tessellation puzzla if you would have seen him on that day, floating haplessly in his small boat on a vast sea, you would have thought he was peering through a periscope. but, he wasn't. 140319 ... puzzla you might ask yourself, why was he alone? where was he coming from? where was he going? was he escaping from something? was he needed elsewhere? 140320 ... puzzla if you had a good look at him through the zoom lens of a really expensive camera, you would see he was gaunt. you would wonder how he came to such a state of emaciation. an emotional thinness, unraveled at the seams. you would think his hollow cheeks and sunken marble eyes reflected a past devastation, a battle for attrition that he was fighting, or even a continuous pain he felt swirling through his biology. you would study his walnut-sized adam's apple undulating and watch him swallow some nasty-looking drink from a glass-recycled bottle. you would marvel at the way he dribbled the dirt brown liquid into his grizzled chin. you would realize you were cringing. 140321 ... puzzla with the other hand, he held the periscope-like contraption to his squinting right eye. he wasn't looking out to a world, he was looking in, to a world he was slowly making himself. 140322 ... puzzla if you called it a kaleidoscope, you would be incorrect, but actually, that is what it most closely resembled. he called it the "constance de orio." he handcrafted it from steel, prism glass, and carved locust wood, but it was the particles inside that held an intrinsic, individual mystery that was at the core of his solitary journey. no one knew what they were or where they came from and how they formed the language and imagery that once made him a person of character and singular interest. 140323 ... puzzla it was on the same day that his boat struck a submerged rock. the force was sudden and strong, knocking him off balance, however he did not fall. he was able to hold on to the constance de orio. yet, the collision managed to inflict a small hole in the hull that began taking in water immediately. 140324 ... puzzla the first thing he thought when he collected his wits, set the bottle and the contraption into the dripping wet lime green patagonia bag at his feet, and discovered the leak was that perception was always two-sided. there is reality and speculation. the place where the two collide is usually chaos. the hidden rock was a surprise but it was always there. he just didn't see it. 140324 ... puzzla it was actually easy for him to empty the water from the boat and patch the leak. but it was the possibility of other rocks under the surface that bothered him. there was just no way of knowing and this is what made it most difficult. he rowed on, checking the depth. the more he progressed without incident, the better he felt. as the day faded into memory, he drifted, and worked the constance de orio. you would wonder what he was doing with it. you wished you could see inside. he smiled. he laughed. he remembered. he fell asleep with it on his lap. 140325 ... puzzla as he dreamt, the full moon painted the surface of the sea until it shimmered bright white, quiet and still, like the earth itself was asleep and dreaming, breathing without interruption. he was convinced there were no more rocks. but you knew there was one waiting for him. one with an edge as sharp as a knife. 140326 ... puzzla and surely we have these final moments before tragedy strikes us when we gaze at our lives like a passenger going from wonderland to adventureland. when it hits, we see a flash. the boat was encountering a very stiff breeze. you would think the gale force would wake him but it didn't. the waves tossed him as much as a foot in the air. still, he slept. finally, when the swelling sea exposed the razor point of the hidden rock, a crushing upsurge brought him down into the angled edge. the wooden boat immediately snapped open like a gutted fish. 140327 ... puzzla the electric shock of the collision startled him awake. he had been dreaming that a great red bird came to him and bent down so he could ride it like a horse. the great shriek of wood splintering was the bird's call to flight. the abrupt force of the impact sent him and his belongings into the churning sea. 140328 ... puzzla swallowing a gulp full of saltwater and puking it back up shook him to the core of his diminishing reality. he treaded at the water, grabbing the fragmented pieces of existence like a puzzle whose edges were so destroyed there was no way they could fit together to form any assemblance of order. with sinking despair, he discovered much of his boat was gone, except for a portion of the hull that was upside down and floating. he grabbed on to it with passionate desperation and gasped for the air his heart desired to maintain what was left of the life he had been given. 140329 ... puzzla his mouth dropped open involuntarily like a baby bird. the cold water jolted his heart to a rapid gallop. after five minutes of frantic struggling, his blood was summoned to the vital organs and uncontrollable shivering began. he found it harder and harder to maintain his hold on the slippery hull. his hands grew numb. the strength in his legs waned until he could no longer kick. the constant splashing of the small, frigid waves made it impossible to keep water out of his nose and mouth. he was drowning, but he did not know it. 140330 ... puzzla something strange was going on in his brain, yet he permitted it, like he did everything, wondering if it was simply the next thing happening to him and he could gather it to himself and let it do to him what it would. a new experience that would add to the evolution of his constitution. he gripped now with his elbows and upper arms that afforded him a temporary sense of safety and relief, and so it was in this brief time he gazed out at the water. he watched how the wind blew on the surface of the sea and produced ripples, which became veils for the wind's energy to keep pumping until waves were born. each one swelled and slowly built until they reached their breaking point, revealing a momentary flash of white brilliance that ripped and curled downwards until it was swallowed back to its origin. this is the illusion of self, he thought. the wave appears to be separate from the sea but it is never apart from it. the wave is a part of the sea. and here i was, rising, cresting, breaking, and now returning. his grasp on the hull slipped and he plunged back into the ocean. 