I feel like there's a mass of words bottled up right now. Sometimes I don't feel comfortable putting them here anymore.
I will be back shortly with some verbal noise though.
2.05.2012
9.08.2011
8.13.2011
4.03.2011
Life is very short and there's no time.
I reach for the leaf as it falls, miss and catch it roughly with the other hand. It crumples under my overeagerness. It finds its way to my dilating nostrils. The smell is intoxicating, moist, alive, like fall before the wonderful smells it brings have had time to ferment and germinate the air. For a moment I am my younger self running through my grandmothers back yard, as yet unencumbered by the pains and responsibilities of adulthood. I hear her wavering voice call my name - time to come in. Then, just as abruptly, I am back to the real world. I glance downward, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. A granite slab stares back at me. There are words and numbers engraved in it; my grandmothers name, Irene Ocamb, and the two dates society sees as her most important. The mason added the words "our grandma" on it, for validation I suppose. I try to pull some bit of emotion from this stark memorium and draw a blank.
When my parents used to drag me here in younger years I'd watch, standing awkwardly, as they would address the stone as a living entity, giving it updates. "We miss you so much" they'd tell it "you should see how big the kids have gotten". Always positive. Never "Matt failed another class, we just don't get it. He's so smart. Rather, "In a few years they'll be able to drive to see you own their own." That hadn't happened until today. I made the long drive and stood, now in my 30's, trying just as unsuccessfully to feel like this was normal or, at very least, served some sort of purpose toward the fulfillment of my, or her, soul. The breeze picked up and as I pulled my jacket closer to me I looked around. A few families scattered here and there on the lot, cars respectfully waiting silent. A woman was crying, held by a husband who, upon noticing my intrusion, gave me a "what can you do?" kind of look.
Someone once said you can judge the progress of a culture by how they treat their dead. I wondered where that left me, seemingly bereft of graceful connection to those who'd passed. I was aware that below me lay my grandmothers physical remains, such as they were, but I could not reconcile that boxful of 'things' as having anything to do with the boisterous, generous, and funny woman I'd known and loved. As I mentally chewed on the disconnect it struck me that it was, perhaps, better to judge progress based on the way a culture treated its living instead.
I knelt and cleared some grass from the edges of the marker. I swept dust off with my hand, feeling nothing but cold stone. I turned and headed toward my car, walking slowly, as I felt was proper. "I know you can't hear me any better or worse here" I thought "but I did love you and miss you. I'm sorry I wasn't the grandson I should've been."
When my parents used to drag me here in younger years I'd watch, standing awkwardly, as they would address the stone as a living entity, giving it updates. "We miss you so much" they'd tell it "you should see how big the kids have gotten". Always positive. Never "Matt failed another class, we just don't get it. He's so smart. Rather, "In a few years they'll be able to drive to see you own their own." That hadn't happened until today. I made the long drive and stood, now in my 30's, trying just as unsuccessfully to feel like this was normal or, at very least, served some sort of purpose toward the fulfillment of my, or her, soul. The breeze picked up and as I pulled my jacket closer to me I looked around. A few families scattered here and there on the lot, cars respectfully waiting silent. A woman was crying, held by a husband who, upon noticing my intrusion, gave me a "what can you do?" kind of look.
Someone once said you can judge the progress of a culture by how they treat their dead. I wondered where that left me, seemingly bereft of graceful connection to those who'd passed. I was aware that below me lay my grandmothers physical remains, such as they were, but I could not reconcile that boxful of 'things' as having anything to do with the boisterous, generous, and funny woman I'd known and loved. As I mentally chewed on the disconnect it struck me that it was, perhaps, better to judge progress based on the way a culture treated its living instead.
I knelt and cleared some grass from the edges of the marker. I swept dust off with my hand, feeling nothing but cold stone. I turned and headed toward my car, walking slowly, as I felt was proper. "I know you can't hear me any better or worse here" I thought "but I did love you and miss you. I'm sorry I wasn't the grandson I should've been."
