Things That Last: Stories from My Life Carlos Lewis
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Author s Note The stories portrayed in this book are based on actual events from my life; some more true to the events than others. I felt a burning desire to tell some extremely personal accounts, probably because of my passion for intimacy. In addition to the narratives, I have also included a series of photographs. Mostly, I wish that something useful can be taken away from my stories, even if it is just a good waste of time. ii
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Things That Last: Stories from My Life Carlos Lewis
Stories 5 A Ritual for the Curls 21 Wavering Faith 39 Where the Forlorn Go 69 A Father I Learned to Love 101 Lost Boys Don t Need a Compass 2
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A Ritual for the Curls
I ve been feeling this building sense of removal since I looked into the mirror more than two weeks ago. Admittedly though I ve wanted to cut my hair, I knew I wasn t going to even attempt until way past my personal deadline; I have a horrible track record with meeting my own fickle due dates. I need a haircut. The sun is just barely turning the sky a bright baby blue, and incandescent light is the only source that illuminates my bathroom. My phone is blasting some music. I m preparing for my ritual: the case with my clippers, and the handheld mirror is on the bathroom countertop. The ritual is ready to commence. I pick up the handheld before opening my kit. I gaze into my own eyes, staring mindfully, thinking about the past and the future; I m burning my current image into my head, so that I can compare the drastic change later when my hair is gone. Five intense minutes of staring pass, and I realize that I haven t even undressed. I take off my clothes, and throw them back into my bedroom across the hall. Now I m alone in the bathroom, in my underwear, forced to look in the mirror at my own body. I can t help but notice how I no longer have muscles. In fact, my definition is drastically less than it was four years ago. Even more frustrating, I m getting blemishes on my chest just under my right clavicle. I ve stalled for long enough. I take out my clippers, and turn them on. I watch the blades vibrate and blur, shifting rapidly from side to side. I m thinking about how short I want to cut my hair: too short and I ll look like a kiwi, but if it s not short enough, then I ll have to work extra hard just for upkeep. It doesn t even matter. I raise the clippers to my widow s peak, pressing them against my forehead while the blades massage away a bit of self-consciousness. I cut off the first patch, the second patch soon follows, and then the third. Before long, I stand in front of the mirror, straight on, and my hair appears fully cut. Breathing in slightly, the remaining hair in the back of my head becomes the visible object of desire and disgust. I raise my handheld mirror behind my head, positioning it so I can see its reflection in the large mirror. I finish the job. My head is now a kiwi, and not a clump of black curls. I keep running the clippers along my scalp in different directions to make sure I get all of the stray hairs off. More than anything, I m just reaching those itches that I couldn t otherwise get sweet, sensational relief. I look down to my hair on the floor surrounding me like a moat. I put my tools back onto the countertop. I look into the bathroom mirror. I see a bald doppelganger. He s one I try to avoid crossing gazes with. 6
Like a blanket, my hair envelops my shoulders, chest, back, legs, neck, and feet. I step over the hair encircling my feet, and reach for the broom and dustpan. Now all that s left to do is to freshen up with a shower. Afterwards, I m revitalized, and the stranger in the mirror isn t an enemy. I smile at him, recommending that he grow some hair back quickly to even out the shape of his oblong head. I look into my eyes, then at my head, back and forth like an argument. I m convincing myself that I am still attractive to other people. After soul searching and re-convincing, I too am content with the man in the mirror. His blemishes, scratches, and almost bald head are charming altogether. I finally exit the bathroom, and emerge a new human. Regardless, I m happy that the ritual has ended. 7
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Where the Forlorn Go
In the course of my twenty-one years of life thus far, I could count the number of depressive episodes I ve had on my hands. For most of my life, my experience with depression has been through the lens of others. Many of my closest friends deal with depression frequently enough that I ve learned what it feels like through empathy. But in my own experience, I ve only felt depressed when tragic events have occurred. As I get older, depression seems to sneak into my head, and hide while trivial things are happening. During my sophomore year of college, after moving into my first apartment, depression came to visit me. It came knocking on my door faintly. I got up to see who was at the door. No one was there, yet it felt like someone had come in without my permission. The time was roughly 10pm. I sat back down next to the tableside lamp, inside the darkness of my apartment. An uncontrollable impulse enveloped me; I grabbed my jacket, headphones, keys, phone, and headed out the door, strolling into the street mindlessly. I shuffled through the music on my phone until I found something fitting for my unexplainable feeling. I had questions: where are you going? How long will you keep walking? Has anyone noticed you ve left? The streetlights which glowed vibrant orange pulled me