Dear xxxx,
Death and diet soda. Remember that for me.
Love,
Me
Dear xxxx,
I'm reading a story in the fiction section of the New Yorker website entitled "Rat Beach." It's too early to tell what the story is about, but considering that I just read the line, "I was so fucking scared there, in Saigon." I have to conclude that it's about war. This is decidedly less interesting than what a story entitled "Rat Beach" could have been about. Consider the possibilities. First, there's the most obvious, and possibly most humorous: a beach for rats. But not just any rats. These are anthropomorphic rats. Rats that have all the faculties of a painfully human, beach-going, sand and saltwater junkie. Big obnoxious sunglasses. Females in the season's most up-to-date swimwear, males in the swimwear popular half a decade ago. There are some surfing rats, some sun-bathing rats, and some beach-babe ogling rats. There are rats selling grossly marked up bottles of water and ice cream sandwiches, young rats running around kicking up sand into the faces of condescending twenty-something rats who disapprovingly crane their necks to glare at the parents. They shake their dark heads as if to say, "if only these little bastards were mine, I'd show them some manners."
Then there's the much more morbid: A beach MADE of rats. Possibly the title refers to a singular image of a horde of rats that stretches farther than the eye can record, all making their way into the sea, preferring to take their chances drowning like...well...drowning like rats, than to the fate that awaits them on land. Perhaps there's apocalypse on the opposite horizon. Perhaps the earth is on fire. And the beach has become alive with the dark and undulating bodies of desperation. Perhaps a sea of rats marching toward their watery doom, is the last thing we'll see before we meet our own.
Then there's the most interesting: What if it's a beach that nobody but snitches know about? It's a beach for hopeless whistle blowers and tattlers. Mob informants and anonymous tipsters. It's a beach for aloofness and shiftiness. For mustache twisting and goatee stroking. Wire tapping and equivocating. For desperate negotiation and rifling of drawers for information. It's a beach for sycophants and cowards, all lying out in the sun or splashing in the still-cold, early summer ocean.
But no. Instead, the story's about war.
Oh well.
Here's a game we can play.
Below I will paste a few strange Irish curses. You try to guess which ones I have written, and which ones are actually Irish curses:
May your obituary be written in weasel's piss.
May the lamb of God stir his hoof through the roof of heaven and kick you in the arse down to hell.
May the devil swallow him sideways.
May the snails devour his corpse And the rains do harm worse May the devil sweep the hairy creature soon!
May your hens take the disorder(the fowl-pest), your cows the crippen(phosphorosis) and your calves the white scour! May yourself go stone-blind so that you will not know your wife from a hay-stack!
May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and bark in at your soul-case
The treatment of the boiled broken little fish to you
The roasting of the salmon to the very end on you
May you be broken over the masons cliff
Six horse-loads of graveyard clay on top of you
May the entrails and mansion of pleasure of this worm fall out
May the devil cut the head off you and make a days work of your neck
No butter be on your milk nor on your ducks a web. May your child not walk and your cow be flayed. And may the flame be bigger and wider which will go through your soul than the Connemara mountains if they were on fire
The curse of the crows on you
May you be afflicted with the itch and have no nails to scratch with!
I bind you by grave injunctions of magic from the river, back to the river, may you fall in a nettle patch and may savage dogs eat your one good foot on a mountain.
Finished? Good. Now make your decision. I'll paste the answers at the bottom of this email.
Read this poem I wrote a few months ago:
The Difference
Jesus—
Is blurted aloud
when a dollface shakes her thing across
Madison Ave.
Men turned to gelatin
in their Lexuses
or work vans,
all say:
Jesus.
God—
You say to yourself.
God, God, God.
In the catacomb of your apartment,
your prayers keep the phone from ringing.
Keep the voice from saying
what your heart
can't bear.
I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamt that I was back in high school and I had a bully. He was this much larger guy (aren't they always?) who just delighted in tormenting me. But then I had enough of it and I confronted him, spitting and punching him in the face. Then I reached under his shirt and started pulling out prosthetics attached to what ended up being an emaciated body. He wasn't a big tough guy, he was just a little guy who was too scared to go through life as one. So I picked up his shoulder pads and began to scratch his face with them, and I said, "You don't beat up on people! because one day, they'll beat back!" and he said, "I know but I'm so very weak, I might as well have leukemia." and I said "you are weaker than you'll ever know." and I picked him up, put him in a shopping cart and rolled him down a path where he disappeared around a patch of trees. I woke up so sad. And late. I didn't even have time to reflect on it until now. How strange.
Anyway, did you know that hippos turn pink in the sun? You did. Because I told you. But it's one of my favorite facts. So I recite it often.
I think I might have decided on my next tattoo. I want a geisha holding a shotgun. It creates a good duality with my skeleton cowboy with the pistols. What do you think?
I'd also like to get a large tattoo on my left arm, possibly a sleeve, of a heart as big as a planet, floating in space. its aortic valves releasing not blood, but stars and satellites and bombs and crows and jellyfish and steam and sunbeams and humming birds and bees and balloons and darkness and light and electrons and radiowaves and crumbling buildings and boomboxes and graffiti and all the things that make up my inner universe. The concept is, we are all our own universes. We contain the cosmos. We contain multitudes. There are constellations in us. (Which is something else I'd like to get tattooed on me, "There are constellations in me.") Our hearts define us. That might be lame, but eh. Who cares?
Here's a joke I like:
A passenger in a taxi leaned over to ask the driver a question and tapped
him on the shoulder.
The driver screamed, lost control of the cab, nearly hit a bus, drove up
over the curb and stopped just inches from a large plate glass window.
For a few moments everything was silent in the cab, and then the still
shaking driver said, 'I'm sorry, but you scared the daylights out of me!!
The frightened passenger apologized to the driver and said he didn't realize
a mere tap on the shoulder could frighten him so much.
The driver replied, 'No, no, I'm sorry, it's entirely my fault.
Today is my first day driving a cab. I've been driving a hearse for the last 25 years.
k, that's all for now!
Bye!
Kisses,
Me
P.S. It was a trick question. I didn't write any of those, they're all ACTUAL Irish curses.
Dear xxx,
The office is almost entirely empty now. The last of xxx's things were taken away this afternoon and shipped off to Xxxxx. There are now three people left still working here. I imagine that any day now, they'll give me my own walking papers and I'll have to scramble to find a job in this convalescing economy and city crawling with the most educated and experienced unemployed workforce I've ever seen in my life. I'm scared to death to face the fact that even by extraordinarily optimistic estimates, I'm a dime a dozen. It keeps me up at night. It may be the one thing that I can do better than 95% of the population—worry. But the truth is I'm probably not even near the top of THAT heap either. For every minute of sleep that I lose, I can be sure that there are 200 more men like myself losing double that.
I should be looking for work. Possibly I'll get on that after this letter.
Xxxx was in town yesterday. She hopes to move here within the next several months. That's why she was here. A job interview. She's in the same boat I'm in, just a few months ahead (or is it behind?). And she's having about as much luck as I'm already expecting to have. What a kick in the ass it is to have your most pessimistic of expectations confirmed as being completely realistic. Oh well. She is—as you well know—one of my favorite people in this world and it will be huge for me when she moves here.
Oh hold on a minute. Xxxx just walked in. He's talking to Xxxx. God he looks like a chipmunk. I have to run.
Love,
Me
Dear xxxxx,
Thank you for that letter. I’m sure you meant every word of it. I’m sure of it. I want you to know that I have no doubt of that. As sure as I sit here now, writing these words, I know that you meant every syllable. And the sentiments are so beautiful, that for years to come I will sit awake at night wishing and hoping with every last bit of myself that I can somehow will you to have never met xxx.
But I can’t. And I can’t will you to take back the things you’ve said to him, the things you’ve felt for him. (if you’re wondering how I can be sweeping you out of my life, it’s these very things that I whisper to myself. When I can’t bear the sound of your sobs and I just want to throw myself over you and say, “forget it, forget I mentioned anything,” I whisper to myself your whisperings to him. The hushed promises of a future. Your professing of devotion. Your assurances of your body as his to do with as he pleases. Your insistence that there has never been a more perfect person in the world for you than him. It’s these things that rend my heart. And give me strength to stand my ground.) I’m so sorry you couldn’t move past him, because it has cost you me and cost me you.
I’m so sorry you never understood how much I loved you. But the heart is so much more complex than the mind, and even if I had tried for days, I could never have begun to scratch the surface of my actions or inactions. But in my heart of hearts, I know I was a good man. Better than most. And I can promise you that you had a man who loved you unconditionally and wholly, in such a muted and enormous capacity that it is seldom seen, and even more seldom understood in its restraint and reclusiveness. I sincerely—with every humming molecule in my body—hope that you will some day find another who will love you more than I did. And if you do, please, never let him go. That way, this will become less of a tragedy and more of just a brief forgettable sojourn on your way to meet him.
PS-This is the closest I ever came to expressing how I felt about you:
You’re my little twinkle. I’d put you in a jar with outer space and start a universe if I could. I’d shake you up and simulate the big bang. You’d be the first light that that little jar of infinity would hold. And you would twinkle enough to sustain life for so many multitudes of years after this event, that sightless fish in the depths of the ocean would feel you as a faint buzzing in their scales without ever knowing it was you on their skin.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Ourobouros
You walk into the square of light
afforded us by the window.
You go from sepulchral to bronze
in three steps or less and I am
mute as virgin marble in an
impossible hall. Remember yourself this way, I silently
wish for you, but wishes are waterlogged things.
So you will forget all of
this before I can even note
your passing into the kitchen
where you are flesh once more and no
longer kicking down the doors
of heaven demanding with your
limbs graceful as whale bone to be
noticed. You dress and then leave.
This was ten years ago and long
still do I have before I can
witness another become light
like you did that day before me.
The closest I've come since is: once
I was struck by lightning in the
clavicle and although I don't
recall all the particulars,
I could swear something like you
was there, deflecting sun off its
shoulders. Another instance to note:
falling asleep at the wheel and
waking half-full of life beneath
a bent highway sign, "Exit Here,"
then, too, did I taste your silver.
Then, too, did I feel not enough.
Do you ever see me through
a lens too weak to capture my
shape accurately? Memory
is a half-hearted archivist,
but does he bring you scraps of me?
An elbow? An uneven eye?
My ethnic scent? The madness of
my sleep? (O, calisthenic dreamer!)
You are married now to a man
you would have hated ten years back.
Is the heart a snake that devours
itself? Have you bitten to the
part where I'm the villain? Ten years
from today you will wake up lost
for me. Ten years from today I'll
remember that day differently:
You walk into the fire of
day afforded by the window.
Frozen momentarily there,
I see you clearly for the first
time. You're as cruel in the mouth as
tree bark. I remember daily
injustices doled by your hand.
I bristle over the thought of
your skin on mine. Forget this, I
silently wish for myself. But
wishes are half-hearted vessels
built for failure like a wax-winged
phoenix, rising from the ashes
only to go tumbling hackles
over talons back to the dust.
afforded us by the window.
You go from sepulchral to bronze
in three steps or less and I am
mute as virgin marble in an
impossible hall. Remember yourself this way, I silently
wish for you, but wishes are waterlogged things.
So you will forget all of
this before I can even note
your passing into the kitchen
where you are flesh once more and no
longer kicking down the doors
of heaven demanding with your
limbs graceful as whale bone to be
noticed. You dress and then leave.
This was ten years ago and long
still do I have before I can
witness another become light
like you did that day before me.
The closest I've come since is: once
I was struck by lightning in the
clavicle and although I don't
recall all the particulars,
I could swear something like you
was there, deflecting sun off its
shoulders. Another instance to note:
falling asleep at the wheel and
waking half-full of life beneath
a bent highway sign, "Exit Here,"
then, too, did I taste your silver.
Then, too, did I feel not enough.
Do you ever see me through
a lens too weak to capture my
shape accurately? Memory
is a half-hearted archivist,
but does he bring you scraps of me?
An elbow? An uneven eye?
My ethnic scent? The madness of
my sleep? (O, calisthenic dreamer!)
You are married now to a man
you would have hated ten years back.
Is the heart a snake that devours
itself? Have you bitten to the
part where I'm the villain? Ten years
from today you will wake up lost
for me. Ten years from today I'll
remember that day differently:
You walk into the fire of
day afforded by the window.
Frozen momentarily there,
I see you clearly for the first
time. You're as cruel in the mouth as
tree bark. I remember daily
injustices doled by your hand.
I bristle over the thought of
your skin on mine. Forget this, I
silently wish for myself. But
wishes are half-hearted vessels
built for failure like a wax-winged
phoenix, rising from the ashes
only to go tumbling hackles
over talons back to the dust.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Back Home
Normal Restrepo's wife killed herself in the most distressing way. Late in the evening, after he had gone to sleep, she sneaked out of bed and back into her day clothes. She walked all the way back into our tiny village, as they lived several kilometers outside of it, and let herself into Normal's butcher shop.
Normal was really named Frederico. I don't remember why or when everyone started calling him Normal and I've known him since we were seven. He isn't extraordinarily plain nor is he so exceptionally strange that the word normal should serve as an irritating joke that refuses to become irrelevant. Curiously, however, its origin has. I suppose it's just one of those things that simply is because it always has been. Similarly, my grandfather was nicknamed Freight but could never recall a reason why. Nobody in our family had ever worked in the transport business nor had an overwhelming affinity for it.
At the butcher shop, Normal's wife sliced herself horizontally at the wrists and on both sides of her throat with the cleaver. She then leaped off the single story roof of the shop, leaving behind a quirky trail of blood detailing her path from around the front counter, dawdling near the drain momentarily (possibly considering a courteous suicide before opting for one with more panache) and finally heading up the rotting back ladder to the roof. Both her ankles were broken in the fall and she dragged herself almost 50 meters before stopping forever just short of the central park.
Normal receded into the bottle the way most loving husbands in his situation would have. And I moved into Bogota shortly thereafter to work at Incré Diseño, a well-known architectural firm. I told, and still tell, this gruesome story with embarrassing frequency, but didn't have the right ending for several years. New friends or barroom acquaintances would blink back at me and ask, "Well, what happened next?"