3.27.2011
IX
The alarm kicked on. He sat upright. Today's jarring annoyance played the pixies. The song: Wave of Mutilation. He was alone, which was not altogether uncommon. Something felt off, though, and not just that the alarm was going off on a Saturday. Something was wrong. He tried to tell himself it was just the grogginess. Maybe he'd been having a bad dream before he awoke. He shuffled, semi-conscious, for the kitchen. Coffee. Coffee would soothe his unease. As he passed his daughters room he noticed the door partially cracked. Very unusual. He glanced in. What a mess. He'd have to talk to her (again, he thought, exasperated) about leaving her shit flung all around the room. He continued on, stewing. As he stepped across the threshold of the kitchen something in his brain chimed. The wrongness made sense. All was clear. He whirled with a fathers primal roar and flew to her room. Still empty. This particular mess wasn't random. This was the entire contents of her closet emptied on her bed. He was sure a few days worth of outfits were missing. He was also sure, as he found his cellphone and dialed his wife with trembling hands, that she wasn't going to answer. The bitch. After years of threats she'd finally done it. His selfish brain cliecked to life. All those thousands of dollars for rehab. All the wasted hours. Late nights holding and comforting her through craving and withdrawal. The disgust he had as he watched her fail over and over again. The other men. The jobs he'd lost, unable to support both. The blood tests. Worst of all, the trauma it must've inflicted on their daughter - his angel. He knew this was the last straw. There would be no reconciliation, no matter the ferocity of her tears or the sincerity of her promises. Hell, if she were near enough to be found he might just end the whole problem himself.
Close to 300 miles away a strung-out woman was checking into a shitty little motel. A young girl slept, oblivious, in the car outside. She gave the counter-boy, a young Mexican kid maybe half her age, cash. His cash. She smiled nervously as the boy handed her the key, cracked a bad joke. He looked at her blankly. Somewhere in the back of his head he thought she must've been pretty when she was his age. That looked like long, long ago. She toyed with the idea of asking if he knew where to score but decided against. She had enough to get by for a little while and she'd be wise to play it straight for a bit. Not so wise, though, that she didn't steal away to an empty courtyard after putting her daughter in their shared bed.
He paced frenetically, the devil in his eyes. He downed a half mug of lukewarm coffee in one gulp. He'd spent the day alternating between this state and that of abject depression. He'd sit, near comatose, racing mind, and tears dripping regularly from the edges of his bloodshot eyes. All was lost. All was lost. He picked up the phone, dialed, and cleared his throat. "I know it hasn't been 24 hours yet but I need to file a preliminary missing persons report please" All business here. A teenage girl bubbled on the other end, trying to sound grave. "yes..it's my daughter." "She.." At this his composure faltered. "My crackhead wife has taken her." More noise. "Listen ma'am, if i knew where they were you'd be getting an entirely different type of call right now" The coldness of his voice sent a chill down her entire body. It was terrifying and, she had to admit, more than a little arousing. She wished she could be there to hold him, envelop his pain. "I'm going to need to confirm your address, sir" she said, trying to withhold the tremor in her voice. She crossed her legs. She really loved her job.
Close to 300 miles away a strung-out woman was checking into a shitty little motel. A young girl slept, oblivious, in the car outside. She gave the counter-boy, a young Mexican kid maybe half her age, cash. His cash. She smiled nervously as the boy handed her the key, cracked a bad joke. He looked at her blankly. Somewhere in the back of his head he thought she must've been pretty when she was his age. That looked like long, long ago. She toyed with the idea of asking if he knew where to score but decided against. She had enough to get by for a little while and she'd be wise to play it straight for a bit. Not so wise, though, that she didn't steal away to an empty courtyard after putting her daughter in their shared bed.
He paced frenetically, the devil in his eyes. He downed a half mug of lukewarm coffee in one gulp. He'd spent the day alternating between this state and that of abject depression. He'd sit, near comatose, racing mind, and tears dripping regularly from the edges of his bloodshot eyes. All was lost. All was lost. He picked up the phone, dialed, and cleared his throat. "I know it hasn't been 24 hours yet but I need to file a preliminary missing persons report please" All business here. A teenage girl bubbled on the other end, trying to sound grave. "yes..it's my daughter." "She.." At this his composure faltered. "My crackhead wife has taken her." More noise. "Listen ma'am, if i knew where they were you'd be getting an entirely different type of call right now" The coldness of his voice sent a chill down her entire body. It was terrifying and, she had to admit, more than a little arousing. She wished she could be there to hold him, envelop his pain. "I'm going to need to confirm your address, sir" she said, trying to withhold the tremor in her voice. She crossed her legs. She really loved her job.