back from the spiral of depression every so often as I passed them. My shoes sank into the grass. The same song kept playing on repeat, lyric-less, enticing me. That sudden feeling of regret and sadness washed over me. I shed a single tear in the silence. The occasional passing car would catch my attention, my face turning into the light as if to gesture for a helping hand, but they kept driving, and I kept walking. I couldn t answer those questions that I asked myself, because I didn t know where I was going, or how long it would take me to get there; I simply kept moving. Then I stopped, sat down in a ditch, and leaned up against an iron fence. Despite having passed the few lights that illuminated the windows of apartment buildings, and countless hypnotizing street lamps, I chose a ditch. That ditch was most fitting for what I believed myself to be at the time worthless. I gazed up from the iron fence towards the sky. In the darkness the stars above me seemed like such distant and false beacons of hope for a new day, and a saving grace. I watched the cars pass on the highway from a distance. I could see them streaming by, and I wished that they would take me away too. Vertigo had settled in; the street, and everything before me was moving forward, leaving me behind with nothing but the darkness, silence, and sadness. 40
I began trudging again. I had lost track of time. I couldn t tell if midnight had come, or if a new day was soon to dawn. I kept moving. I returned to the crossroad that I passed on the way to the ditch, and instead of turning left, back in the direction of my apartment, I turned right. I was torn: one half screaming inside to go back, and the other half a marionette mindlessly being led wherever my unwelcomed visitor lead. I crossed the railroad tracks. I debated as I stepped over them whether to stop, and lay between the rails. If I waited long enough, 3am would pass along with a train to come and crush me. I would lay down with my body between the rails, and stare up at the sky hypnotized by the stars. I would fall asleep unaware of the cars passing by, which might slow down to allow the drivers to see if they really saw a body on the train tracks. I d hear a distant horn. The barriers would come down as the caution lights flashed red. The train would come closer the horn growing louder, the ground beneath me shaking as if to swallow me. Then, a locomotive thump, and then all would descend into eternal darkness. But, I kept walking. I came to a crosswalk. The streets were dead; the kind of deceased you would expect at night. The traffic lights glowed red, and remained unchanged as I stared at them. I crossed the street impatiently, unconcerned if a car were to come and strike, yet assured no car would. The darkness grew denser. The streetlights lessened. Another round of questions came to consume me, this time more intensely. They struck me: who will care if you re gone? Will they care if you never come back? Do you deserve to be happy? Do you even deserve to live? I kept walking with greater difficulty. I started to fill with fear terrorized by what was happening to me. I was losing control, and couldn t stop it from happening. I began reciting nonsensical phrases, and the torturous feelings in my head: I don t understand this anymore. The car lights are too bright. Just keep walking. You are but a small speck in the universe, and you cannot fathom the thought. The vibrant orange light is sublime. Keep walking. Slowly, I pulled myself out of whatever hell I walked myself into. It was then that my visitor left, leaving me stranded somewhere in the darkness without streetlights, and direction. The noises of the night had started to amplify. The trotting in grass in the far distance; was it a deer or something deadlier? The cricket chirps, the owl hoots, and the dog barks had all become too loud. My sight had gone, and I could faintly make out my death in the distance: an imagined concoction of murder, torture, and tragedy. 41
The sadness had left. All that was left was fear of never seeing home, and being forgotten. I pulled up the GPS on my phone to see my location: four and a half miles away from home. I returned my phone to my pocket, turned around, and began walking back home. In that pitch blackness, paranoia had set in. I looked up, and clouds had blocked the view of the stars. I kept walking. After stumbling on the side of the road for a while, I saw the first blink of light in the distance. I fixated on it obsessively, drawn to it like an addict. Upon reaching it, the void had dissipated, and I was once again in my familiar neighborhood. I sprinted from light to light as if the darkness would swallow me for remaining in it for too long. Light after light lead the way until I was once again by the railroad tracks. I crossed them not even batting an eye in their direction. I kept walking until I had passed the crossroad. I kept walking until I turned back onto West Avenue. I kept walking until I was at my door. I unlocked it. I went inside, and closed the door. I sat on the couch. My mind was reeling. Numerous emotions felt in the span of an eternity a mere two hours, notably, as I stared at the clock on the kitchen wall. I sank into the couch, happy to be trapped in the safety of my own apartment. Depression had come for a chilling visit. Though it managed to leave ruin behind, it did not ruin me. I had beaten it at its own twisted game. I sat amazed at myself for journeying through the endless darkness, and fumbling through my distorted reality. I got up, and turned off the lamp next to me. 42
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Lewis 2017 Carlos Lewis Book Design: Carlos