In 1997, returning home for my uncle's funeral, I ran into Normal outside the hardware store where Doña Echevarria used to sell homemade slingshots. Normal looked good and fat. Much better than he had looked in the months after his wife's death all those years ago. He asked me if I remembered the slingshots and how we could never quite master them enough to hit anything with accuracy, the way our fathers claimed they had when they were children. I barely had a chance to think about it when he added, "Also, I solved the mystery of Paola's suicide."
I said, "I remember," in response to the slingshots, not really having a chance to register his grisly addendum.
"She was possessed by the devil," he said, "no butcher's wife would ever use a cleaver for a slice job."
I nodded, "You're absolutely right."
Normal was really named Frederico. I don't remember why or when everyone started calling him Normal and I've known him since we were seven. He isn't extraordinarily plain nor is he so exceptionally strange that the word normal should serve as an irritating joke that refuses to become irrelevant. Curiously, however, its origin has. I suppose it's just one of those things that simply is because it always has been. Similarly, my grandfather was nicknamed Freight but could never recall a reason why. Nobody in our family had ever worked in the transport business nor had an overwhelming affinity for it.
At the butcher shop, Normal's wife sliced herself horizontally at the wrists and on both sides of her throat with the cleaver. She then leaped off the single story roof of the shop, leaving behind a quirky trail of blood detailing her path from around the front counter, dawdling near the drain momentarily (possibly considering a courteous suicide before opting for one with more panache) and finally heading up the rotting back ladder to the roof. Both her ankles were broken in the fall and she dragged herself almost 50 meters before stopping forever just short of the central park.
Normal receded into the bottle the way most loving husbands in his situation would have. And I moved into Bogota shortly thereafter to work at Incré Diseño, a well-known architectural firm. I told, and still tell, this gruesome story with embarrassing frequency, but didn't have the right ending for several years. New friends or barroom acquaintances would blink back at me and ask, "Well, what happened next?"
In 1997, returning home for my uncle's funeral, I ran into Normal outside the hardware store where Doña Echevarria used to sell homemade slingshots. Normal looked good and fat. Much better than he had looked in the months after his wife's death all those years ago. He asked me if I remembered the slingshots and how we could never quite master them enough to hit anything with accuracy, the way our fathers claimed they had when they were children. I barely had a chance to think about it when he added, "Also, I solved the mystery of Paola's suicide."
I said, "I remember," in response to the slingshots, not really having a chance to register his grisly addendum.
"She was possessed by the devil," he said, "no butcher's wife would ever use a cleaver for a slice job."
I nodded, "You're absolutely right."
Monday, July 13, 2009
For Frank Mir, Re: Your Face
In the evening I sit and smile
at the day's creaking muscles and mind
its heft like a sack of flesh and marrow.
We're the same, in this way, day and me—
Big lumbering things wheedling the
time from an expanse that holds us fast.
Dinosaurs did something similar
in the Cretaceous Period where
they clung like moribund crash victims
to something so large and slippery,
it could only exist to frustrate.
When I chop lettuce, I think of this.
When Frank Mir's face explodes—raspberries
revolting against their delicate
prisons—at the hands of the cretin,
Brock Lesnar, I think of this. And I
weep for the dodo bird who was too
simple to know it was in peril.
I scream in dismay at the common
fleas's impossible task of eating
just a little. Careful! Don't raise the
alarm! I will marry someday and
tell my kids to sleep light because the
world always tiptoes. I'm afraid they'll
not understand. So I'll hold up the
lettuce (finely chopped) and a photo
of Frank Mir (before and after) to
illustrate how we are all ghosts and
we are walking side by side—dodos
angling for a hug from a cold
muzzle. They'll blink back at me confused.
I'll point at the picture and I'll throw
around the ribbons of lettuce. I'll
pantomime first the big bang and then
cells assembling themselves from dust.
I'll tap dance the erratic rhythm
of evolution, I'll show them my
sweat and say, "these are the continents
after Pangaea was no longer
a heart floating in the treacherous
blue. Now it's a broken heart where we
trawl for bits of bone, hoping to find
answers writ in deoxyribose
nucleic acid. But that's not the
point. The point is," and I'll gesture at
the lettuce that litters the corners.
Then their lips will shake like radio
waves and they'll cry. And I'll catch their tears
in my palms to mix with my sweat and
I'll say, "Shh, I know. But look. You're made
of the same stuff as the broken heart
of the world." This will only make them
wail. "Okay, okay," I'll say, "picture
this: electrons." And at this they'll leave.
In 1994, the New York
Rangers finally won the Stanley
Cup. I maintain that it had everything
to do with the tendency of
electrons to be reliably
spooky. And isn't that the truth? Don't
all things hinge upon atomic love
affairs? Like Arturo Gatti and
Micky Ward loved each other with their
fists? Like any great and long-lasting
love whose greatest affection is violence?
This is why the New York Rangers won.
This is why Micky Ward's Pangaea
is drifting apart across the blue.
This is why Frank Mir would not ever
win. This is why dinosaurs vanished.
The lettuce's electrons become
mine. A simpleton bird becomes the
dust. And I sit and smile at the day's
sober commute into the arms of
defeat. And I look at my hands and
wonder not if I'm vanishing, but
if ever I was. And every
night, I wait for the tiptoeing morn,
so I can assault it with all of
my evidence, and I can softly
say unto it, "This is what you have."
at the day's creaking muscles and mind
its heft like a sack of flesh and marrow.
We're the same, in this way, day and me—
Big lumbering things wheedling the
time from an expanse that holds us fast.
Dinosaurs did something similar
in the Cretaceous Period where
they clung like moribund crash victims
to something so large and slippery,
it could only exist to frustrate.
When I chop lettuce, I think of this.
When Frank Mir's face explodes—raspberries
revolting against their delicate
prisons—at the hands of the cretin,
Brock Lesnar, I think of this. And I
weep for the dodo bird who was too
simple to know it was in peril.
I scream in dismay at the common
fleas's impossible task of eating
just a little. Careful! Don't raise the
alarm! I will marry someday and
tell my kids to sleep light because the
world always tiptoes. I'm afraid they'll
not understand. So I'll hold up the
lettuce (finely chopped) and a photo
of Frank Mir (before and after) to
illustrate how we are all ghosts and
we are walking side by side—dodos
angling for a hug from a cold
muzzle. They'll blink back at me confused.
I'll point at the picture and I'll throw
around the ribbons of lettuce. I'll
pantomime first the big bang and then
cells assembling themselves from dust.
I'll tap dance the erratic rhythm
of evolution, I'll show them my
sweat and say, "these are the continents
after Pangaea was no longer
a heart floating in the treacherous
blue. Now it's a broken heart where we
trawl for bits of bone, hoping to find
answers writ in deoxyribose
nucleic acid. But that's not the
point. The point is," and I'll gesture at
the lettuce that litters the corners.
Then their lips will shake like radio
waves and they'll cry. And I'll catch their tears
in my palms to mix with my sweat and
I'll say, "Shh, I know. But look. You're made
of the same stuff as the broken heart
of the world." This will only make them
wail. "Okay, okay," I'll say, "picture
this: electrons." And at this they'll leave.
In 1994, the New York
Rangers finally won the Stanley
Cup. I maintain that it had everything
to do with the tendency of
electrons to be reliably
spooky. And isn't that the truth? Don't
all things hinge upon atomic love
affairs? Like Arturo Gatti and
Micky Ward loved each other with their
fists? Like any great and long-lasting
love whose greatest affection is violence?
This is why the New York Rangers won.
This is why Micky Ward's Pangaea
is drifting apart across the blue.
This is why Frank Mir would not ever
win. This is why dinosaurs vanished.
The lettuce's electrons become
mine. A simpleton bird becomes the
dust. And I sit and smile at the day's
sober commute into the arms of
defeat. And I look at my hands and
wonder not if I'm vanishing, but
if ever I was. And every
night, I wait for the tiptoeing morn,
so I can assault it with all of
my evidence, and I can softly
say unto it, "This is what you have."
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Elf
What you lost (it was a thing) tumbled down the stairs with a great clatter. It reminded me of a car crash in a blender—fender bender frappé!
It woke me and I couldn't shake the ringing from my ears. Your first gift to me. How do you not remember any of this? You're a forgetful little thing. Are all of you like this?
Anyway, I followed the ringing that lingered like a scent hanged for being offensive, to where you were. You are a shuffling sort of a creature, in case that hasn't ever been mentioned to you, and so you shuffled along each nearly insurmountable stair, looking adorable. A tiny little man, slight as a teddy bear, as twisted in complexion as the trees in the yard. I decided to be best friends right there. Did I seem too eager? You have to remember this! I was much too eager when I plucked you up between my middle knuckles and carried you over to your thing. What a strange thing it was, much like a ball of water, shaking against the prison of its skin and jiggling offensively. And then you were gone. It was your source of power, I knew it immediately.
It woke me and I couldn't shake the ringing from my ears. Your first gift to me. How do you not remember any of this? You're a forgetful little thing. Are all of you like this?
Anyway, I followed the ringing that lingered like a scent hanged for being offensive, to where you were. You are a shuffling sort of a creature, in case that hasn't ever been mentioned to you, and so you shuffled along each nearly insurmountable stair, looking adorable. A tiny little man, slight as a teddy bear, as twisted in complexion as the trees in the yard. I decided to be best friends right there. Did I seem too eager? You have to remember this! I was much too eager when I plucked you up between my middle knuckles and carried you over to your thing. What a strange thing it was, much like a ball of water, shaking against the prison of its skin and jiggling offensively. And then you were gone. It was your source of power, I knew it immediately.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Adventures of Frog-Boy
Frog-Boy—not quite frog and not quite boy—sat contemplatively on a lily pad-shaped recliner. He looked toward the window. Past its glass pane, an oncoming storm gathered itself into a great gray fist. His eyes re-focused on the glass of the window. He now regarded the reflection of his own eyes and the mottled skin of his face. Today, he thought to himself, is really, really going to suck.
He pointed the TV remote at the wrong spot three times before it came alive. Then, dropping the remote into his lap, he shifted in his seat until he felt adequately sunk into the couch's plush cushioning.
"I am Frog-Boy," he said, "hear me nap."
At this, he shut the honey-dipped orbs of his eyes and fell asleep.
He pointed the TV remote at the wrong spot three times before it came alive. Then, dropping the remote into his lap, he shifted in his seat until he felt adequately sunk into the couch's plush cushioning.
"I am Frog-Boy," he said, "hear me nap."
At this, he shut the honey-dipped orbs of his eyes and fell asleep.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Determination.
The little worm caught the breeze and decided to himself that today was the day that he would slay a thousand dragons.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Greetings—A Woman's Perspective or a Room with a View of Everything but You
The light hesitated briefly before coming fully on. White splashed the room's forgotten corners, and—like a pie to the face—the memory of the night we practiced cart wheels on our knees was the first thing to greet me. I don't know why. Maybe I felt a little inept; a little chopped at the knees. The next thing was his scent. It must have clung for life, that month in solitude, to the inanimate furnishings pushed calculatedly into place to best illustrate to guests how we are visual, how we are wily and deranged.
It must have jumped for joy, the scent, upon being stirred by my presence (because a scent without a nose is like a memory without a heart to break: a useless hanging sort of thing). I hadn't been in here since, strangled by panic, I limped to my parent's front door, silently begging to be taken care of—because taken care of is what people need when they don't know what they need—and that was nearly a month ago.
I talk myself through the story of my life quite frequently this way. Sometimes, I even talk to an imagined version of him. I say, "How dare you?" He says, "It just happened."
I wonder why he never says the things I want him to say. I always make him respond just the way he actually would were he here. What does that say about me?
I finished separating my things from his at about 7pm. I didn't cry once. I accomplished this by removing all emotion from the actions. Instead, I was practicing a technical skill. Like taking apart a lanyard or cable rope, strand by strand. I was a master of deft maneuvers. This could not be done by just anyone. One epileptic seizure is all it would take to blow this whole operation. So I concentrated on not convulsing.
The day after I finished extricating my material possessions from his, I was at the laundromat washing his scent off of my things. The clothes were easy enough to handle, but it was the bed sheets that were my undoing. I lifted a sheet from the basket, and our smell grabbed me right by the nostrils. There was nothing subtle about it. It just came leaping at my face, screaming "You will pay attention to me." So I did.
I looked at the sheets. And right there was our entire story.
There was our hair, tangled and inextricably entwined—an impossible rope no master of deft maneuvers could unbind. Then there were our eye lashes, staked into the fabric like mile markers in a race we knew we couldn't finish. And finally were our stains—of love or misery, of ecstasy or lament—serving to punctuate the story of two people who belonged to each other for just a little while.
It must have jumped for joy, the scent, upon being stirred by my presence (because a scent without a nose is like a memory without a heart to break: a useless hanging sort of thing). I hadn't been in here since, strangled by panic, I limped to my parent's front door, silently begging to be taken care of—because taken care of is what people need when they don't know what they need—and that was nearly a month ago.
I talk myself through the story of my life quite frequently this way. Sometimes, I even talk to an imagined version of him. I say, "How dare you?" He says, "It just happened."
I wonder why he never says the things I want him to say. I always make him respond just the way he actually would were he here. What does that say about me?
I finished separating my things from his at about 7pm. I didn't cry once. I accomplished this by removing all emotion from the actions. Instead, I was practicing a technical skill. Like taking apart a lanyard or cable rope, strand by strand. I was a master of deft maneuvers. This could not be done by just anyone. One epileptic seizure is all it would take to blow this whole operation. So I concentrated on not convulsing.
The day after I finished extricating my material possessions from his, I was at the laundromat washing his scent off of my things. The clothes were easy enough to handle, but it was the bed sheets that were my undoing. I lifted a sheet from the basket, and our smell grabbed me right by the nostrils. There was nothing subtle about it. It just came leaping at my face, screaming "You will pay attention to me." So I did.
I looked at the sheets. And right there was our entire story.
There was our hair, tangled and inextricably entwined—an impossible rope no master of deft maneuvers could unbind. Then there were our eye lashes, staked into the fabric like mile markers in a race we knew we couldn't finish. And finally were our stains—of love or misery, of ecstasy or lament—serving to punctuate the story of two people who belonged to each other for just a little while.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Faces
"What's so funny?" Dr. Nrwal asked.
"Everything," I said, "sincerely, everything."
"That's a lot to find funny, Mr. Johns."
"I have a great sense of humor, Doctor."
