of my grandfather. “I’ve just had a death in my family, so I can’t say grief has let me believe anything much recently.” “Death will do that.” He replied, there was sympathy in his voice although not in his words. “Something not unlike death is happening. I think we all feel it.” I immediately regretted sitting down. I knew from a distance he was mentally ill. I let my own curiosity get the best of me. “I have a family I have to get back to.” I said, forcing a soft tone in order not to appear disturbed. He grunted a bit. “Be safe,” he said. “I’ll try my best.” I quipped walking away from him hurriedly. He was right, of course. Something like death was happening.

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yesnickkern-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Night Sea

Chapter 1

“I cannot tell you how deeply, truly, sorry I am” said the man dressed in black,

“but I guess we know he’s in a better place now.” He looked into my eyes as though I was to have some clarity with his statement — as though I hadn’t been told the exact same thing three-hundred times that day. He turned away from me, touched the casket gently, and then walked on down the line of family members to shake another one’s hand. Another person came along and gave me their condolences for my dead relative, though this one through far more tears.

“It…it’s so shocking…I can’t even explain how sad it is for him to be gone,” said the old lady.

“It’s been quite hard, yes,” I replied with as empathetic of a face and tone I could muster to a complete stranger. “How did you know my grandfather?”

“I was his mail lady five years back. Oh! How he loved getting letters from you!” she replied, dabbing a cloth on her eyes and then wiping it on her forehead. I was taken back a little by the relation she had to him. She was crying as though he had spent every day with her, bought her a house, and rescued her cat; not that they ran into each other occasionally due to vocation and the package system. I also never sent him letters.

“Well,” she said through a crying stutter, “we know he’s in a better place now.” She smiled at me as though I was to have some clarity with this statement — as though I hadn’t been told the exact same thing three-hundred and one times. She moved on and started sobbing to my family members. Death is an unusual thing despite its rather common occurrence in humanity. I imagine loosing a loved one is somewhat like loosing a thumb. You remember what it felt like to have a thumb, and you remember all the good times you enjoyed whilst having a thumb, but the moment you reach for your coffee cup, the nubby side of your hand reminds you life won’t be the same. I do not mean to offend any of the thumbless reading this, only to say that a part of reality one once had is gone. But when one looses a thumb one does not remark “at least I know it’s in a better place.” I’d imagine one would remark something along the lines on “Ouch! My thumb! How am I supposed to open jars?” before passing out. A grandfather is not a thumb, but one should comfort the grandfather-less the same as the thumbless, not convince them that their thumb is off getting a manicure waiting for the other four digits to join it. There’s a fifty percent chance, I thought, that there is a better place for my grandfather to be in. And there’s a fifty percent chance that if there’s a good place, he could have ended up in a not so good place. But there’s a one-hundred percent chance telling that to me at that moment was the wrong thing to say entirely. As far as I was concerned, reality was becoming less and less real. Dealing with grief is hard enough without strangers piling existential questions onto the matter. With that thought I turned to my mom.

“I’m going to catch a breath of air outside for a moment.” I said.

“Alright. There’s a funnel cake cart down the way a bit if you want some.” She gave me a smile and her puffy, red eyes crinkled. I pushed my way through the mass of black-cladded people and down the sanctuary hall. When I opened the door to the cathedral, cool sea air rushed past me to fill the stuffy room. The view was opposite to the one behind me: open and endless. The Cathedral sat behind a boardwalk with vendors and some restaurants. Behind the cathedral were the rising buildings of the City. The smaller size and slate facade of the church made it stand out from the tan and brown art deco buildings. But it also stood out from the cerulean sea that lapped the side of the boardwalk. It existed sad and alone.