VIII
She looked around the room, moving cautiously. The posters on the wall were dusty and curled at the edges. Here was Siouxsie and her Banshees, there New Order. There were the inevitable collages, magazine clippings, and trinkets organized to show love for their subjects. Old crushes, absent friends, bands whose songs she could only vaguely recall (she thought maybe for the best). She ran a finger over some of the faces, tracing old fantasies of kisses and adventure.
The bed kicked up a cloud when she fell onto it. She watched bits of dust float and swirl in the sliver of light coming through the blinds. In the stillness of the room it looked otherworldly, as though the universe was moving in slow motion. The groove of the mattress, the slight creak of the elderly frame, the whisper of the fabric beneath her all served to rip her back to those old times, moreso, even, than the faces staring at her from all surfaces of the room. This room, untouched for so long, a reliquary in her name.
The night they left was mostly a blur to her. It was humid, unsensibly hot. She'd been lying on the same bed daydreaming about god knows what. She lay there safe, somewhat comfortably ensconced. She had Skynyrd playing, her love for them her fathers gift to her. As she was being told to be a simple kind of man, the world around her was imploding. When her mom burst into the room she let out a little frightened, and offended, squeal. She looked old and worried. Her already sunken and lined face looked easily ten years older than usual. She looked into her mothers crazed eyes, then down to the garbage bag in her hands.
"We're leaving" was all she got. "go get in the car"
She did as she was told. She might even have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Her mother sped down the interstate, passing cars at wildly inappropriate speeds, hands white and blotchy, jerking the wheel to delay death. Her mother started talking about something or other so she put her headphones on, pressed play, and tuned out.
Mom was a drug addict. Methhead. Over the next few years they floated from hotel to hotel, crashpad to dirty crashpad. She took it in stride, sinking deeper within herself. When mom didn't come home for days she taught herself the fine art of ramen-based cuisine. She was a scavenger in her living space, learning to forage and survive. When the seedy men mom brought home tried to grope her she quickly learned their weaknesses. There were spots you could lightly touch a man that'd have him writhing on the ground in agony before his brain had even registered what happened, if you could believe that. Usually this earned her a beating. She was pretty, but looked gaunt unless mother and daughter were side-by-side.
The real evil of meth addiction isn't the horrific mental and physical changes it makes in people. It's not the lifestyle or speech pattern changes, nor the cracked and blackening teeth. Any serious drug affects all facets of its habitual users life but, with most, upon taking covenant with it, the user acknowledges a certain shelf life. Few and far between are the long-term hardcore users because their herd is naturally thinned. Meth has left a legacy of broken homes, broken souls, violence, and theft..but this is not it's curse. The true evil of meth addiction is that it doesn't kill off its host, leaving society tasked with catering to addled and often dangerous zombie or worse - annoying "born-agains"
The pair continued on for years, uprooting constantly, always changing names, hairstyles, and people. She began to forget her previous life, thinking this must be how all people live. Her education having been cut short, she took to devouring books, magazines, wall posters, anything with words. It was during these years, when so often left to her own devices, that she discovered her affinity, no, her absolute and unbridled passion, for water.
The bed kicked up a cloud when she fell onto it. She watched bits of dust float and swirl in the sliver of light coming through the blinds. In the stillness of the room it looked otherworldly, as though the universe was moving in slow motion. The groove of the mattress, the slight creak of the elderly frame, the whisper of the fabric beneath her all served to rip her back to those old times, moreso, even, than the faces staring at her from all surfaces of the room. This room, untouched for so long, a reliquary in her name.