Riding home on the N47, I couldn't shake loose this tiny cluster of giggles that had lodged itself in my throat. Every so often, a bit would break off and escape as a clipped, spasmodic snort, but for the most part, the giggles just sat there simmering like a slow-cooked mash somewhere between my chin and chest. An elderly black woman smiled at me from across the aisle.
It was my 30th birthday and the doctor had just informed me I was—wholly, utterly, dismayingly—healthy.
The bus stopped and lurched forward at regular intervals. I let my body go limp when the driver hit the brakes and I bounced around like an unstrung marionette. The elderly black woman smiled a little more weakly. I found the skin around her mouth to be exquisite.
Outside, the snow was still falling. None of it was sticking. It was too warm. The snow instantly became whatever it is that it becomes between ice and water—a great big slush that permeated the stitching of your boots, slowly freezing you from the ground up. It inevitably ruined your day one precious calorie of heat by one.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and let my breath fog up the outline of my face. Just then, I became so intensely nostalgic for the tiny crater where my nose now was, that I imagined the bus suddenly skidding off the road, swerving to miss pedestrians before finally flipping over onto its side, disfiguring me once more. Possibly, the crash could tear the flesh of my nose off my face. At very least, I could pop an eye, its gelatinous innards running a satisfying streak down my jawline.
Still leaning against the glass, I let my vision focus on my reflection. So blue, my eyes. So smooth, my skin. So flawless, and yet so vile. I banged my head against the glass a little more furiously than I had intended. The elderly black woman shuffled her feet under her.
"Excuse me, young man?"
"I'm sorry, did I disturb you, ma'am?"
"No, I don't mind. God knows I feel in my heart like banging my head against the wall for days sometimes. I just mean, are you okay? It seems to be that nobody's ever asking anybody if they're okay these days. It's like you could be walking down the street on fire and people would say, 'Oh, that old schtick,' and they'd keep on walking just the same as if they hadn't seen anything at all. But, young man, you look distressed! You really do. I know you'll probably say you're okay, but I can see for myself. You are certainly not okay."
"You're right ma'am. I've just been feeling a little out of sorts for the last seven years."
"Oh dear. Seven years, you say? Forgive me, if I'm wrong, but are you involved in..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God. I've never seen one like you. You're stunning."
"Yes, ma'am. I know. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
The bus stopped abruptly.
"This is my stop, ma'am."
"Everything," I said, "sincerely, everything."
"That's a lot to find funny, Mr. Johns."
"I have a great sense of humor, Doctor."
Riding home on the N47, I couldn't shake loose this tiny cluster of giggles that had lodged itself in my throat. Every so often, a bit would break off and escape as a clipped, spasmodic snort, but for the most part, the giggles just sat there simmering like a slow-cooked mash somewhere between my chin and chest. An elderly black woman smiled at me from across the aisle.
It was my 30th birthday and the doctor had just informed me I was—wholly, utterly, dismayingly—healthy.
The bus stopped and lurched forward at regular intervals. I let my body go limp when the driver hit the brakes and I bounced around like an unstrung marionette. The elderly black woman smiled a little more weakly. I found the skin around her mouth to be exquisite.
Outside, the snow was still falling. None of it was sticking. It was too warm. The snow instantly became whatever it is that it becomes between ice and water—a great big slush that permeated the stitching of your boots, slowly freezing you from the ground up. It inevitably ruined your day one precious calorie of heat by one.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and let my breath fog up the outline of my face. Just then, I became so intensely nostalgic for the tiny crater where my nose now was, that I imagined the bus suddenly skidding off the road, swerving to miss pedestrians before finally flipping over onto its side, disfiguring me once more. Possibly, the crash could tear the flesh of my nose off my face. At very least, I could pop an eye, its gelatinous innards running a satisfying streak down my jawline.
Still leaning against the glass, I let my vision focus on my reflection. So blue, my eyes. So smooth, my skin. So flawless, and yet so vile. I banged my head against the glass a little more furiously than I had intended. The elderly black woman shuffled her feet under her.
"Excuse me, young man?"
"I'm sorry, did I disturb you, ma'am?"
"No, I don't mind. God knows I feel in my heart like banging my head against the wall for days sometimes. I just mean, are you okay? It seems to be that nobody's ever asking anybody if they're okay these days. It's like you could be walking down the street on fire and people would say, 'Oh, that old schtick,' and they'd keep on walking just the same as if they hadn't seen anything at all. But, young man, you look distressed! You really do. I know you'll probably say you're okay, but I can see for myself. You are certainly not okay."
"You're right ma'am. I've just been feeling a little out of sorts for the last seven years."
"Oh dear. Seven years, you say? Forgive me, if I'm wrong, but are you involved in..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God. I've never seen one like you. You're stunning."
"Yes, ma'am. I know. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
The bus stopped abruptly.
"This is my stop, ma'am."
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Vlad in the Shit
"That's quite a big game to be talking, for such a little guy. Do me a favor? Keep talking."
"I will."
"Good."
"Your mother's a whore."
For a moment, neither Vlad nor the much larger man moved a hair. They stood there by the beat-up wood of the bar, with the sounds of the place just cascading over everything. This place was dirty. How we ended up squaring off against the Irish boys in this place, I don't remember. It was that sort of place. It soaked into your skin, made you act a certain way. It made you feel dangerous. And we were drenched in it. Especially Vlad. He looked tough standing his ground against this sandpaper-faced brute, but a second later he was on his back. At least four flannel clad individuals were blurs of fists and elbows coming up and down again at his shape. Somewhere between the jukebox and the rest room is where he ended up. A John Mellencamp song came on, and I decided I was going to do something stupid.
"Hey. Fucktart."
The Irish boys turned toward the sound of my voice.
"How about a fair fight? Or are you all going for a quick bathroom break together, maybe play with each other in the stalls a bit?"
Now, in my not-quite limited experience with barroom brawls, I've found that a well placed quip can do wonders for disarming the bomb of an ugly situation. This is why I was surprised when none of the Irish fellows cracked the edge of a smile. It was just rage in their eyes. I thought to myself, this is a huge mistake. A smaller guy, about my size came right for me. Possibly, he didn't notice I was holding a glass mug in each fist. Possibly, he just didn't care. I got him right in the temple with the mug in my right, and it didn't even break. There was a satisfying thud that sprung the other boys straight into action. Now there were five.
What these guys didn't realize is that I've much more experience in getting the piss beat out of me by multiple parties than singly. I find that the more people there are trying to get a piece of you, the greater the chances are that not a one will really be able to put too much power into it. Arms get tangled, fists get deflected—it's a much uglier thing to watch than to actually be at the bottom of. When I dropped, the mugs in my fists smashed against the cement floor. Now they were a jagged mess of thick angular glass. I cut, slashed and stabbed their knees and thighs until they backed off. One of the boys got it real bad. The blood flowed like a burst pipe on the inside of his leg.
"What the fuck did you do that for? What the fuck is the matter with you? Somebody call a fucking ambulance!"
"Go fuck your mothers, you fucking pussies!" I yelled.
"Geez Christ, man, calm down. Get your buddy and take a fucking hike, huh? Before the cops show."
It was then that I remembered Vlad. I scanned the floor before seeing him sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. The bastard was just drinking a beer, gingerly as anything. As if he were waiting for me to finish up in the rest room or something.
And that's the way the sonofabitch always was. He had a knack for the setting things into motion part of things, but he was always ducking out mid-shitstorm and leaving the mess for some poor moron who happened to call himself a friend that day. It was impressive, really.
"I will."
"Good."
"Your mother's a whore."
For a moment, neither Vlad nor the much larger man moved a hair. They stood there by the beat-up wood of the bar, with the sounds of the place just cascading over everything. This place was dirty. How we ended up squaring off against the Irish boys in this place, I don't remember. It was that sort of place. It soaked into your skin, made you act a certain way. It made you feel dangerous. And we were drenched in it. Especially Vlad. He looked tough standing his ground against this sandpaper-faced brute, but a second later he was on his back. At least four flannel clad individuals were blurs of fists and elbows coming up and down again at his shape. Somewhere between the jukebox and the rest room is where he ended up. A John Mellencamp song came on, and I decided I was going to do something stupid.
"Hey. Fucktart."
The Irish boys turned toward the sound of my voice.
"How about a fair fight? Or are you all going for a quick bathroom break together, maybe play with each other in the stalls a bit?"
Now, in my not-quite limited experience with barroom brawls, I've found that a well placed quip can do wonders for disarming the bomb of an ugly situation. This is why I was surprised when none of the Irish fellows cracked the edge of a smile. It was just rage in their eyes. I thought to myself, this is a huge mistake. A smaller guy, about my size came right for me. Possibly, he didn't notice I was holding a glass mug in each fist. Possibly, he just didn't care. I got him right in the temple with the mug in my right, and it didn't even break. There was a satisfying thud that sprung the other boys straight into action. Now there were five.
What these guys didn't realize is that I've much more experience in getting the piss beat out of me by multiple parties than singly. I find that the more people there are trying to get a piece of you, the greater the chances are that not a one will really be able to put too much power into it. Arms get tangled, fists get deflected—it's a much uglier thing to watch than to actually be at the bottom of. When I dropped, the mugs in my fists smashed against the cement floor. Now they were a jagged mess of thick angular glass. I cut, slashed and stabbed their knees and thighs until they backed off. One of the boys got it real bad. The blood flowed like a burst pipe on the inside of his leg.
"What the fuck did you do that for? What the fuck is the matter with you? Somebody call a fucking ambulance!"
"Go fuck your mothers, you fucking pussies!" I yelled.
"Geez Christ, man, calm down. Get your buddy and take a fucking hike, huh? Before the cops show."
It was then that I remembered Vlad. I scanned the floor before seeing him sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. The bastard was just drinking a beer, gingerly as anything. As if he were waiting for me to finish up in the rest room or something.
And that's the way the sonofabitch always was. He had a knack for the setting things into motion part of things, but he was always ducking out mid-shitstorm and leaving the mess for some poor moron who happened to call himself a friend that day. It was impressive, really.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Andres
Andres stepped into a tangle of light, looked above him to the sparse canopy of trees for a moment, and then sat down. He pitched his wide-brimmed hat back onto the crown of his head. Behind him, he heard the dogs tied to the cement wash basins snoring loudly in the shade. He cocked his head toward them for a minute before looking ahead to where the trees stretched out toward the inevitable meniscus of the valley.
Just past the useless palm and bursera trees, the land sloped gently down, seemingly forever, spanning acre upon acre of coffee fields before settling into the cradle of the valley. There, a small stream carried an endless brigade of leaves and twigs off to the river.
Andres sat there, illuminated in patches where the canopy allowed, and wondered aloud, "Where are you, you little fucker?"
Just past the useless palm and bursera trees, the land sloped gently down, seemingly forever, spanning acre upon acre of coffee fields before settling into the cradle of the valley. There, a small stream carried an endless brigade of leaves and twigs off to the river.
Andres sat there, illuminated in patches where the canopy allowed, and wondered aloud, "Where are you, you little fucker?"
Monday, February 2, 2009
All Night
All night, sleeping, I push unreal creatures off my chest. They're wild things come to lick the salts from my skin. I smile at first as a corrugated tongue sweeps my collarbone clean. Then, becoming aware of the danger of fangs, I attempt to scream the raw tones of human distress. The sound reaches my ears as a muted grunt, the same low groan that escaped my body as a boy writhing in the sand beneath a dock with a girl who was more woman than child. Now, I am hyper-aware of the weight on me. Its expansiveness feels as large as the dark behind my eyelids. Mercifully, I'm able to break the hold of sleep. The scream that I wanted is finally released. And I look around only to find the bedroom still and quiet as the slivers of moonlight that paint my legs gray.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hurricanes to be cont
The wind bent the few trees we could see from the basement window. Branches tipped invisible hats to friends beyond the horizon. I lit the scented candle on the sill, took one last look at the outside, and lowered the blinds behind it.
"It's my turn again already? I'm running out of jokes." I said.
"It's okay. One last one. We'll save the rest for later." She responded.
"Okay, here's a tame one my grandmother used to tell. So there's a couple of barnyard animals out to eat at a restaurant and the waiter says, 'So, what’ll it be?' And the one says, 'I know what I want but I feel sort of dumb ordering it.' And the other says, 'Well I know what I want but I feel sort of fat ordering it.' And after a lot of bickering and back and forth, the waiter finally says, 'Well, if I may be so bold, everyone here is expecting you, sir, to make an ass of yourself and you, sir, to make a pig of yourself, so I'm pretty sure you're in the clear."
"That's cute." And she smiled like a pageant winner: all teeth, no soul.
"Well it's not the best joke, but it's the first one I've ever known, so there it is and that makes it special, I suppose."
After that, we went silent for a while. She sat there on the pool table knocking the cue ball into the 9 ball. I settled into the loveseat I had against the east wall, across from the TV that wasn’t working. It was just that way for a bit and I didn’t really mind it. The sound of the wind beating up against the side of the house and the low rumble of the cue ball on the felt were a lullaby. I could have done without the inevitable clack of the cue against the 9 as they met, but I didn’t want to ask Elsa to stop. I knew that once she was done with the pool balls, she’d want to start up talking again. And sure as I sit here now telling the events of this day, the very second that woman lost interest in the cue ball, she turned back to me.
“So, do you think it’s a hurricane?”
“I think that’s just crazy, now. Hurricanes don’t just appear out of nowhere. People track them. There are warnings. People have jobs where they just sit all day and watch weather patterns. Besides, hurricanes don’t just drop out of the sky. This storm would have come through from somewhere. Chances are if we haven’t heard about this storm coming, it probably isn’t much to worry about.”
“Sounds like something to be worrying about. You hear it out there?”
“Yes, I hear it. I’m not deaf. I hear it. It’s just a lot of wind.”
We went quiet again after that, but the damage had been done. I took off my boots and socks. I rubbed them into the carpet to try to tickle my feet. It was a trick I learned from coach back when I was playing ball. During states, I was cramping real bad, and the salt pills weren’t putting a dent in any of it. Coach said, tickle yourself. It releases a chemical in your brain that soothes you out, he said. I’d been doing it ever since that, anytime I needed a little extra help. Just then, I remembered that we left everything out.
“Shit, Elsa, I have to go bring the stuff in, I’ll be right back.”
“But the food’s probably ruined all anyway.”
