Poem: "Sucked Backwards into an Eddy"
This poem is spillover from the April 4, 2023 Poetry Fishbowl. it was prompted and sponsored by Anthony Barrette. It also fills the "Workings of the Mind" square in my 4-1-23 card for the Gothic Bingo fest. This poem belongs to the series Arts and Crafts America. It follows "Draft Dawgs" and "The World Breaks Everyone," so read those first or this won't make much sense.
Warning: This poem contains intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the more detailed warnings, some of which are spoilers. It features references to the Vietnam War, post-traumatic stress, unemployment, homelessness, flashbacks, anxiety, and other challenges. If these are touchy topics for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.
"Sucked Backwards into an Eddy"
[Saturday, June 3, 1961]
Flare's problem was
that his brain had never
quite gotten the message
that he was no longer in
Vietnam getting shot at.
He'd be fine one minute,
and hiding under a desk
or a table the next.
That made it hard
to hold down a job,
if anyone would even
give a veteran the chance
at one in the first place.
Kittyhawk found him on
the street, sweeping steps
and sidewalks for spare change
and sleeping rough in an alley.
She invited Flare back to
the sharehouse with its band
of hippies offering crash space
for the beat-up veterans.
They wanted to keep
the main-level rooms for
people who couldn't do stairs,
so they fixed up another part of
the unfinished basement space
to make a third bedroom there.
They managed to squeeze in
two full-size beds, in case they
got another resident, along with
an end table and a couple of
dog posters because Flare
had always loved dogs.
Kittyhawk found bed sets
in a rustic green plaid, and
the headboards had been
handmade from tree branches.
It wasn't fancy, but it was homey
and Flare liked it. He felt, not
safe exactly, but less exposed
down in the basement where
it was all dim and quiet.
Calmer, at least, so
that was a good thing.
Plus Reef grew some
truly fine Mary Jane
down there, and that
helped with nerves too.
Flare was pretty much
a bundle of nerves now.
Pax helped him talk it out,
claiming that talking let
your mind process what
had happened so it didn't
feel compelled to bring up
old business every night
while you tried to sleep.
"My head confuses me, man,"
said Flare. "I dunno what
to make of it, I really don't."
"The workings of the mind
are mysterious," Pax said.
"Yeah, it's like I keep getting
lost in thought, not the good kind
either," said Flare. "I can't track
when or where I am anymore."
"Trauma destroys the fabric of time,"
Pax explained. "In normal time you
move from one moment to the next,
sunrise to sunset, birth to death."
"Beautiful," said Flare. "I miss that."
"It's natural to," said Pax. "After trauma,
you may move in circles, find yourself
being sucked backwards into an eddy
or bouncing around like a rubber ball
from now to then to back again."
"I freaked out over a ceiling fan,
dude, it was ridiculous. I thought it
was a fucking chopper," said Flare.
"Day before, I was walking past
a construction site and thought
the hammering was shooting."
"In the traumatic universe,
even the basic laws of matter
are suspended," Pax replied.
"Ceiling fans can be helicopters;
construction can become gunfire."
"Yeah, I guess that makes me
a pacifist now, like Biff," said Flare.
"I find it significant," said Pax, "that
most military veterans become pacifists."
"Makes sense, we're all just a bunch of
fucked-up, used-up old --" Flare began.
"None of that now," Pax said firmly.
"Be gentle with yourself. You
are a child of the universe."
"Yeah, yeah," said Flare. "It's
just ... hard to remember that."
"Check your presence," said Pax.
"Can you be here now, or is
your brain trying to loop again?"
"It's ... not good," Flare admitted.
"I'm having trouble holding on."
"Then come on, let's see if
we can get you out of your head
and into your hands," said Pax.
He led Flare into the living room,
where the big low coffee table
was perfect for craft projects.
Pax pulled out the big tub
of salvaged craft supplies
and the smaller tub of tools.
They had stacks of old magazines
to cut up for the pictures. Ebony
and The Realist had cultural and
political stuff. Life and Time had
world news. Organic Gardening
and Funktastic Arts had hippie bits.
There were underground newsletters too,
but those were mostly for word art since
they used fancy fonts on the headlines.
Chudley Deane and James Akers
liked movies, so they had a deal with
a local theater to pull down old posters
and put up new ones, which meant that
they could bring home the old ones.
Everything they didn't want to keep
for souvenirs went into the craft stash.