The night they left was mostly a blur to her. It was humid, unsensibly hot. She'd been lying on the same bed daydreaming about god knows what. She lay there safe, somewhat comfortably ensconced. She had Skynyrd playing, her love for them her fathers gift to her. As she was being told to be a simple kind of man, the world around her was imploding. When her mom burst into the room she let out a little frightened, and offended, squeal. She looked old and worried. Her already sunken and lined face looked easily ten years older than usual. She looked into her mothers crazed eyes, then down to the garbage bag in her hands.
"We're leaving" was all she got. "go get in the car"
She did as she was told. She might even have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Her mother sped down the interstate, passing cars at wildly inappropriate speeds, hands white and blotchy, jerking the wheel to delay death. Her mother started talking about something or other so she put her headphones on, pressed play, and tuned out.
Mom was a drug addict. Methhead. Over the next few years they floated from hotel to hotel, crashpad to dirty crashpad. She took it in stride, sinking deeper within herself. When mom didn't come home for days she taught herself the fine art of ramen-based cuisine. She was a scavenger in her living space, learning to forage and survive. When the seedy men mom brought home tried to grope her she quickly learned their weaknesses. There were spots you could lightly touch a man that'd have him writhing on the ground in agony before his brain had even registered what happened, if you could believe that. Usually this earned her a beating. She was pretty, but looked gaunt unless mother and daughter were side-by-side.
The real evil of meth addiction isn't the horrific mental and physical changes it makes in people. It's not the lifestyle or speech pattern changes, nor the cracked and blackening teeth. Any serious drug affects all facets of its habitual users life but, with most, upon taking covenant with it, the user acknowledges a certain shelf life. Few and far between are the long-term hardcore users because their herd is naturally thinned. Meth has left a legacy of broken homes, broken souls, violence, and theft..but this is not it's curse. The true evil of meth addiction is that it doesn't kill off its host, leaving society tasked with catering to addled and often dangerous zombie or worse - annoying "born-agains"
The pair continued on for years, uprooting constantly, always changing names, hairstyles, and people. She began to forget her previous life, thinking this must be how all people live. Her education having been cut short, she took to devouring books, magazines, wall posters, anything with words. It was during these years, when so often left to her own devices, that she discovered her affinity, no, her absolute and unbridled passion, for water.
VII
She writhes and twists, eyes closed. A slight grin calms her face. "Here I am again" she thinks. "I needed this." The cold waters part before her. She kicks off and wrests her limbs into patterns, forming grace and vision with her torso. Were anyone there to see they might have been awed. She was a natural, beautiful and efficient. Each long reach pulled her nearer her destination than that of her imagined opponents, her hands cutting the surface like they were designed solely for that purpose.
Her exercises were done. She lay back in the water letting her screaming muscles relax. She dipped and held, letting it overtake her. Each beat of her heart filled her eardrums with a wooshing sound. Her feet hung low below the surface. Her breasts broke water with each measured breath she took. They were well shaped and she was proud of them. She wasn't alone in this. Her tendency to send pictures of them to her male friends endeared her to them. She did this, of course, in all innocence, never realizing the rush of blood it tended to inspire. She was always confused at the advances they made at her, and slightly repulsed. "But you're my friend" she'd say. Their faces would drop as quickly as their egos, both hitting the floor simultaneously. She'd throw them a heartbreaking smile, apologetic but unswayed. Stupid boys and their silly crushes.
She never dated, never flirted excessively, never fucked. This had the confusing effect of giving her a reputation not only as a 'frigid bitch' but also as a less reputable type of girl. She neither bothered nor cared to remedy this. Shattered boys fell by the wayside and new ones popped up, figuring they would fare differently. They never did.
The mirror was foggy but she still appreciated the shape staring back at her. Her feet were cold on the wet tile and her hair lay a chill trail where it rested on her back. The swim had been good, even necessary, but now she felt a hollowness taking over. Small hairs pricked up on the back of her neck. She wiped a spot in the mirror with her forearm and peered closer. Her face was punctuated by two dead eyes. She forced a smile but only her lower face complied. "What's wrong with me?" she thought. "Where did I disappear to?" She'd half expected a worded response from the fuzzy her but it remained maddeningly silent. It obediently blinked and brushed hair from her face. It applied clothes and makeup but offered no advice or solace.