“I couldn’t care less about the food, but we got about 50 beers out there, now hold on and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay here, I’ll be back.”
I opened the door that leads to the back stairs and heard a high whistling sweeping through the dark. It was drafty and I could already feel that the temperature had dropped some. The truth is, I could give a shit about a few beers, but my own eyes needed to see what was tearing through here.
Before I stepped out, I could almost convince myself that it was just a storm, but crossing the threshold and stepping out, exposing myself to it, I knew this was not ordinary, and my heart beat into my throat.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but when I was able to steal a look around on my way to the cooler, it was the trees that scared me. They were rocking around in that wind like they could be swept away at any moment, bent like overgrown hunchbacks stooping to get under something.
I picked up the cooler and thought to myself, “Please. Dear God, please, let Roberta and Neil get back from the market all right.”
They’d been gone for almost two hours now and there was only about 5 miles to the store from the house. We needed limes for the Coronas because we weren’t anticipating Elsa and Neil being so insistent on having them with their beer. Otherwise, I would have bought all that fancy stuff the day before when I picked up their ridiculous Mexican beer at the Food Lion. Elsa just about threw a fit when I said we were finished with the only two limes I bought.
“Two limes?” she asked, “You only bought two limes for all this Corona? Well that won’t do. Neil why don’t you run the market, pick us up some limes?”
“I’ll go too,” said Roberta, “I want to grab a few things for dessert.”
God I just wanted Roberta to be back now.
"It's my turn again already? I'm running out of jokes." I said.
"It's okay. One last one. We'll save the rest for later." She responded.
"Okay, here's a tame one my grandmother used to tell. So there's a couple of barnyard animals out to eat at a restaurant and the waiter says, 'So, what’ll it be?' And the one says, 'I know what I want but I feel sort of dumb ordering it.' And the other says, 'Well I know what I want but I feel sort of fat ordering it.' And after a lot of bickering and back and forth, the waiter finally says, 'Well, if I may be so bold, everyone here is expecting you, sir, to make an ass of yourself and you, sir, to make a pig of yourself, so I'm pretty sure you're in the clear."
"That's cute." And she smiled like a pageant winner: all teeth, no soul.
"Well it's not the best joke, but it's the first one I've ever known, so there it is and that makes it special, I suppose."
After that, we went silent for a while. She sat there on the pool table knocking the cue ball into the 9 ball. I settled into the loveseat I had against the east wall, across from the TV that wasn’t working. It was just that way for a bit and I didn’t really mind it. The sound of the wind beating up against the side of the house and the low rumble of the cue ball on the felt were a lullaby. I could have done without the inevitable clack of the cue against the 9 as they met, but I didn’t want to ask Elsa to stop. I knew that once she was done with the pool balls, she’d want to start up talking again. And sure as I sit here now telling the events of this day, the very second that woman lost interest in the cue ball, she turned back to me.
“So, do you think it’s a hurricane?”
“I think that’s just crazy, now. Hurricanes don’t just appear out of nowhere. People track them. There are warnings. People have jobs where they just sit all day and watch weather patterns. Besides, hurricanes don’t just drop out of the sky. This storm would have come through from somewhere. Chances are if we haven’t heard about this storm coming, it probably isn’t much to worry about.”
“Sounds like something to be worrying about. You hear it out there?”
“Yes, I hear it. I’m not deaf. I hear it. It’s just a lot of wind.”
We went quiet again after that, but the damage had been done. I took off my boots and socks. I rubbed them into the carpet to try to tickle my feet. It was a trick I learned from coach back when I was playing ball. During states, I was cramping real bad, and the salt pills weren’t putting a dent in any of it. Coach said, tickle yourself. It releases a chemical in your brain that soothes you out, he said. I’d been doing it ever since that, anytime I needed a little extra help. Just then, I remembered that we left everything out.
“Shit, Elsa, I have to go bring the stuff in, I’ll be right back.”
“But the food’s probably ruined all anyway.”
“I couldn’t care less about the food, but we got about 50 beers out there, now hold on and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you stay here, I’ll be back.”
I opened the door that leads to the back stairs and heard a high whistling sweeping through the dark. It was drafty and I could already feel that the temperature had dropped some. The truth is, I could give a shit about a few beers, but my own eyes needed to see what was tearing through here.
Before I stepped out, I could almost convince myself that it was just a storm, but crossing the threshold and stepping out, exposing myself to it, I knew this was not ordinary, and my heart beat into my throat.
I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but when I was able to steal a look around on my way to the cooler, it was the trees that scared me. They were rocking around in that wind like they could be swept away at any moment, bent like overgrown hunchbacks stooping to get under something.
I picked up the cooler and thought to myself, “Please. Dear God, please, let Roberta and Neil get back from the market all right.”
They’d been gone for almost two hours now and there was only about 5 miles to the store from the house. We needed limes for the Coronas because we weren’t anticipating Elsa and Neil being so insistent on having them with their beer. Otherwise, I would have bought all that fancy stuff the day before when I picked up their ridiculous Mexican beer at the Food Lion. Elsa just about threw a fit when I said we were finished with the only two limes I bought.
“Two limes?” she asked, “You only bought two limes for all this Corona? Well that won’t do. Neil why don’t you run the market, pick us up some limes?”
“I’ll go too,” said Roberta, “I want to grab a few things for dessert.”
God I just wanted Roberta to be back now.
Monday, January 5, 2009
This is the Morning
By three, I'll be half-crazy with anticipation.
I like knowing things that nobody else does.
That's why I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.
Today the world will end.
How?
We will be ripped to infinitesimal shreds by werewolves of neon light.
Big hulking things like you see when you rub your eyes too hard.
They'll come from between things,
like a cut opened on a prizefighter's forehead.
And they'll be a swarm on us.
Little minotaurs breaking us up atom by atom,
they'll shake us free of our hold on life.
Some of us will be spared.
The ones that don't mind skulking where they've always been:
between things.
We'll be turned to the darkness that holds nothing in its place.
We will be the great soup of night.
And even black holes will burn brighter and hotter than we.
I like knowing things that nobody else does.
That's why I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.
Today the world will end.
How?
We will be ripped to infinitesimal shreds by werewolves of neon light.
Big hulking things like you see when you rub your eyes too hard.
They'll come from between things,
like a cut opened on a prizefighter's forehead.
And they'll be a swarm on us.
Little minotaurs breaking us up atom by atom,
they'll shake us free of our hold on life.
Some of us will be spared.
The ones that don't mind skulking where they've always been:
between things.
We'll be turned to the darkness that holds nothing in its place.
We will be the great soup of night.
And even black holes will burn brighter and hotter than we.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Youth and Old Men
It's a crime the way that girl walks. Simply a crime. She ought to be arrested. Tried. Lock her away.
We' re all agreed on that?
"Mmhmm."
What's she got in them hips, anyway? Something like a freight train moving like that.
I was 20 years younger I'd be all over that.
Damn that girl.
They don't tell you the penalty for growing old is the constant reminder of your youth slinking up and down the streets like a thief proud of what he done.
They don't tell you about the acid under your skin.
How it rushes like an upturned river every time a young thing looks at you like you're the punchline to a joke she's heard too many times today.
Damn that girl.
"Right, man. It ain't right."
I know it ain't right. Nobody has to tell me it ain't right. When do we turn into old shoes?
"Yea, when exactly does that happen?"
I don't know. I don't like it one bit. Lock that girl up. Lock 'em all up. Leave us old folks to turn to dust in peace. I don't need these damned beams of sunshine breaking my concentration all day.
"Tell it."
I will, boy. It's just not right. I got it in my mind that I'm the one's gonna have to change all this. I've had enough. I'm not dead yet, am I? There's too much beauty out there for me to be sitting here talking to you twisted fools, looking like a lot of rubbish left out to shift in the sun.
"Yea? What are you going to do about it, huh?"
Something.
"Whole lot of nothin."
Yea, we'll see.
"We'll see a whole lot of nothin."
"Gentlemen."
See, now. Here's a good girl. This is a girl.
"Thank you, Joe."
It's nothin. I was just remarking to these boys about the miserable affair it is growing old.
"Like we don't know, he's telling us."
These old fools are content to let the days whir past them.
"Nothin's whirring here."
Everything's whirring. Wouldn't you say so darlin?
"Yes, sir. It's a fast moving world out there."
Nevermind the world, I mean life. I give a damn about the world. I'm talking the stuff that makes a heart rattle in the chest. The good shit. The meaning of life is living. And we all stopped living. We just letting you young folks do it for us. You're a good girl though, beautiful. Real good girl.
"Thanks, Joe. What else can I get you?"
Four more cups of my namesake, please. I think these old fucks need another bit of bite in their sacks. They're getting all flimsy on me. I'm here trying to have a conversation with them and they're blankets in the wind. My words just blowing right through them. They don't give a shit.
"Of course they do, Joe."
We' re all agreed on that?
"Mmhmm."
What's she got in them hips, anyway? Something like a freight train moving like that.
I was 20 years younger I'd be all over that.
Damn that girl.
They don't tell you the penalty for growing old is the constant reminder of your youth slinking up and down the streets like a thief proud of what he done.
They don't tell you about the acid under your skin.
How it rushes like an upturned river every time a young thing looks at you like you're the punchline to a joke she's heard too many times today.
Damn that girl.
"Right, man. It ain't right."
I know it ain't right. Nobody has to tell me it ain't right. When do we turn into old shoes?
"Yea, when exactly does that happen?"
I don't know. I don't like it one bit. Lock that girl up. Lock 'em all up. Leave us old folks to turn to dust in peace. I don't need these damned beams of sunshine breaking my concentration all day.
"Tell it."
I will, boy. It's just not right. I got it in my mind that I'm the one's gonna have to change all this. I've had enough. I'm not dead yet, am I? There's too much beauty out there for me to be sitting here talking to you twisted fools, looking like a lot of rubbish left out to shift in the sun.
"Yea? What are you going to do about it, huh?"
Something.
"Whole lot of nothin."
Yea, we'll see.
"We'll see a whole lot of nothin."
"Gentlemen."
See, now. Here's a good girl. This is a girl.
"Thank you, Joe."
It's nothin. I was just remarking to these boys about the miserable affair it is growing old.
"Like we don't know, he's telling us."
These old fools are content to let the days whir past them.
"Nothin's whirring here."
Everything's whirring. Wouldn't you say so darlin?
"Yes, sir. It's a fast moving world out there."
Nevermind the world, I mean life. I give a damn about the world. I'm talking the stuff that makes a heart rattle in the chest. The good shit. The meaning of life is living. And we all stopped living. We just letting you young folks do it for us. You're a good girl though, beautiful. Real good girl.
"Thanks, Joe. What else can I get you?"
Four more cups of my namesake, please. I think these old fucks need another bit of bite in their sacks. They're getting all flimsy on me. I'm here trying to have a conversation with them and they're blankets in the wind. My words just blowing right through them. They don't give a shit.
"Of course they do, Joe."
Friday, November 7, 2008
The First and Second Funniest
"There isn't room for two in there, " I tapped on her chest where I approximated her heart to be.
She waved me off.
My cat scratched at the door.
"You want out, buddy? Join the club," I said.
"Oh Fuck you."
Three hours later I was drunk.
"Another?"
"Yesss. Ablumber," and as simple as that, I was asked to leave. That's the trouble with Applebee's. It's okay if you're cock-eyed drunk and screaming at a flat screen TV for your football team, but one guy sits at the bar drinking nothing but gin for three hours, breaking up the monotony with short bouts of quiet sobbing, and all of a sudden people are disturbed. Excuse me for being an extroverted introvert. I'll take my pain into the shifting dark of a back alley somewhere away from your precious jalapeño poppers.
Three months later, I'm at the bus stop by the Wendy's next to my house. I'm trying to call Bryan, but the damn 2 is stuck on my cell phone, and it's just the most irritating little tone coming out of this thing, so I chucked it across Hillside Ave. It flitted along the whole way over four lanes of traffic, looking like a tar-dipped robin, and finally came to a stop right outside the doors to the CVS pharmacy. To the only on-looker, Cheryl, it was the most hilarious thing she had ever seen. I would later half-seriously challenge this claim, but only half-seriously because I rather enjoyed being the most something to her.
Anyway. I'm far from rich. I'm a copywriter at an advertising and marketing agency. I didn't throw the phone because I have the means to replace it. I threw the phone because—well, for the same reason I've broken three of the knuckles on my right hand, on three separate occasions. So at this point, I've got to go pick up the phone that I've made a big show of disposing of across the street. According to Cheryl, this was the funniest part of it. She said it would have been funny if I had walked away. It would have still made it into 95% of her humorous anecdote conversations. But this was the cream to top it all off.
"You stared at it for a moment from across the street, then you got this look on your face like you were admitting defeat and you fast-walked over. It was so hang-dog. So punchline to a joke." She said.
"I'm a punchline to a joke."
"Absolutely," she got up and fed another dollar into the jukebox, "and that's when I remembered where I know you from. You're also the second funniest thing I've ever seen."
"Oh, good. I hate competition."
She put the saddest music I had ever heard on. Fantastic, here come the unprompted confessions, I thought, here comes what's left of my dignity. It was like she had the User's Manual for the Miserable Bastard memorized. She knew just how to drag the schlub out of me.
"Yea," she said "you're the dude from Applebee's. The crier, right?"
"I think you're mistaking me for someone else."
"No way. I'll never forget that hang-dog look. You looked like the saddest person in the world."
"I'm glad my misery amused you."
"So it was you."
I fought the urge to spill the entire contents of my soul out onto the high table we were standing at. I imagined myself presenting it to her in something like a soggy Whole Foods tote bag, pulling out handfuls and letting her examine them as they slipped through my fingers hitting the table with a satisfying series of slaps. They'd resemble a fish's innards, because nothing quite glistens like fish innards and that's what the injured bits of ourselves do. They glisten beneath low barroom lights and get pretzel crumbs stuck in them when you sweep them up into your arms and drop them back where they came from.
She waved me off.
My cat scratched at the door.
"You want out, buddy? Join the club," I said.
"Oh Fuck you."
Three hours later I was drunk.
"Another?"
"Yesss. Ablumber," and as simple as that, I was asked to leave. That's the trouble with Applebee's. It's okay if you're cock-eyed drunk and screaming at a flat screen TV for your football team, but one guy sits at the bar drinking nothing but gin for three hours, breaking up the monotony with short bouts of quiet sobbing, and all of a sudden people are disturbed. Excuse me for being an extroverted introvert. I'll take my pain into the shifting dark of a back alley somewhere away from your precious jalapeño poppers.