Flare enjoyed cutting up pictures and
headlines to make surreal collages.
It helped him focus on the present,
and sometimes, put the past in the past,
if he found a good set of war pictures.
Pasting bits of magazine or newspaper
to a backing of watercolor paper or
cardboard made a sturdy collage
that wouldn't wrinkle as it dried.
Flare and Pax were almost done
with their collages when Moon
and Kittyhawk came in lugging
garbage bags full of ... something.
"Check out our loot!" crowed Moon.
"We helped clean up the storeroom
at the Crafty Patch and they gave us
a ton of scraps to take home for free."
"Yeah, I've got yarn and she's got fabric,
in some really far-out colors," said Kittyhawk.
"Who wants to make a box-bottom blanket?"
"Lemme just finish this corner," Flare said,
indicating the blank bit of his background.
"I'll start cleaning up, then," said Pax.
He put away the supplies they hadn't
used and the tools they were done with.
Kittyhawk dropped her bag by the table
and dragged out the tub of fibercraft tools.
Moon stuffed most of her yarn scraps into
the quilt stash, which was almost empty,
and left the rest in the bag for easy access.
Flare finished pasting down the last picture,
then propped up his collage so it could dry.
He had put together all kinds of water images,
and under that, arms reaching for the surface,
because sometimes he felt like he was drowning.
Kittyhawk sat down and started knitting. She
liked the kind of afghan where you worked
until you hit the end of the yarn ball and
then just tied on a random new color.
Flare liked the kind of afghan where
you switched colors at the edges,
working the tails into a fringe later.
He liked fringe in general. He could
comb his fingers through it without
looking like a total freak, and that
helped him feel a little bit calmer.
"I need a crochet hook," he said,
and Moon passed one to him.
"I want to make a shawl," she said,
picking out some knitting needles.
Pax picked up a crochet hook and
a ball of yarn. "I think I'll make a hat,"
he said. "I can do granny squares."
The soft click of knitting needles
and the whisper of yarn made
a soothing backdrop of sound.
It wasn't like anything from 'Nam
and that made it about as safe
as anything was nowadays.
Flare never knew when
he might find himself being
sucked backwards into an eddy,
but he could always follow the yarn,
and eventually that guidance would
lead him back to the here-and-now.
The workings of the mind were strange,
but he was slowly learning to handle them.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its notes appear elsewhere.
Warning: This poem contains intense and controversial topics. Highlight to read the more detailed warnings, some of which are spoilers. It features references to the Vietnam War, post-traumatic stress, unemployment, homelessness, flashbacks, anxiety, and other challenges. If these are touchy topics for you, please consider your tastes and headspace before reading onward.
"Sucked Backwards into an Eddy"
[Saturday, June 3, 1961]
Flare's problem was
that his brain had never
quite gotten the message
that he was no longer in
Vietnam getting shot at.
He'd be fine one minute,
and hiding under a desk
or a table the next.
That made it hard
to hold down a job,
if anyone would even
give a veteran the chance
at one in the first place.
Kittyhawk found him on
the street, sweeping steps
and sidewalks for spare change
and sleeping rough in an alley.
She invited Flare back to
the sharehouse with its band
of hippies offering crash space
for the beat-up veterans.
They wanted to keep
the main-level rooms for
people who couldn't do stairs,
so they fixed up another part of
the unfinished basement space
to make a third bedroom there.
They managed to squeeze in
two full-size beds, in case they
got another resident, along with
an end table and a couple of
dog posters because Flare
had always loved dogs.
Kittyhawk found bed sets
in a rustic green plaid, and
the headboards had been
handmade from tree branches.
It wasn't fancy, but it was homey
and Flare liked it. He felt, not
safe exactly, but less exposed
down in the basement where
it was all dim and quiet.
Calmer, at least, so
that was a good thing.
Plus Reef grew some
truly fine Mary Jane
down there, and that
helped with nerves too.
Flare was pretty much
a bundle of nerves now.
Pax helped him talk it out,
claiming that talking let
your mind process what
had happened so it didn't
feel compelled to bring up
old business every night
while you tried to sleep.
"My head confuses me, man,"
said Flare. "I dunno what
to make of it, I really don't."
"The workings of the mind
are mysterious," Pax said.
"Yeah, it's like I keep getting
lost in thought, not the good kind
either," said Flare. "I can't track
when or where I am anymore."