140331 ... puzzla he sank below the surface, his legs kicking instinctively but barely able to maintain enough strength to sustain buoyancy. he willed his arms to work and groped for the jagged piece of hull, but came up fingers short. he swallowed a mouthful of water and could not avoid getting a large portion of it in his already compromised lungs. it would have probably killed him if it would not have been for a sudden wave surge that propelled him violently upon the wood. the force pushed on his chest so hard that the water exploded out of him. he coughed what felt like fire and slipped into an oblivious state, staring at the wake he was making. what does it take for us to keep going, on and on, he thought. what is the next thing? 140401 ... puzzla the first light of a new day unfolded along the horizon, sunless, clouds thick as mucous. a bone chilling wind chopped the water into an endless space of whitecaps. he had been coughing off and on, pressing his face into the splintered wood. his eyes were diminished slits swollen by salt. he could no longer feel any sensation below his waist. the squawks of belligerent gulls a few feet away mustered a twinge of reflexive suspicion in him. he turned his head to see them bobbing like rubber ducks fighting over what appeared to be a sheet of white paper. he gathered a bit of remaining strength and managed to prop himself up on one elbow. he reached out, startling the birds. they screeched and flew off, enabling him to grab it. he recognized his own handwriting immediately. a familiar rush of consciousness gripped him, shaking the delirium loose. it was a page from his journal. 140402 ... puzzla although the writing was rendered illegible from the wearing, abusive effects of the turbulent saltwater, he knew what the contents were without reading them. he remembered the day he wrote it, like one remembers all the tears they have cried. if you would have found this torn journal page washed up on the shore, you would have considered it flotsam. maybe you wouldn't have even picked it up. hopefully you would. to him it was mysteriously apt. he studied the smeared ink and paused his quivering lips long enough to twist them into the tiniest assemblance of a weak smile tinged with solopsistic irony. it was his soul's topography of all the locations he had wept. rain began to fall, heavy drops hitting him with reckless abandon, one by one by one until heavy sheets formed a downpour. he squinted. as the paper melted into nothing in his quivering hand, he turned the disappearing words into memories, considering them from the beginning. 140403 ... puzzla the first time he cried, apart from the normal pangs of hunger, was as at 8 months old, lying alone in a crib from a genetically acquired inguinal hernia that eventually became strangulated, requiring emergency surgery. of course he didn't remember this misery but accepted the realization that pain from suffering shaped his character from the very beginning of his life. he remembered the day he talked to his mother about it as he drove home from work, broken windshield wipers giving him only partial visibility from the pouring rain. with amazing recall, she explained his fretful crying, the awareness that something serious was wrong, the frustration of a husband and father who was home late and drunk, the tension she felt, the fear she experienced from possibly losing her son, watching his temperature drop to a dangerous 95 degrees, sweating out four sleepless nights in the intensive care. it was her compassion and responsibility that rescued him and his blind dependence upon the intelligence and skill of humanity that saved him. 140404 ... puzzla he remembered phoning her the next day, impassioned by her ability to fill in the missing parts of his life and insight into the suffering that helped shape the character that would eventually define him. she added that the surgeon's unwinding and handling of his intestinal tract placed a huge stress upon it that would plague him for much time to follow. she told him he would cry for hours on end every day, begging for relief from the accumulation of gas and cramping. even his grandmother was called upon for ideas that might help. the ailment persisted in varying degrees of discomfort all the way into his third year, and it was here that he had his first memories of the gut torment. as he felt himself slipping again, he renewed his hold on the hull of the boat, feeling the saltwater stinging the brush burns and scrapes on the undersides of his arms. he cringed as he recalled himself sitting on a potty chair in the corner of the small bathroom of his childhood home. he gripped the wooden armrests, white-knuckled, screaming out for mercy as his mother administered a fleet enema of hot soapy water. he felt violated somehow, yet surrendered, trusting in a mother's care, knowing it was being done to help him, adding to his knowledge that pain is necessary. he was ordered to hold the contents inside, but the building agony was too much for a child to handle. he screamed. he pleaded to let it out. 140405 ... puzzla hot tears seeped forth, providing an unexpected, momentary catharsis, taking him along this awkward path of remembrance. he took a deep breath as rain continued to pound all around him and pressed his forehead into the wood. he shut his eyes tight. next stop was first grade where he was having an extremely difficult time understanding the concept of reading comprehension. he could feel self doubt creeping over him like a sticky spiderweb and he was the trapped fly struggling for freedom, yet knowing the more he fought with exhaustive effort, the more he was held steadfast in confusion. what order did these events from the assigned story take place? he had no fucking clue. every student was