Three months later, I'm at the bus stop by the Wendy's next to my house. I'm trying to call Bryan, but the damn 2 is stuck on my cell phone, and it's just the most irritating little tone coming out of this thing, so I chucked it across Hillside Ave. It flitted along the whole way over four lanes of traffic, looking like a tar-dipped robin, and finally came to a stop right outside the doors to the CVS pharmacy. To the only on-looker, Cheryl, it was the most hilarious thing she had ever seen. I would later half-seriously challenge this claim, but only half-seriously because I rather enjoyed being the most something to her.
Anyway. I'm far from rich. I'm a copywriter at an advertising and marketing agency. I didn't throw the phone because I have the means to replace it. I threw the phone because—well, for the same reason I've broken three of the knuckles on my right hand, on three separate occasions. So at this point, I've got to go pick up the phone that I've made a big show of disposing of across the street. According to Cheryl, this was the funniest part of it. She said it would have been funny if I had walked away. It would have still made it into 95% of her humorous anecdote conversations. But this was the cream to top it all off.
"You stared at it for a moment from across the street, then you got this look on your face like you were admitting defeat and you fast-walked over. It was so hang-dog. So punchline to a joke." She said.
"I'm a punchline to a joke."
"Absolutely," she got up and fed another dollar into the jukebox, "and that's when I remembered where I know you from. You're also the second funniest thing I've ever seen."
"Oh, good. I hate competition."
She put the saddest music I had ever heard on. Fantastic, here come the unprompted confessions, I thought, here comes what's left of my dignity. It was like she had the User's Manual for the Miserable Bastard memorized. She knew just how to drag the schlub out of me.
"Yea," she said "you're the dude from Applebee's. The crier, right?"
"I think you're mistaking me for someone else."
"No way. I'll never forget that hang-dog look. You looked like the saddest person in the world."
"I'm glad my misery amused you."
"So it was you."
I fought the urge to spill the entire contents of my soul out onto the high table we were standing at. I imagined myself presenting it to her in something like a soggy Whole Foods tote bag, pulling out handfuls and letting her examine them as they slipped through my fingers hitting the table with a satisfying series of slaps. They'd resemble a fish's innards, because nothing quite glistens like fish innards and that's what the injured bits of ourselves do. They glisten beneath low barroom lights and get pretzel crumbs stuck in them when you sweep them up into your arms and drop them back where they came from.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Can
The words were on the screen for a full five seconds before I registered their meaning: Barrack Obama Elected President of the United States of America.
I sipped my beer and looked over to my left. There you were and—for the first time in weeks—a genuine smile. I wanted to hold you, but I knew I would probably ruin this moment for you.
I finished my beer and looked at the area above the TV while people danced and hugged. I cried tears of elation for my country. But every third tear was for us.
I sipped my beer and looked over to my left. There you were and—for the first time in weeks—a genuine smile. I wanted to hold you, but I knew I would probably ruin this moment for you.
I finished my beer and looked at the area above the TV while people danced and hugged. I cried tears of elation for my country. But every third tear was for us.
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Difference
Jesus—
Is blurted aloud
when a dollface shakes her thing across
Madison Ave.
Men turned to gelatin
in their Lexuses
or work vans,
all say:
Jesus.
God—
You say to yourself.
God, God, God.
In the catacomb of your apartment,
your prayers keep the phone from ringing.
Keep the voice from saying
what your heart
can't bear.
Is blurted aloud
when a dollface shakes her thing across
Madison Ave.
Men turned to gelatin
in their Lexuses
or work vans,
all say:
Jesus.
God—
You say to yourself.
God, God, God.
In the catacomb of your apartment,
your prayers keep the phone from ringing.
Keep the voice from saying
what your heart
can't bear.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Rick Horowitz Adderall Experiment
Recently, there has been much talk in the media centered around the prescription drug, Adderall. There are differing opinions on the effectiveness of prescribing Adderall to treat ADHD, but one thing is for sure: it isn't stopping parents from feeding it to their kids by the scoop full. But not Rick Horowitz. When Dr. Thalluri prescribed my son, David, 40mg of Adderall a day, I wasn't about to just rollover and accept it. That's why I'm conducting what I'm calling, The Rick Horowitz Adderall Experiment. My aim is to publish this paper in one or any of the more progressive medical journals out there, as my methods might seem a little , "fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants," for some hoity-toities in the medical and scientific sectors. I assure you, however, that there is nothing amateurish about this experiment. Coming from a steel-working background, I can affirm that the trial and error method is one upon which entire industries have been built...quite literally. So without any further preamble, allow me to introduce the test subject: My brother-in-law Tommy. The subject is 35 years old and in moderate to poor physical shape. Mentally, he is quite scatter-brained and had he been born twenty years later, might have been the poster child for pharmacopsychiatry. The experiment, conducted once before Adderall is administered and once after 40mg of Adderall is administered, consists of Tommy scribbling down his thoughts as they come to him on a piece of loose leaf taped to my kitchen table. Below are the findings.
Before Adderall:
New Night Rider. Good luck. Car looks gay. TiVo.
Economy's [doodle of phallus]
[second doodle of phallus]
[doodle of car jumping over phalluses]
Need some trim.
Could use a trim.
Trim's an airplane term.
[doodle of phallus as airplane]
Plane looks like a sandwich.
At this point, the subject asks for a sandwich.
Fuck this. I should be able to have a sandwich if I want a damn sandwich. That's just a little control issue you got there.
[doodle of phallus bearing resemblance to Rick Horowitz]
I'm thirsty too.
[doodle of a glass of liquid with arrow pointing to it.]
Lemonade.
I need a date. With a woman. What's wrong with a fella like me?
[doodle of a phallus]
This is dumb.
This is dummy. Ventriloquist.
Nyquil. I dream funny things on Nyquil. I want a lemonade.
After Adderall:
Let's see.
What am I thinking about?
Ah, I'm thinking about women. I'd like a date. I deserve a date. Possibly, I'm the only one whom can be of any help to my situation in this matter. How can I help myself in this matter? Perhaps I need to inwardly examine myself to determine where I've gone wrong in the past. Maybe a list of my strengths and weaknesses might help.
My strengths:
Tall.
25% Photogenic. (25% of the time, not 25% of my body, although 7.25% of my body is photogenic 90% of the time.[LOL.])
Persuasive. (Manipulative? What a revelation. I'm manipulative. I suppose this could go under the weaknesses column too, but really, for the purposes of securing a mate, a little persuasiveness could be just the sort of Darwinistic edge that could put a rather homely or lackluster specimen over the top into contention. Strength column)
Intimidating features. (Eyebrows come to point in the middle like the roof of a house or an obtuse letter "A", prominent cheekbones, strong square jaw—evil incarnate, really.)
Puppy dog eyes.
Offbeat sense of humor.
Comfortable with body, sexuality. (I doodle phalluses as a subconscious affirmation of my masculinity and virility. I don't believe this is lost on an objective observer.)
My weaknesses:
Comfortable with body, sexuality. (I doodle phalluses as a subconscious affirmation of my masculinity and virility. This may be lost on an objective observer.)
Tendency to overreact. Violently. (Good god. I can be a real Neanderthal. While something like intimidating eyebrows is something to be admired [because it is the implication of violence, an unspoken intimation of something {That "Je ne sais crois," perhaps, I suppose},however, violence is simply vile.])
My hands are EXTREMELY slow when it comes to writing, apparently. (I think I may be cramping in the wrist.)
Easily persuaded.
Slight paunch. (Mental note: get gym membership—got a free trial last week---check in garbage...last week's garbage is in the shed until tomorrow. Thursday is bulk.)
Balding. (Shaved head, but I still place this one in the weakness column.)
Honest. (Selfishly honest. Honest is only a double-edged sword when wielded nobly, otherwise honesty is as selfish a pursuit as the straight-laced cop-on-all-those-1970s-movies's pursuit of living by the book because he[she?] can't stand to leave him[her?]self vulnerable to the possibility of living, I mean really living. Without rules. Relying on only your emotion to guide you [has there ever been a truer compass than the heart?]. )
Optimist!
Sarcastic. (Acerbic.)
Unabashedly perverse. (Don't want to elaborate on this.)
Obsessed with feelings. (They're so interesting! Along this same line of thought—aren't thoughts just a hoot? What are they, and why are they there? Just fartin' around up there waiting to jump out of your mouth and terrify people. Wacky.)
Forgetful.
Lemonade.
At this point, the subject stopped writing and the previously furious scratching of his pencil gave way to an intense silence. Stillness. When asked what he was thinking about, he responded that with each successive minute he was coming to new revelations about the meaning of life.
Before Adderall:
New Night Rider. Good luck. Car looks gay. TiVo.
Economy's [doodle of phallus]
[second doodle of phallus]
[doodle of car jumping over phalluses]
Need some trim.
Could use a trim.
Trim's an airplane term.
[doodle of phallus as airplane]
Plane looks like a sandwich.
At this point, the subject asks for a sandwich.
Fuck this. I should be able to have a sandwich if I want a damn sandwich. That's just a little control issue you got there.
[doodle of phallus bearing resemblance to Rick Horowitz]
I'm thirsty too.
[doodle of a glass of liquid with arrow pointing to it.]
Lemonade.
I need a date. With a woman. What's wrong with a fella like me?
[doodle of a phallus]
This is dumb.
This is dummy. Ventriloquist.
Nyquil. I dream funny things on Nyquil. I want a lemonade.
After Adderall:
Let's see.
What am I thinking about?
Ah, I'm thinking about women. I'd like a date. I deserve a date. Possibly, I'm the only one whom can be of any help to my situation in this matter. How can I help myself in this matter? Perhaps I need to inwardly examine myself to determine where I've gone wrong in the past. Maybe a list of my strengths and weaknesses might help.
My strengths:
Tall.
25% Photogenic. (25% of the time, not 25% of my body, although 7.25% of my body is photogenic 90% of the time.[LOL.])
Persuasive. (Manipulative? What a revelation. I'm manipulative. I suppose this could go under the weaknesses column too, but really, for the purposes of securing a mate, a little persuasiveness could be just the sort of Darwinistic edge that could put a rather homely or lackluster specimen over the top into contention. Strength column)
Intimidating features. (Eyebrows come to point in the middle like the roof of a house or an obtuse letter "A", prominent cheekbones, strong square jaw—evil incarnate, really.)
Puppy dog eyes.
Offbeat sense of humor.
Comfortable with body, sexuality. (I doodle phalluses as a subconscious affirmation of my masculinity and virility. I don't believe this is lost on an objective observer.)
My weaknesses:
Comfortable with body, sexuality. (I doodle phalluses as a subconscious affirmation of my masculinity and virility. This may be lost on an objective observer.)
Tendency to overreact. Violently. (Good god. I can be a real Neanderthal. While something like intimidating eyebrows is something to be admired [because it is the implication of violence, an unspoken intimation of something {That "Je ne sais crois," perhaps, I suppose},however, violence is simply vile.])
My hands are EXTREMELY slow when it comes to writing, apparently. (I think I may be cramping in the wrist.)
Easily persuaded.
Slight paunch. (Mental note: get gym membership—got a free trial last week---check in garbage...last week's garbage is in the shed until tomorrow. Thursday is bulk.)
Balding. (Shaved head, but I still place this one in the weakness column.)
Honest. (Selfishly honest. Honest is only a double-edged sword when wielded nobly, otherwise honesty is as selfish a pursuit as the straight-laced cop-on-all-those-1970s-movies's pursuit of living by the book because he[she?] can't stand to leave him[her?]self vulnerable to the possibility of living, I mean really living. Without rules. Relying on only your emotion to guide you [has there ever been a truer compass than the heart?]. )
Optimist!
Sarcastic. (Acerbic.)
Unabashedly perverse. (Don't want to elaborate on this.)
Obsessed with feelings. (They're so interesting! Along this same line of thought—aren't thoughts just a hoot? What are they, and why are they there? Just fartin' around up there waiting to jump out of your mouth and terrify people. Wacky.)
Forgetful.
Lemonade.
At this point, the subject stopped writing and the previously furious scratching of his pencil gave way to an intense silence. Stillness. When asked what he was thinking about, he responded that with each successive minute he was coming to new revelations about the meaning of life.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Recorder
Aside from the obvious, I love this photograph for the truth it captures. Right out in the open.
Mom’s in the back. Robert’s the one standing, really hamming it up for the camera. Little Sara’s the baby of course; she’s right there in the middle doing exactly what I remember asking, “Let’s sit for a nice picture!”
And Becky’s on the right there. Her hair was always only slightly longer than mine back then, so if you put the tips of your fingers on the photograph over the ends of her hair: There I am. That’s the way we always did it. We took turns posing with the other kids. Because what’s the use in having the same face twice in the same photograph?
Anyway, aside from the obvious, I love how this photograph captures just who we were and just who we would grow up to be.
Robert sang rockabilly right up until the war. He used to say, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing,” every night in the living room with the trio. It was his opening line. I remember hating him for it.
“Do you really have to practice your opening line, Robert Hayrick?”
“Sure I do, I have to make sure it sounds real.”
Later, his was the voice I associated with the music of that time, not Elvis’.
And Little Sara. She was just the quietest child. Just a pleasure all the time. It really is no wonder she grew up to be a nurse and was the one that stayed with Daddy till he was gone. And even then—when he was gone—she never really did much. We all sort of assumed she’d at least have a passing interest in seeing somewhere other than here. But apparently, she didn’t. She stayed right there in that big house in that little town, never really changing her sweet self from one holiday to the next, which is how often Becky and I tried to visit.
The house was always clean, quiet, and pleasant. Really it was the center of our universe, and Little Sara was always its keeper. And she really was just as sweet as this photograph suggests. She passed late last year of lung cancer.
We didn’t even know she was ill.
Then there’s my Becky. My lifelong best pal. My twin. I’m not sure any of us ever—even for a minute—suspected that she would be anything other than the best mother this world has ever seen. Becky married John Sullivan, a boy with flat feet and a delicatessen in the family, on our seventeenth birthday. It was the happiest I ever saw her until the twins were born. And then that was the happiest I had ever seen her until the second set of twins were born.