"Trauma destroys the fabric of time,"
Pax explained. "In normal time you
move from one moment to the next,
sunrise to sunset, birth to death."
"Beautiful," said Flare. "I miss that."
"It's natural to," said Pax. "After trauma,
you may move in circles, find yourself
being sucked backwards into an eddy
or bouncing around like a rubber ball
from now to then to back again."
"I freaked out over a ceiling fan,
dude, it was ridiculous. I thought it
was a fucking chopper," said Flare.
"Day before, I was walking past
a construction site and thought
the hammering was shooting."
"In the traumatic universe,
even the basic laws of matter
are suspended," Pax replied.
"Ceiling fans can be helicopters;
construction can become gunfire."
"Yeah, I guess that makes me
a pacifist now, like Biff," said Flare.
"I find it significant," said Pax, "that
most military veterans become pacifists."
"Makes sense, we're all just a bunch of
fucked-up, used-up old --" Flare began.
"None of that now," Pax said firmly.
"Be gentle with yourself. You
are a child of the universe."
"Yeah, yeah," said Flare. "It's
just ... hard to remember that."
"Check your presence," said Pax.
"Can you be here now, or is
your brain trying to loop again?"
"It's ... not good," Flare admitted.
"I'm having trouble holding on."
"Then come on, let's see if
we can get you out of your head
and into your hands," said Pax.
He led Flare into the living room,
where the big low coffee table
was perfect for craft projects.
Pax pulled out the big tub
of salvaged craft supplies
and the smaller tub of tools.
They had stacks of old magazines
to cut up for the pictures. Ebony
and The Realist had cultural and
political stuff. Life and Time had
world news. Organic Gardening
and Funktastic Arts had hippie bits.
There were underground newsletters too,
but those were mostly for word art since
they used fancy fonts on the headlines.
Chudley Deane and James Akers
liked movies, so they had a deal with
a local theater to pull down old posters
and put up new ones, which meant that
they could bring home the old ones.
Everything they didn't want to keep
for souvenirs went into the craft stash.
Flare enjoyed cutting up pictures and
headlines to make surreal collages.
It helped him focus on the present,
and sometimes, put the past in the past,
if he found a good set of war pictures.
Pasting bits of magazine or newspaper
to a backing of watercolor paper or
cardboard made a sturdy collage
that wouldn't wrinkle as it dried.
Flare and Pax were almost done
with their collages when Moon
and Kittyhawk came in lugging
garbage bags full of ... something.
"Check out our loot!" crowed Moon.
"We helped clean up the storeroom
at the Crafty Patch and they gave us
a ton of scraps to take home for free."
"Yeah, I've got yarn and she's got fabric,
in some really far-out colors," said Kittyhawk.
"Who wants to make a box-bottom blanket?"
"Lemme just finish this corner," Flare said,
indicating the blank bit of his background.
"I'll start cleaning up, then," said Pax.
He put away the supplies they hadn't
used and the tools they were done with.
Kittyhawk dropped her bag by the table
and dragged out the tub of fibercraft tools.
Moon stuffed most of her yarn scraps into
the quilt stash, which was almost empty,
and left the rest in the bag for easy access.
Flare finished pasting down the last picture,
then propped up his collage so it could dry.
He had put together all kinds of water images,
and under that, arms reaching for the surface,
because sometimes he felt like he was drowning.
Kittyhawk sat down and started knitting. She
liked the kind of afghan where you worked
until you hit the end of the yarn ball and
then just tied on a random new color.
Flare liked the kind of afghan where
you switched colors at the edges,
working the tails into a fringe later.
He liked fringe in general. He could
comb his fingers through it without
looking like a total freak, and that
helped him feel a little bit calmer.
"I need a crochet hook," he said,
and Moon passed one to him.
"I want to make a shawl," she said,
picking out some knitting needles.
Pax picked up a crochet hook and
a ball of yarn. "I think I'll make a hat,"
he said. "I can do granny squares."
The soft click of knitting needles
and the whisper of yarn made
a soothing backdrop of sound.
It wasn't like anything from 'Nam
and that made it about as safe
as anything was nowadays.
Flare never knew when
he might find himself being
sucked backwards into an eddy,
but he could always follow the yarn,
and eventually that guidance would
lead him back to the here-and-now.
The workings of the mind were strange,
but he was slowly learning to handle them.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its notes appear elsewhere.