Her drive was silent. She'd been too absentminded to plug her iPod in. She made the turns with no emotion. Her stomach grumbled, demanding attention. She'd burned calories she didn't have and now it was time to pay them back. "Shut up stomach" she thought, finally noticing the lack of music. She cranked it on not caring what noise came. Another rumble now, one that said "Feel me damnit." She hadn't eaten in almost three days. She was trying to lose a bulge nobody but she could see.
A man stood on the corner with a sign. He also hadn't eaten in multiple days. She tried to avoid eye contact, pretending to fidget with..well, nothing. He knew. He'd seen it thousands of times. Without knowing exactly why, he was enraged at this particular slight. He glowered and shifted feet. She hoped the light would change quickly. Without trying to be too obvious she clicked the lock engaged. The man tried to approach, stumbled. Thank the gods for rotgut. She looked over with a start as he fell face-first on the sidewalk. The light changed. She floored it. "Close one" she sighed aloud. "perv."
Back at home her stomach grumbled again when she walked past her fridge. She opened the door and looked lustfully inside. Everything looked satisfying, if not completely delicious. The leftover pastries looked especially enticing with their cream cheese filling. She bit the corner of her lip poutily and closed the door. The light smacking sound signaled the beginning of the worlds spin. She needed water, rest..what she really needed was there, a mere arms length away from her. She reached out, half steadying, half seeking, found the handle. It was as her fingers closed around it that her body gave out. She dropped to the floor bringing the contents of the now open door with her. Had she been a salad or pork rib she would've been well basted. But she wasn't. She was perfect, she was beautiful. She was not supposed to be lying on the kitchen floor crying, covered in condiments. She deserved so much more. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the shadows. Her mind jumped to the man from earlier. Here he was, ready to have his revenge. Briefly she wondered if the news report would mention the blue cheese that trickled between her toes. She propped herself up shakily. "Hello?" her voice barely a whisper. "Who's there?" At her voice the figure came toward her. Hannibal, her cat. She sighed and crashed back to the floor. The last thing she felt before sleep overtook her was the sandpaper tongue working at the corner of her eye.
Her exercises were done. She lay back in the water letting her screaming muscles relax. She dipped and held, letting it overtake her. Each beat of her heart filled her eardrums with a wooshing sound. Her feet hung low below the surface. Her breasts broke water with each measured breath she took. They were well shaped and she was proud of them. She wasn't alone in this. Her tendency to send pictures of them to her male friends endeared her to them. She did this, of course, in all innocence, never realizing the rush of blood it tended to inspire. She was always confused at the advances they made at her, and slightly repulsed. "But you're my friend" she'd say. Their faces would drop as quickly as their egos, both hitting the floor simultaneously. She'd throw them a heartbreaking smile, apologetic but unswayed. Stupid boys and their silly crushes.
She never dated, never flirted excessively, never fucked. This had the confusing effect of giving her a reputation not only as a 'frigid bitch' but also as a less reputable type of girl. She neither bothered nor cared to remedy this. Shattered boys fell by the wayside and new ones popped up, figuring they would fare differently. They never did.
The mirror was foggy but she still appreciated the shape staring back at her. Her feet were cold on the wet tile and her hair lay a chill trail where it rested on her back. The swim had been good, even necessary, but now she felt a hollowness taking over. Small hairs pricked up on the back of her neck. She wiped a spot in the mirror with her forearm and peered closer. Her face was punctuated by two dead eyes. She forced a smile but only her lower face complied. "What's wrong with me?" she thought. "Where did I disappear to?" She'd half expected a worded response from the fuzzy her but it remained maddeningly silent. It obediently blinked and brushed hair from her face. It applied clothes and makeup but offered no advice or solace.
Her drive was silent. She'd been too absentminded to plug her iPod in. She made the turns with no emotion. Her stomach grumbled, demanding attention. She'd burned calories she didn't have and now it was time to pay them back. "Shut up stomach" she thought, finally noticing the lack of music. She cranked it on not caring what noise came. Another rumble now, one that said "Feel me damnit." She hadn't eaten in almost three days. She was trying to lose a bulge nobody but she could see.