That’s the truth. I see all these things in this photograph. Clear as day. Right out in the open. As if these things were all happening just at the same time as I was taking the photo. And maybe that’s what it says about me. Maybe I was only ever meant to be the observer. The recorder of things.
Mom’s in the back. Robert’s the one standing, really hamming it up for the camera. Little Sara’s the baby of course; she’s right there in the middle doing exactly what I remember asking, “Let’s sit for a nice picture!”
And Becky’s on the right there. Her hair was always only slightly longer than mine back then, so if you put the tips of your fingers on the photograph over the ends of her hair: There I am. That’s the way we always did it. We took turns posing with the other kids. Because what’s the use in having the same face twice in the same photograph?
Anyway, aside from the obvious, I love how this photograph captures just who we were and just who we would grow up to be.
Robert sang rockabilly right up until the war. He used to say, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing,” every night in the living room with the trio. It was his opening line. I remember hating him for it.
“Do you really have to practice your opening line, Robert Hayrick?”
“Sure I do, I have to make sure it sounds real.”
Later, his was the voice I associated with the music of that time, not Elvis’.
And Little Sara. She was just the quietest child. Just a pleasure all the time. It really is no wonder she grew up to be a nurse and was the one that stayed with Daddy till he was gone. And even then—when he was gone—she never really did much. We all sort of assumed she’d at least have a passing interest in seeing somewhere other than here. But apparently, she didn’t. She stayed right there in that big house in that little town, never really changing her sweet self from one holiday to the next, which is how often Becky and I tried to visit.
The house was always clean, quiet, and pleasant. Really it was the center of our universe, and Little Sara was always its keeper. And she really was just as sweet as this photograph suggests. She passed late last year of lung cancer.
We didn’t even know she was ill.
Then there’s my Becky. My lifelong best pal. My twin. I’m not sure any of us ever—even for a minute—suspected that she would be anything other than the best mother this world has ever seen. Becky married John Sullivan, a boy with flat feet and a delicatessen in the family, on our seventeenth birthday. It was the happiest I ever saw her until the twins were born. And then that was the happiest I had ever seen her until the second set of twins were born.
That’s the truth. I see all these things in this photograph. Clear as day. Right out in the open. As if these things were all happening just at the same time as I was taking the photo. And maybe that’s what it says about me. Maybe I was only ever meant to be the observer. The recorder of things.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Personal Best
Under the water I can hear nothing. For the moment: silence.
Then my mind gets going. I imagine that blub blub sound you hear in cartoons, and that distant pinging sound of TV submarines. The rush of rapids, the contraction of metal, the roil of waves, the intermittent buzz of Morse code. I imagine I can hear my own heart. Then, over all the imaginary noise, there's an idea. I blow out a breath and there it is—I sincerely hear blub blub.
I smile because apparently cartoons can be accurate. And then I smile again because smiling under water is the most morbid thing I can imagine. Like thumbing your nose in a fire.
"Are you going to answer me?"
From under water, in the bathroom, and up the stairs—I can hear her vocal chords actually straining. The water, my imagination. They're no match for her screeching. The vibrations against my back mean she's probably stamping her feet.
I decide to hold my breath a minute longer.
From beneath the surface of water, there is nothing more beautiful than a ceiling stretched out above you. Any ceiling. A ceiling of plaster. A ceiling of tile. A ceiling of sky. It chops up like a flag in a stiff breeze. Blub blub.
"Are you still in there? Seriously now. This is ridiculous. Are you going to answer me? Ri-DIC-culous!"
I decide to push my lungs to their limit.
I remember something. I once dreamed the world was a roadside puddle. I recall looking up through the murk and seeing the billowed-up sun just beyond the surface of the world, its face chopped up like that flag in a stiff breeze. Oil swirled pale rainbows where the light allowed. But It was so dim down where I was. I was disgusted by what had become of the world, until at some point, I realized I was dreaming and decided to get pizza. I distinctly remember wondering what pizza would taste like soaked in roadside puddle. It was the first thing that occurred to me.
"Can you get out? Soon? Hello?"
I hear her, but I'm too busy trying to remember what roadside pizza tastes like—and certainly too busy trying to remember not to breathe. It's been a minute and a half and I've almost beaten my record. Blub blub.
Then my mind gets going. I imagine that blub blub sound you hear in cartoons, and that distant pinging sound of TV submarines. The rush of rapids, the contraction of metal, the roil of waves, the intermittent buzz of Morse code. I imagine I can hear my own heart. Then, over all the imaginary noise, there's an idea. I blow out a breath and there it is—I sincerely hear blub blub.
I smile because apparently cartoons can be accurate. And then I smile again because smiling under water is the most morbid thing I can imagine. Like thumbing your nose in a fire.
"Are you going to answer me?"
From under water, in the bathroom, and up the stairs—I can hear her vocal chords actually straining. The water, my imagination. They're no match for her screeching. The vibrations against my back mean she's probably stamping her feet.
I decide to hold my breath a minute longer.
From beneath the surface of water, there is nothing more beautiful than a ceiling stretched out above you. Any ceiling. A ceiling of plaster. A ceiling of tile. A ceiling of sky. It chops up like a flag in a stiff breeze. Blub blub.
"Are you still in there? Seriously now. This is ridiculous. Are you going to answer me? Ri-DIC-culous!"
I decide to push my lungs to their limit.
I remember something. I once dreamed the world was a roadside puddle. I recall looking up through the murk and seeing the billowed-up sun just beyond the surface of the world, its face chopped up like that flag in a stiff breeze. Oil swirled pale rainbows where the light allowed. But It was so dim down where I was. I was disgusted by what had become of the world, until at some point, I realized I was dreaming and decided to get pizza. I distinctly remember wondering what pizza would taste like soaked in roadside puddle. It was the first thing that occurred to me.
"Can you get out? Soon? Hello?"
I hear her, but I'm too busy trying to remember what roadside pizza tastes like—and certainly too busy trying to remember not to breathe. It's been a minute and a half and I've almost beaten my record. Blub blub.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Arturo passed Miriam on the stairs and noted aloud that she looked radiant in that dress. Miriam rolled her eyes and spit on the landing ahead of her.
"Queer," Arturo called after her.
"Pussy!" She responded.
And their exchange reverberated in the space for a moment before breaking apart into that stairwell silence that beats down doors.
Arturo let himself into their apartment. You'll be singing a different tune at dinner time, he thought to himself. He set his keys on the little table near the door with the phone and notepad on it. Continuing through the hallway and into his bedroom, he began to whistle a nondescript melody, interspersing it with Yes, Miriam, you'll be singing a different tune, la, la, la.
They had a disagreement in the early morning about the mess piling up in the basin for dirty dishes beneath the sink. Miriam was a lesbian, and Arturo attributed her willingness to hold onto her anger and her grudges to this inescapable fact. He imagined a long history of daily injustices and barely audible whisperings about her, but the truth was he had no supporting evidence for this theory. Miriam was quite private about her early account, even in her most drunk and voluble of moods.
Arturo took a flying leap onto his bed and let his body bounce into position diagonally across it. He removed a cigarette from the soft pack in his front shirt pocket and lit it, rolling onto his back.
"Queer," Arturo called after her.
"Pussy!" She responded.
And their exchange reverberated in the space for a moment before breaking apart into that stairwell silence that beats down doors.
Arturo let himself into their apartment. You'll be singing a different tune at dinner time, he thought to himself. He set his keys on the little table near the door with the phone and notepad on it. Continuing through the hallway and into his bedroom, he began to whistle a nondescript melody, interspersing it with Yes, Miriam, you'll be singing a different tune, la, la, la.
They had a disagreement in the early morning about the mess piling up in the basin for dirty dishes beneath the sink. Miriam was a lesbian, and Arturo attributed her willingness to hold onto her anger and her grudges to this inescapable fact. He imagined a long history of daily injustices and barely audible whisperings about her, but the truth was he had no supporting evidence for this theory. Miriam was quite private about her early account, even in her most drunk and voluble of moods.
Arturo took a flying leap onto his bed and let his body bounce into position diagonally across it. He removed a cigarette from the soft pack in his front shirt pocket and lit it, rolling onto his back.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sal
I used to wonder about my neighbor, Sal. All 400 lbs of him. 400 lbs sounds like a lot, until you've seen it as something other than exaggeration, then you realize it's much more than a lot, it's monumental. It's size, it's true assertion of humanity's ability to exist in a physical space. Watching Sal move from one point to another: It was like looking into a possible future. One where one day you wake up and say to yourself, "Oh well. Who gives a fuck?" Then you mayonnaise and chocolate yourself into a walking mass of gelatinous flesh.
Sal always wore tiny white sneakers. And knee-length mesh shorts. And t-shirts with lifelike pictures of endangered animals on them. It seemed to be his uniform. The look was nicely rounded out by a wavy garnish of obnoxious orange hair. He had a unique look, for sure. And I used to wonder about why he never tried to mix up the elements of his dress. Then I realized it: What need is there to try to fix the only marginally fixable? It was the combination that worked for him, and he stuck to it. I admired him for that. He never felt the need to experiment with anything silly, like, for instance, pants, or shirts without endangered animals on them. That sort of knowledge of self, or at least attention to the inescapable fact that he would look ridiculous in almost anything he wore, so why not keep it consistent, is the reason I get up in the morning. I strive for that kind of clarity.
I get dressed in the morning and pose disapprovingly in front of the mirror through at least four or five different outfits. I take several things into account: what look did I go for yesterday? before that? what was the cumulative effect of my outfits last week? what is it shaping up to be this week? should I save this shirt until casual Friday? etc.
I wish I had the equivalent of Sal's white sneakers/mesh shorts/endangered animals t-shirt approach at my disposal. Unfortunately, I'm much too second-guessing for that. It drives me wild.
Sal.
What does he wonder about?
Does he feel a kinship with the animals he presents to the world emblazoned across his ample chest? Does he feel himself a specimen on the verge of extinction? Does he think he's a sea-turtle? What a mystery this fat-ass is to me. It's positively mind-boggling.
Sal always wore tiny white sneakers. And knee-length mesh shorts. And t-shirts with lifelike pictures of endangered animals on them. It seemed to be his uniform. The look was nicely rounded out by a wavy garnish of obnoxious orange hair. He had a unique look, for sure. And I used to wonder about why he never tried to mix up the elements of his dress. Then I realized it: What need is there to try to fix the only marginally fixable? It was the combination that worked for him, and he stuck to it. I admired him for that. He never felt the need to experiment with anything silly, like, for instance, pants, or shirts without endangered animals on them. That sort of knowledge of self, or at least attention to the inescapable fact that he would look ridiculous in almost anything he wore, so why not keep it consistent, is the reason I get up in the morning. I strive for that kind of clarity.
I get dressed in the morning and pose disapprovingly in front of the mirror through at least four or five different outfits. I take several things into account: what look did I go for yesterday? before that? what was the cumulative effect of my outfits last week? what is it shaping up to be this week? should I save this shirt until casual Friday? etc.
I wish I had the equivalent of Sal's white sneakers/mesh shorts/endangered animals t-shirt approach at my disposal. Unfortunately, I'm much too second-guessing for that. It drives me wild.
Sal.
What does he wonder about?
Does he feel a kinship with the animals he presents to the world emblazoned across his ample chest? Does he feel himself a specimen on the verge of extinction? Does he think he's a sea-turtle? What a mystery this fat-ass is to me. It's positively mind-boggling.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
When the Tornado Came
I saw you lift off the ground and into the trees.
Then you were up and caught like a marionette in a laughing fit. It was the most gorgeous madness how you became the gleam in the storm's eye.
I wondered when you would come down, if ever, and I marveled at
how the thrashing, like a column of stagnant water, held you fast.
Then you dropped.
Slowly, gracelessly behind the ruined woods that flanks the highway.
Then you were up and caught like a marionette in a laughing fit. It was the most gorgeous madness how you became the gleam in the storm's eye.
I wondered when you would come down, if ever, and I marveled at
how the thrashing, like a column of stagnant water, held you fast.
Then you dropped.
Slowly, gracelessly behind the ruined woods that flanks the highway.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Father,
You lived in a tiny house with a tin roof,
chickens in the back and machetes by the doors.
The red earth encroached always up through the nonexistent
back wall.
Your father once told you a story:
He caught his reflection in standing water
and realized he should have been
born a fish.
He worked in the coffee fields with the smell
of decaying berries and the mosquitoes like steam,
you couldn't stand the sight of him.
He spoke slowly and never in anger, but you thought
him weak as a sow and you sometimes spit on his boots in the
hallway.
You once told me a story:
Your father caught a fishbone in the throat,
the bone spread into his chest and eventually his lungs.
He died turning into a fish, you told me,
just like he always wanted to be.
chickens in the back and machetes by the doors.
The red earth encroached always up through the nonexistent
back wall.
Your father once told you a story:
He caught his reflection in standing water
and realized he should have been
born a fish.
He worked in the coffee fields with the smell
of decaying berries and the mosquitoes like steam,
you couldn't stand the sight of him.
He spoke slowly and never in anger, but you thought
him weak as a sow and you sometimes spit on his boots in the
hallway.
You once told me a story:
Your father caught a fishbone in the throat,
the bone spread into his chest and eventually his lungs.
He died turning into a fish, you told me,
just like he always wanted to be.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
San Tortola, Texas 2005
The tiny man said I looked as miserable as a thumb. The expression on my face must have been one of bewilderment. Incidentally, he thrust his truncated thumbs in my face. They looked like the tops had been sawed off at the knuckle. The flesh looked jagged—corrugated.
"Miserable as a thumb," he said, "miserable as my poor lost thumbs."
His head shook as he spoke and the reddened skin of his jowls gesticulated accordingly. He reminded me of someone's sad uncle. The one that always steers conversation toward something that you might have once had in common, maybe a million years ago, but now is completely irrelevant.
Certainly strange, I thought. I bought him a beer as a bribe for his silence and as consolation for his misfortune.
It seemed to work. He clammed up and pawed at his beer with the type of shamelessness that you only see in the very old, or very young. He was lapping at his beer for a good two minutes, and I had almost grown used to the sound when his head shot up and he said, quickly, almost as an aside, "Don't blow your brains from your head tonight."