I walked down the boardwalk, inspecting the shops and vendors. The smell of the salty sea danced with that of sweet fried dough. I passed a trinket shop full of little statues that looked like Chthulu or some other kneeling octopus character. Why one would fill an entire shop with such things was beyond me. It must have been an accidental online order. No reasonable person thinks to themselves “I rather think this City would benefit from a shop of tiny carved creatures.” But who am I to judge? A reasonable person, I thought to myself. But then again I did just appear from a slate-clad building full of people in black surrounding a dead body. Who’s to say that’s reasonable? The next vendor I passed was a newspaper stand with a striped red and cream awning. I read a few of the headlines in bold print which were basically yelling at passerby’s to get their attention. “MORGENSTERN ADDRESSES PRESIDENTIAL RUN,” screamed the paper in deafening print. I usually was not one for politics, but this news peaked my interest. Lance Morgenstern had been my role model since I was four. No, make that five. Whenever it was, he had just come up with a planned fusion device. Of course it didn’t work in the end, but the idea added to his name. My friends would all be focused on fiction and fantasy, while I would entranced by Morgenstern’s interviews. He was a terrible public speaker. Absolutely the worst public speaker who has gotten that much attention. But I liked that. His nervousness and occasional off track comments made him human to me. His slight western European accent given to him by his mother made one stay entranced by what he was saying: as if his words were magic. And so when I discovered the buzz about his potential presidential campaign, I was both intrigued and repulsed. Of course the idea of having a competent man, with theories on global warming and extraterrestrial life, would be lovely as president, but if he were truly pursuing presidency he would be less human to me. Politicians are beasts on earth. I wanted my idol to be authentic. In a way, it made me feel more authentic. I went up to the newspaper stand — with some embarrassment I might add, having lost the battle against against an attention catching headline — and bought the newspaper with money I was going to spend on funnel cake. I shuffled through the paper like a young person, not knowing how to properly unfold one, until I had all the news on the presidency. My eyes rushed over the globs of black text until I found what I was looking for:

“Morgenstern has refused to campaign for presidency regardless of public pressure in order to continue to pursue extraterrestrial research and maintain his scientific research positions at the UN.”

I breathed a sigh of relief strong enough to ruffle the hair on the newspaper stand salesperson. That was good news. Best news of the day, really. I then became sad remembering my grandfather’s respect for Morgenstern. How he had ignited my interest in the scientist. At least on this day, his funeral, Morgenstern’s news would have been appreciated by him. I guess it’s what you call synchronicity. I dumped the paper down on the ledge of the vendor’s booth. By the look on the salesman’s face most people read more than one article before throwing a paper away. But I didn’t want to read about global warming. I didn’t want to read about the famine. I didn’t want to read about the middle east. One stressful headline was enough for that day. Maybe my grandfather was in a better place. At least I was sure wherever he was didn’t have tabloids.

I turned and noticed a figure sitting on a bench not fifteen feet down from me. He was antiquarian, for lack of a better word. He wore a dusty, old trench coat — the type I had seen in movies from the 1940s — and wrote in a peculiar journal as he gazed into the sky. His skin was leathery like that of a sailor and his hair was hoar., I stared at him for a while: an unnatural amount of time, in fact.

I looked away for a second, not wanting to draw attention, but quickly looked back as if I didn’t have a choice. He was odd to say the least. But not in a bad way. More like one would become if they lived an incredibly lonely life. Well, I decided I couldn’t continue to stare, and as I was all out of money for funnel cake and had nothing pressing to do, I walked over to the bench and sat on the opposite side. I didn’t want to be awkwardly sitting by him on the rather small bench, so one of my legs was off the side to make room: as though I was just sitting for a moment. We sat in silence for a while however.

“He’s not running, is he?” said the man to me. I looked around to make sure he was talking to me.

“Who?”

“Morgenstern. He isn’t running for office, is he?” he said in a wheezy but resonant voice.

“No. Luckily.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted him to run? He would surely win.” The man was surprised but not offended.

“I respect him. I couldn’t do that if he were a politician”

“Ah.” the man said. And we sat in silence some more.

“Would you be for his running.” I enquired. He sat quiet for a moment, but his mind was obviously turning around thoughts.

“I don’t respect him either way.” he finally said.

“Ah.” I mumbled. Again we sat in silence.

“Have you ever had the feeling” he started, “that reality is less real than it should be?” I was surprised at this statement. I had, but I chalked that up to the passing of my grandfather.

“I’ve just had a death in my family, so I can’t say grief has let me believe anything much recently.”

“Death will do that.” He replied, there was sympathy in his voice although not in his words. “Something not unlike death is happening. I think we all feel it.” I immediately regretted sitting down. I knew from a distance he was mentally ill. I let my own curiosity get the best of me.

“I have a family I have to get back to.” I said, forcing a soft tone in order not to appear disturbed. He grunted a bit.

“Be safe,” he said.

“I’ll try my best.” I quipped walking away from him hurriedly. He was right, of course. Something like death was happening.

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