required to show their work to the teacher and he faced his turn as if he was stepping up to the firing squad blindfolded. she was merciless with her criticism. each strike against him he felt like the stab of a knife until he finally broke, weeping with utter embarrassment before her and the entire class. he experienced isolation for the first time, entering a place where nothing or no one could help him. he had fallen into a deep hole with slippery walls and would have to find his own way of getting out. 140406 ... puzzla if you would have seen him, clinging like a vine to the broken boat, his life slipping from him as wax drips from a spent candle, you would find him shivering violently, his hypothermic body in survival mode. his fingers were turning blue on the tips from lack of oxygen. his blood was panicking, pumping directly to his vital organs, away from his extremities. but his mind was still alert and active, swirling with the trek across the trail of his tears. defining moments of mental anguish, exploring the geography of emotion. he could hear the beatles, playing from 45 rpm records that his aunt mary ann gave him. "ticket to ride" "i want to hold your hand." but at this particular time, he was in the bedroom of his youth, his notre dame, a sanctuary from his parents and their crumbling marriage. he knew his father to be physically abusive when he was drunk. he would yell, yeast-breathed, with a barrel-chested, thunderous turbulence and toss his mother into the walls of the narrow hallway, knocking her to the floor. at seven years old, he woke from sleep and found her slumped to the floor. he leapt out of bed and jumped upon his father's back to stop him from hurting her more. it worked. he would sit at his desk and play "let it be" over and over. when the song reached the epic instrumental interlude, he went off on his own freeform chant, "you know you don't want to be divorced!" he worked his way to hot tears many times in his earnestness, praying to the god he was forming in his mind. 140409 ... puzzla entering into his high school years with a father, whose undiagnosed PTSD would eventually require admission into a mental hospital, hardened him. no more tears would fall until his first child was born, 7 years later, when he was 23 years-old. he was convinced there was no way of describing what he felt upon seeing an actual physical representation of the love he shared with his wife. weeping at the beauty was the closest attempt at explaining it. and then at the birth of his third daughter, he was prostrate on the floor of the hospital bathroom, crying out with the anguish of the very real possibility of losing her to birth trauma and sending up choked prayers to the same god who had been with him since he himself was born into pain. the subsequent raising of his family seasoned him into an unavoidable stoicism. it wasn't until his father, with the help of electro shock therapy, conquered his illness and the two became best friends and worked together for several years that he shed his last real tears at his earlier than expected death. he remembered the day when the wave of sadness hit him. he was working on the farm and was standing in front of the goat shed. down on his knees he went. if emotion could be vomited, then the entire contents of his soul came gushing forth. he had never cried like it since. 140410 ... puzzla time became an enemy. 140412 ... puzzla perhaps you're wondering if he realized this was the way he was going to die. he didn't. he was inside himself now, completely unaware of what was happening to him. his eyes were fixed, pupils dilated. his head was pressed flat against the wrecked hull, as were his arms, fingers glued, but he couldn't move anything. all shivering had ceased, all muscles were hard as rock. there were other papers from his journal floating within his reach, yet he was oblivious to them. small waves broke over him, and slicked his hair against his forehead. but he didn't know it. the sun came out after the rain. he did not see it. he did not feel it. in and out of consciousness he drifted. i'm straying away from what is expected, he thought. i'm going back to a place where they remember me, not for who i was but for what i did. how i cut off their minds like the heads of sunflowers, how i broke their souls like sticks. all i can do is scream hello, but the sound is muted. god is bruised and bloodied. i must go to my work, such as it is, with one half here and one over there. forget you were ever on the other side, not knowing that i was ever watching and thinking, yet maybe thinking yourself. particles try to line up in a straight line but nature makes it impossible. they stray off course and collide. something new is made even as something is destroyed. i have vomited my soul's purity. i made sense. 140413 ... puzzla if you would have seen him, you would surely have said to yourself that he was dead, yet you wouldn't know that his heart was still beating, although at a severely reduced rate. blood sluggishly reached his brain. he was comatose. this is where things got interesting. if you have ever been in such a state, you might understand a bit of what was going on. like many accounts of others in a similar situation, he was looking down on himself as he lay prostrate against the broken hull floating on the vast empty sea. yet, here's where his story becomes his own. 140415 ... puzzla he was moving upwards, floating without awareness of substance as if the weight of corporeality had vanished. he was a drawing of himself, erased, with the image only visible enough to know that it once on the page. he ascended into a beckoning light. if silence was warmth, he was swaddled, buoyant in the inside out air like a fetus in the womb of a new beginning. he could no longer see because he was sight. he became light. 140417 ... puzzla perhaps you're figuring he's dead now. that's right. people die every day for many different reasons. some people are forgotten, others are remembered. some are immortalized. end of part one 140417 ... puzzla part two begins _tessellation_ 140418 what's it to you? who go blather from