He didn't arrive at the bar until later in the evening, not until the place had crowded up with rain-flushed professionals on their way home from their offices and students from nearby colleges, all looking for excuses to have one more drink. You weren't allowed to sit at the tables unless you were eating, so the seating area remained curiously empty regardless of the activity at the bar. It created an interesting effect. Like the dining area was a stage, and the standing-room drunks were a rowdy but rapt audience.
Hours before the tiny man with the lopped thumbs appeared, before the professionals and college students, I was there. Sipping my lager. Listening in on the scant conversation around me. For a long stretch of time, there was only one couple sitting in the dining area.
"You aren't my ideal," she said, "I just can't see us liking each other very much."
The man rearranged himself in his seat. He leaned forward, cocked his head expectantly, like he was asking a rhetorical question.
"You're a pretty piece," he said.
"Oh?"
It didn't seem like the right reaction, and I leaned my body to get a better angle on their voices. At that moment, the front door opened.
The woman at the table turned toward the sound of the bell above the door. Another couple came in from the rain and shook matching black umbrellas into the bin against the unoccupied host stand. The pair crossed through the middle of the room, slid past the couple at the table, and took seats near me at the bar. They looked around, surveyed the half-full place, and took inventory of the bodies peppered throughout the establishment. Possibly, they were waiting for more of their party. They must have noticed me sitting alone, hunched over my lager, trying to look disinterested in my surroundings.
I stared at the bar for a moment before I let my attention return to the couple at the table. I noticed for the first time, possibly in contrast to the vaguely Mediterranean-looking couple that were now trying to get the bartender's attention, that the couple at the table were both strikingly fair. Blonds. Skin like cellophane, evident even in this dim light.
The man at the table whispered something into his drink.
"Excuse me?" the woman said. She raised her hand to her mouth and gave a little cough. I decided this was her nervous habit.
"You make me feel uncomfortable," he said, a little too audibly.
The couple at the bar were taking their coats off, placing them on the high-backed bar-seats. The man whispered something to the woman and they both gave surreptitious glances at the table.
The couple seated a few feet from me at the bar ordered Sapphire & tonics. Good choice, I thought. It made me thirsty for my own beer and I took a long drink.
The bartender made a show of dropping the lime slivers into the bar-couple's gin drinks. He hadn't been doing this long.
"It's something awful out there, pouring like that," the woman said to the bartender.
"Sun showers all this week," he responded. It might have been the fourth-or-so time he'd said it since I got there.
"It's a real pain," the man at the woman's side said.
"Just rain," I said. I didn't mean to. I was absentmindedly watching the couple at the table, I might've meant to just think about the rain.
"Excuse me," the man leaned on his elbow and lolled his head over at me, "did you say something, pal-o?"
"Me? No."
"Sounded like you said something."
"I was talking to myself."
"Oh. All right, then. You have fun, then. Talking to yourself."
He made a sort of scoffing or snorting sound at me and turned around. I had a vision of myself standing up, him turning around. I saw myself moving faster than him. Overpowering him and smashing his face against the shellacked bar and meeting little resistance from his inferior physique. I saw his blood come as a rush from his gums and ruined teeth. I felt his weight in my hands as an insignificant thing.
I nodded and sipped my beer, tried to look more inebriated than I was. My ears radiated heat.
"Miserable as a thumb," he said, "miserable as my poor lost thumbs."
His head shook as he spoke and the reddened skin of his jowls gesticulated accordingly. He reminded me of someone's sad uncle. The one that always steers conversation toward something that you might have once had in common, maybe a million years ago, but now is completely irrelevant.
Certainly strange, I thought. I bought him a beer as a bribe for his silence and as consolation for his misfortune.
It seemed to work. He clammed up and pawed at his beer with the type of shamelessness that you only see in the very old, or very young. He was lapping at his beer for a good two minutes, and I had almost grown used to the sound when his head shot up and he said, quickly, almost as an aside, "Don't blow your brains from your head tonight."
He didn't arrive at the bar until later in the evening, not until the place had crowded up with rain-flushed professionals on their way home from their offices and students from nearby colleges, all looking for excuses to have one more drink. You weren't allowed to sit at the tables unless you were eating, so the seating area remained curiously empty regardless of the activity at the bar. It created an interesting effect. Like the dining area was a stage, and the standing-room drunks were a rowdy but rapt audience.
Hours before the tiny man with the lopped thumbs appeared, before the professionals and college students, I was there. Sipping my lager. Listening in on the scant conversation around me. For a long stretch of time, there was only one couple sitting in the dining area.
"You aren't my ideal," she said, "I just can't see us liking each other very much."
The man rearranged himself in his seat. He leaned forward, cocked his head expectantly, like he was asking a rhetorical question.
"You're a pretty piece," he said.
"Oh?"
It didn't seem like the right reaction, and I leaned my body to get a better angle on their voices. At that moment, the front door opened.
The woman at the table turned toward the sound of the bell above the door. Another couple came in from the rain and shook matching black umbrellas into the bin against the unoccupied host stand. The pair crossed through the middle of the room, slid past the couple at the table, and took seats near me at the bar. They looked around, surveyed the half-full place, and took inventory of the bodies peppered throughout the establishment. Possibly, they were waiting for more of their party. They must have noticed me sitting alone, hunched over my lager, trying to look disinterested in my surroundings.
I stared at the bar for a moment before I let my attention return to the couple at the table. I noticed for the first time, possibly in contrast to the vaguely Mediterranean-looking couple that were now trying to get the bartender's attention, that the couple at the table were both strikingly fair. Blonds. Skin like cellophane, evident even in this dim light.
The man at the table whispered something into his drink.
"Excuse me?" the woman said. She raised her hand to her mouth and gave a little cough. I decided this was her nervous habit.
"You make me feel uncomfortable," he said, a little too audibly.
The couple at the bar were taking their coats off, placing them on the high-backed bar-seats. The man whispered something to the woman and they both gave surreptitious glances at the table.
The couple seated a few feet from me at the bar ordered Sapphire & tonics. Good choice, I thought. It made me thirsty for my own beer and I took a long drink.
The bartender made a show of dropping the lime slivers into the bar-couple's gin drinks. He hadn't been doing this long.
"It's something awful out there, pouring like that," the woman said to the bartender.
"Sun showers all this week," he responded. It might have been the fourth-or-so time he'd said it since I got there.
"It's a real pain," the man at the woman's side said.
"Just rain," I said. I didn't mean to. I was absentmindedly watching the couple at the table, I might've meant to just think about the rain.
"Excuse me," the man leaned on his elbow and lolled his head over at me, "did you say something, pal-o?"
"Me? No."
"Sounded like you said something."
"I was talking to myself."
"Oh. All right, then. You have fun, then. Talking to yourself."
He made a sort of scoffing or snorting sound at me and turned around. I had a vision of myself standing up, him turning around. I saw myself moving faster than him. Overpowering him and smashing his face against the shellacked bar and meeting little resistance from his inferior physique. I saw his blood come as a rush from his gums and ruined teeth. I felt his weight in my hands as an insignificant thing.
I nodded and sipped my beer, tried to look more inebriated than I was. My ears radiated heat.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Swamp Monster
1. I was fifteen when the Canadian Military sentenced me to count the innumerable points of light in the skies of whatever Dimension they felt understaffed in.
2. I haven't seen my brother or father in eleven years.
3. My apartment is always an ugly marzipan-colored catacomb.
4. I rarely make friends.
5. Sometimes, I feel a kinship with Marvin the Martian, in his over-sized sneakers and his obscured face—his tiny planet, flanked on all sides by darkness.
**********************************************************************************
6. I don't detest working in a cubicle like my father always told me I would.
7. I have a tattoo on my right calf; It's an ACME bomb.
8. I'm terrible with numbers, how did I become a star counter?
9. This dimension isn't so bad, not so bad as the last.
10. My name is Claudio. I burnt my brother's back off with a single blast from my father's Smith and Wesson Bachelormaker. I meant to do it.
He stood against the back wall of our garage and we covered him in vines until he looked like a swamp monster. He said, "Shoot me quick, before Dad comes home."
"What if you die?"
He said, "I won't die, I'll turn around."
The blast was quiet, barely a hum, and he sat down slowly, like he was just tired. Then he slumped over with a spasm, groaning like an unoiled machine. I lied down beside him, and held the blaster till my father came home.
***********************************************************************
11. My tattoo is a an ACME bomb because my father loves cartoons. When he says the word, cartoons, he extends the oo sound, every time, like he himself is a cartoon wolf, howling at a paper moon. Every evening, after dinner, he would let my brother, Hah-mes, and me watch his Classic Looney Tunes collection projected against the sky when the field-lights went out. Now, after work, on the walk back to my apartment, I sometimes imagine I can see Daffy Duck blowing Elmer Fudd's face to ashes in the darkened screen of night.
This is why my tattoo is an ACME bomb.
************************************************************************
12. I'm terrible at math, but my job is counting stars. It's a large office, with many departments. Mine is a department of 80, we each get our own cubicle, and our own sliver of infinity to scour.
13. Sometimes we have to skip lunch.
14. Hah-mes would be good at this job. Once, at a garage sale, picking through a rubber tub of junk on someone's lawn, he found a stained-wood rosary. My father bought it for him, but never explained what it was. Hah-mes wore it around his neck proudly and counted through them when lost in his own thoughts.
15. The highest he ever counted was 6, 434.
16. Watching him mouth numbers to himself and thumb the beads between his fingers used to relax me. I would whisper numbers for him to count to, "hit 154 this time," or "let's try for 1,352," and his lips would move predictably, his tongue clicking against his teeth.
17. He never stopped before hitting his goal.
18. I think of him when I get so high in the numbers that they don't fit in my head, I bet he could tame them with just his thumbs and his rosary.
*******************************************************************************
19. When I'm transferred from one dimension to another, I feel closest to my brother and father. When Hah-mes was really little, we used to chase each other through the house we grew up in , yelling, "I'm a getcha, I'm a getcha!"
20. I loved catching a glimpse of an elbow or a floppy sneaker before it disappeared around a corner.
21. This is how I feel between dimensions.
********************************************************************************
2. I haven't seen my brother or father in eleven years.
3. My apartment is always an ugly marzipan-colored catacomb.
4. I rarely make friends.
5. Sometimes, I feel a kinship with Marvin the Martian, in his over-sized sneakers and his obscured face—his tiny planet, flanked on all sides by darkness.
**********************************************************************************
6. I don't detest working in a cubicle like my father always told me I would.
7. I have a tattoo on my right calf; It's an ACME bomb.
8. I'm terrible with numbers, how did I become a star counter?
9. This dimension isn't so bad, not so bad as the last.
10. My name is Claudio. I burnt my brother's back off with a single blast from my father's Smith and Wesson Bachelormaker. I meant to do it.
He stood against the back wall of our garage and we covered him in vines until he looked like a swamp monster. He said, "Shoot me quick, before Dad comes home."
"What if you die?"
He said, "I won't die, I'll turn around."
The blast was quiet, barely a hum, and he sat down slowly, like he was just tired. Then he slumped over with a spasm, groaning like an unoiled machine. I lied down beside him, and held the blaster till my father came home.
***********************************************************************
11. My tattoo is a an ACME bomb because my father loves cartoons. When he says the word, cartoons, he extends the oo sound, every time, like he himself is a cartoon wolf, howling at a paper moon. Every evening, after dinner, he would let my brother, Hah-mes, and me watch his Classic Looney Tunes collection projected against the sky when the field-lights went out. Now, after work, on the walk back to my apartment, I sometimes imagine I can see Daffy Duck blowing Elmer Fudd's face to ashes in the darkened screen of night.
This is why my tattoo is an ACME bomb.
************************************************************************
12. I'm terrible at math, but my job is counting stars. It's a large office, with many departments. Mine is a department of 80, we each get our own cubicle, and our own sliver of infinity to scour.
13. Sometimes we have to skip lunch.
14. Hah-mes would be good at this job. Once, at a garage sale, picking through a rubber tub of junk on someone's lawn, he found a stained-wood rosary. My father bought it for him, but never explained what it was. Hah-mes wore it around his neck proudly and counted through them when lost in his own thoughts.
15. The highest he ever counted was 6, 434.
16. Watching him mouth numbers to himself and thumb the beads between his fingers used to relax me. I would whisper numbers for him to count to, "hit 154 this time," or "let's try for 1,352," and his lips would move predictably, his tongue clicking against his teeth.
17. He never stopped before hitting his goal.
18. I think of him when I get so high in the numbers that they don't fit in my head, I bet he could tame them with just his thumbs and his rosary.
*******************************************************************************
19. When I'm transferred from one dimension to another, I feel closest to my brother and father. When Hah-mes was really little, we used to chase each other through the house we grew up in , yelling, "I'm a getcha, I'm a getcha!"
20. I loved catching a glimpse of an elbow or a floppy sneaker before it disappeared around a corner.
21. This is how I feel between dimensions.
********************************************************************************
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Speaking to a parent who is now a shell of the person you once thought of as exempt from the laws of mortality, holier than God.
Just open face-slapping, over and over again.
Just when you think that it’s over.
Whammy, there it is again.
Just when you think that it’s over.
Whammy, there it is again.
Hers Buzzing
I used to watch her rattling off her thoughts at a pace usually reserved for the enraged, or in-denial. I never listened. Just watched. She would get home from work and immediately begin, even before having unwrapped her scarf from her neck. The volume of her voice would rise and fall as she moved through our tiny apartment, setting her things carefully down in their proper places: Shoes on the welcome mat inside the closet, hat on the microwave with the other hats, jacket on the corner of the futon, her bag on the bedroom doorknob.
I would park myself down on my favorite patch of hardwood in front of the futon and watch. Watch and nod when appropriate. My favorite was when she washed dishes and her voice reverberated in the awkward space between the sink and the cabinets, and she would stop to assure herself that she had my attention, "Don't you think?," or "Isn't that strange?" I would respond, "Absolutely," in my voice, tinny against hers buzzing.
There was no greater joy than observing her in her frantic and furious way, and looking forward to what she would feel like later that night. In our bedroom, her head against my chest. Her rambling speech quieted, her nervous energy slowed to a dull throb, lost in the language of exhaustion.
I would park myself down on my favorite patch of hardwood in front of the futon and watch. Watch and nod when appropriate. My favorite was when she washed dishes and her voice reverberated in the awkward space between the sink and the cabinets, and she would stop to assure herself that she had my attention, "Don't you think?," or "Isn't that strange?" I would respond, "Absolutely," in my voice, tinny against hers buzzing.
There was no greater joy than observing her in her frantic and furious way, and looking forward to what she would feel like later that night. In our bedroom, her head against my chest. Her rambling speech quieted, her nervous energy slowed to a dull throb, lost in the language of exhaustion.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I had a Ugandan penpal when I was 8.
My penpal in Uganda only wrote to me once. He liked soccer, he liked drawing, and he wanted to visit the United States someday. He was afraid of spiders because his older brother always tickled his ears with long grasses at night—the first thing to come to mind, every time, was that spiders were trying to climb into his head. I can understand this.
I responded that I also liked soccer, I also liked drawing, and that I was afraid of blood and ghosts. I told him that this wasn't my brother's fault, because my brother is much younger than I am. I told him I was afraid of blood because my father fainted once at a fair at the park by my house. The back of his head hit the pavement and a big circle of blood appeared and grew bigger and bigger around his head. He woke up but could only make a sound like an upset animal, like a goat. Unnnggggh, unnngh. And his face looked waxy, like he was a dummy in the movies with really fake-looking dead bodies. I thought he was going to die too and I wanted to kiss him, but the blood made my knees feel like someone was tickling them, maybe with a long grass.
And I'm afraid of ghosts because I see them standing above me at night. They have long hair that they brush, and they aren't white, they're dark and limp-looking, like coats hanging in the closet when the lights go out. And they never mention anything, even though I always ask. They just stand there and brush their hair, looking almost bored doing it.
I'm older now, and sometimes wonder about my penpal. I wonder why he never wrote back. I wonder if he still draws, or plays soccer, or if he's still afraid of spiders. I wonder if he ever thinks of me and my father's blood. Or if he thought my ghosts were tame.
I responded that I also liked soccer, I also liked drawing, and that I was afraid of blood and ghosts. I told him that this wasn't my brother's fault, because my brother is much younger than I am. I told him I was afraid of blood because my father fainted once at a fair at the park by my house. The back of his head hit the pavement and a big circle of blood appeared and grew bigger and bigger around his head. He woke up but could only make a sound like an upset animal, like a goat. Unnnggggh, unnngh. And his face looked waxy, like he was a dummy in the movies with really fake-looking dead bodies. I thought he was going to die too and I wanted to kiss him, but the blood made my knees feel like someone was tickling them, maybe with a long grass.
And I'm afraid of ghosts because I see them standing above me at night. They have long hair that they brush, and they aren't white, they're dark and limp-looking, like coats hanging in the closet when the lights go out. And they never mention anything, even though I always ask. They just stand there and brush their hair, looking almost bored doing it.
I'm older now, and sometimes wonder about my penpal. I wonder why he never wrote back. I wonder if he still draws, or plays soccer, or if he's still afraid of spiders. I wonder if he ever thinks of me and my father's blood. Or if he thought my ghosts were tame.
The Surface of the Moon, My home, 4pm
I wake up in the buzzing quiet of my sleeping-room.
I watch Earth looming huge and jaunty out my window.
Where is Levitown, I wonder. And why are my vessel's memories so hazy?
To be continued.
I watch Earth looming huge and jaunty out my window.
Where is Levitown, I wonder. And why are my vessel's memories so hazy?
To be continued.
Levitown, 3:30pm
This isn't my piss. I can tell because my boxers aren't wet. It's only my pant leg. Someone pissed on me in the night. I experience something akin to the process of grief, but crystallized in one moment.
I look down at my hands. Hoping the answers are written there.
They aren't.
But there is dirt worked into my palms, like I've been digging in a garden. I try to spit on them, but can't muster a droplet. I think for a moment of wringing my pants for urine, but scrap the idea and decide to look for a bathroom instead.
to be continued.
I look down at my hands. Hoping the answers are written there.
They aren't.
But there is dirt worked into my palms, like I've been digging in a garden. I try to spit on them, but can't muster a droplet. I think for a moment of wringing my pants for urine, but scrap the idea and decide to look for a bathroom instead.
to be continued.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Levitown, 3pm.
I wake up in the mid-afternoon heat of the suburbs in July. My eyes feel slow in their sockets, like they're floating in glue. My throat is burning. Way in the back. It's a fire I can't swallow down. I have no memory of vomiting, but I'm sure, as sure as I know that I'm not in my own bed—I'm SURE I vomited last night.
I peel myself away from the pillow and immediately I realize: There is a reason I did this to myself.
Immediately after that, I realize: I pissed myself at some point in the night.
to be continued.
I peel myself away from the pillow and immediately I realize: There is a reason I did this to myself.
Immediately after that, I realize: I pissed myself at some point in the night.
to be continued.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
PostSecret
My Post Secret:
I apologize, PostSecret.com. My secret is that I have been fabricating secrets for several years now and have been sending them to your offices with the specific intent of misleading both your organization and your loyal readership. It's something that I've been wrestling with for some time and feel that this (which will be sent to you on a postcard, possibly one of Marilyn Monroe with the eyes exed out, or maybe one with a child...in black and white...lamplit...hands over mouth, depicting: speak no evil) will be the best way to bring my ugly secret out into the open where it can no longer hurt me.
Here are just a few of my greatest hits. Remember this one?
My uncle bought me a kitten for my tenth birthday, I thought it was ugly but never told anyone. I hate cats now.
That was me.
I love cats and I never had an uncle.
How about this one?
I can't walk past a mirror without remembering I still have over 16 years of bad luck left on my tab.
Also me.
I broke a mirror only once. I was seven. I'm now 53, so by my calculations, I'm in the clear.
This one was sort of recent:
I hate skinny girls because in high school, I was of average build. I had the stomach flu and told everyone I was dealing with bulimia. A skinny girl told me I should get help. Bitch.
That one was one of my favorites. The postcard depicted those obese twins from the Guinness Book of World Records that always seem to be on tiny matching motorcycles.
It was, however, all completely fabricated, as I am not overly hateful of skinny girls, nor am I a girl myself.
Here's one from a long series of half-truths that I became obsessed with for a short time. The idea was that by only HALF misleading you, I might be less deplorable a person.
Anyway:
I bought eggs and steak yesterday at the White Hen by my house. I'm a vegan.
See, I did, indeed, buy eggs and steak the day previous to the writing of this postsecret, I am not, however, a vegan.
Here's another:
I used to be a beauty queen, but now I feel so hideously unattractive that I sometimes consider burning my face off with acid so as to justify my homeliness.
This one was sent on the back of a Courtney Love postcard.
The truth is I was once Mr. Handsome Duluth '72, but I still clean up quite nicely and consider myself to be a dashing man. I'm not crazy; I would never melt my prizewinner off.
I also experimented with some sexually charged confessions, but you never ran them. Wuz up wit dat? LOL.
Just kidding, I don't speak that way. I was actually an editor at a free boating magazine in Charleston for 25 years. It was in this depraved world of boating that I first developed my penchant for exaggeration.
Here are a few sexually charged ones:
I sometimes find men's thumbnails irresistibly erotic.
*
I believe homosexuals are less intelligent than myself.
*
In the spring of '92 I posed as a lesbian to gain entry to an otherwise pretty exclusive club. I prefer not to elaborate, even in anonymity.
*
I did ecstasy for a long while after its heyday. I now experience side effects such as wild bouts of unwarranted sobbing, caramel-scented ejaculation, and what I can only describe as "the mumbles."
*
I find my aunt sexually appealing.
In retrospect, possibly these were in poor taste. Possibly you found them unconvincing. I'll be the first to admit that I was going through a creative rough patch, but you had no way of knowing that. I could have been a pathetic, sex-starved lunatic possessed by sadness and longing for acceptance. You denied me that.
No matter.
I'm hoping we can put this all behind us, once and for all. With the publishing of this, my final postsecret, the air should be entirely cleared, for what are we if not civilized fellow human beings.
I know that in light of my deception, some of the folks in your office might not want to run this postcard. To those people I say this:
I was once ashamed of myself, so I sent a postcard.
I apologize, PostSecret.com. My secret is that I have been fabricating secrets for several years now and have been sending them to your offices with the specific intent of misleading both your organization and your loyal readership. It's something that I've been wrestling with for some time and feel that this (which will be sent to you on a postcard, possibly one of Marilyn Monroe with the eyes exed out, or maybe one with a child...in black and white...lamplit...hands over mouth, depicting: speak no evil) will be the best way to bring my ugly secret out into the open where it can no longer hurt me.
Here are just a few of my greatest hits. Remember this one?
My uncle bought me a kitten for my tenth birthday, I thought it was ugly but never told anyone. I hate cats now.
That was me.
I love cats and I never had an uncle.
How about this one?
I can't walk past a mirror without remembering I still have over 16 years of bad luck left on my tab.
Also me.
I broke a mirror only once. I was seven. I'm now 53, so by my calculations, I'm in the clear.
This one was sort of recent:
I hate skinny girls because in high school, I was of average build. I had the stomach flu and told everyone I was dealing with bulimia. A skinny girl told me I should get help. Bitch.
That one was one of my favorites. The postcard depicted those obese twins from the Guinness Book of World Records that always seem to be on tiny matching motorcycles.
It was, however, all completely fabricated, as I am not overly hateful of skinny girls, nor am I a girl myself.
Here's one from a long series of half-truths that I became obsessed with for a short time. The idea was that by only HALF misleading you, I might be less deplorable a person.
Anyway:
I bought eggs and steak yesterday at the White Hen by my house. I'm a vegan.
See, I did, indeed, buy eggs and steak the day previous to the writing of this postsecret, I am not, however, a vegan.
Here's another:
I used to be a beauty queen, but now I feel so hideously unattractive that I sometimes consider burning my face off with acid so as to justify my homeliness.
This one was sent on the back of a Courtney Love postcard.
The truth is I was once Mr. Handsome Duluth '72, but I still clean up quite nicely and consider myself to be a dashing man. I'm not crazy; I would never melt my prizewinner off.
I also experimented with some sexually charged confessions, but you never ran them. Wuz up wit dat? LOL.
Just kidding, I don't speak that way. I was actually an editor at a free boating magazine in Charleston for 25 years. It was in this depraved world of boating that I first developed my penchant for exaggeration.
Here are a few sexually charged ones:
I sometimes find men's thumbnails irresistibly erotic.
*
I believe homosexuals are less intelligent than myself.
*
In the spring of '92 I posed as a lesbian to gain entry to an otherwise pretty exclusive club. I prefer not to elaborate, even in anonymity.
*
I did ecstasy for a long while after its heyday. I now experience side effects such as wild bouts of unwarranted sobbing, caramel-scented ejaculation, and what I can only describe as "the mumbles."
*
I find my aunt sexually appealing.
In retrospect, possibly these were in poor taste. Possibly you found them unconvincing. I'll be the first to admit that I was going through a creative rough patch, but you had no way of knowing that. I could have been a pathetic, sex-starved lunatic possessed by sadness and longing for acceptance. You denied me that.
No matter.
I'm hoping we can put this all behind us, once and for all. With the publishing of this, my final postsecret, the air should be entirely cleared, for what are we if not civilized fellow human beings.
I know that in light of my deception, some of the folks in your office might not want to run this postcard. To those people I say this:
I was once ashamed of myself, so I sent a postcard.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
For Your Eyes Only
Dear The Future,
By the time you read this it will already be too late. I will have already flown the coop, like a frustrated cupid. Don't try tracking me down either; whatever happened between us, it's all The Past's problem now.
I've met another, I'm not sorry to say. Her name is The Here, Now. Although the allure of your promises, broken, half-met, or just plain forgotten about, will always tug at me ( mostly in the dim-lit house of imagination, which was where your seductions were most successful) The Here, Now makes no promises nor excuses, justifications. She is content to accept me as I am, which, in the end is all a dream-drunk douche bag like me could ever want.
Yours no longer,
Marty McFly
By the time you read this it will already be too late. I will have already flown the coop, like a frustrated cupid. Don't try tracking me down either; whatever happened between us, it's all The Past's problem now.
I've met another, I'm not sorry to say. Her name is The Here, Now. Although the allure of your promises, broken, half-met, or just plain forgotten about, will always tug at me ( mostly in the dim-lit house of imagination, which was where your seductions were most successful) The Here, Now makes no promises nor excuses, justifications. She is content to accept me as I am, which, in the end is all a dream-drunk douche bag like me could ever want.
Yours no longer,
Marty McFly
Hallways
A hallway stretching before you, if it leads to a window overlooking nothing but sky: The illusion is of being in the chamber of 007's gun.
The white square of sky could hold broken glass for a moment, the way a gun's barrel coughs smoke.
In a hallway, leading to a window, overlooking nothing but sky, you're always an explosion of glass away from being a bullet.
The white square of sky could hold broken glass for a moment, the way a gun's barrel coughs smoke.
In a hallway, leading to a window, overlooking nothing but sky, you're always an explosion of glass away from being a bullet.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Clown
Maybe I'll be a clown. A smelly old clown. Not bad smelly though. Maybe I'll be the clown that begs for change on the street, but I won't BEG, I'll simply suggest. And I'll smell wonderful. I haven't decided whether I'll smell like food or flowers. Maybe I'll smell like meatloaf and petunias, but why stop there? I could also smell like the linen table cloth, freshly washed. And I'd smell like the silverware, and the lemon fresh dish soap used to wash the silverware. And I'd smell like the heat of the water used to kill the germs on the silverware. Really, I'd smell like an entire dinner. Like all the people in the restaurant. I'd smell like the German Boutique owner on his first date since his wife divorced him last year. I'd smell like a waiter's pants, which smell like the waiter's St. Bernard. I'd be a clown that smells like the struggle in people's throats not to sob openly. I'd be the scent of shirked cowardice. I'd be arthritic pains hidden for years so as to keep working to put my last child through college. People would pass me and be reminded of these things, they'd stop momentarily and smell a hamburger, or a basket of rose petals, or their own saliva on the neck of a former lover, or the world series, or trampled grass and goose shit, orange rinds, the sea's salt, a burnt hot dog, mothballs. They would stop, and then I'd kindly suggest a donation. Maybe you could spare some change? And they'd see my face, painted into a permanent smile, and they'd see my clothes, silky and multicolored, and they'd smell me and be reminded of something they never thought they forgot. People would give money to this sort of clown don't you think?
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