A man stood on the corner with a sign. He also hadn't eaten in multiple days. She tried to avoid eye contact, pretending to fidget with..well, nothing. He knew. He'd seen it thousands of times. Without knowing exactly why, he was enraged at this particular slight. He glowered and shifted feet. She hoped the light would change quickly. Without trying to be too obvious she clicked the lock engaged. The man tried to approach, stumbled. Thank the gods for rotgut. She looked over with a start as he fell face-first on the sidewalk. The light changed. She floored it. "Close one" she sighed aloud. "perv."
Back at home her stomach grumbled again when she walked past her fridge. She opened the door and looked lustfully inside. Everything looked satisfying, if not completely delicious. The leftover pastries looked especially enticing with their cream cheese filling. She bit the corner of her lip poutily and closed the door. The light smacking sound signaled the beginning of the worlds spin. She needed water, rest..what she really needed was there, a mere arms length away from her. She reached out, half steadying, half seeking, found the handle. It was as her fingers closed around it that her body gave out. She dropped to the floor bringing the contents of the now open door with her. Had she been a salad or pork rib she would've been well basted. But she wasn't. She was perfect, she was beautiful. She was not supposed to be lying on the kitchen floor crying, covered in condiments. She deserved so much more. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the shadows. Her mind jumped to the man from earlier. Here he was, ready to have his revenge. Briefly she wondered if the news report would mention the blue cheese that trickled between her toes. She propped herself up shakily. "Hello?" her voice barely a whisper. "Who's there?" At her voice the figure came toward her. Hannibal, her cat. She sighed and crashed back to the floor. The last thing she felt before sleep overtook her was the sandpaper tongue working at the corner of her eye.
VI
My skin, cold to the touch. I run distracted hand over an arm, feel the flesh diminish. Pull a thin hood over my head. Below me my city groans, rumbles, flickers mildly. The air is crisp but not uncomfortable, almost winter but not quite. I close my eyes and lose myself in the breeze, let it wash over me and open myself to it. The night is illuminated by a nearly full moon. The hike easy, almost comfortable, and I stand casting a bluish pall in the middle of nowhere. She whispers softly to me, pulls me near to steal my warmth. I'm sure she thinks of it as 'sharing'. Her presence pulls me away from my much needed emptiness but she calms me still. I turn to face her and look through her. Pale skin, lips slightly purple, gorgeous. The corner of her mouth upturns unconsciously and I'm struck with a thought: I don't deserve her. Such my common mentality, my social hangnail, and something I try to hide while occasionally outwardly proclaiming it.
I pull her in for a kiss and feel her melt a little. Her body goes slack in my enveloping arms. "I love you" I whisper as I kiss my way up toward her earlobe. Her hot breath in the crook of my neck condenses almost instantly. We tremble. Her breaths become deep and ragged. We drink each other greedily. I push her to half-arms length, lids heavy. "Do you want to-" I begin, casting eyes back toward the city, toward warmth. She cuts me off. "No, I don't." "Are you sure? You're freezing."
My slight disappointment fades as she steps back and slowly, cutely, unbuttons her shirt. She smiles, shivers a little, invites me in.
I pull her in for a kiss and feel her melt a little. Her body goes slack in my enveloping arms. "I love you" I whisper as I kiss my way up toward her earlobe. Her hot breath in the crook of my neck condenses almost instantly. We tremble. Her breaths become deep and ragged. We drink each other greedily. I push her to half-arms length, lids heavy. "Do you want to-" I begin, casting eyes back toward the city, toward warmth. She cuts me off. "No, I don't." "Are you sure? You're freezing."
My slight disappointment fades as she steps back and slowly, cutely, unbuttons her shirt. She smiles, shivers a little, invites me in.
3.08.2011
Writing exercise/block killer5
He builds this fiction, this shell of causality, pretends he's civilized. Pretends he's human. We all know it. They all do it. Throughout mans' dark and storied evolution we've lain dormant. They always think they're good, safe, and we always surface at the most inopportune of moments.
Take a minute, if you will, and examine the knuckles surrounding you. Better yet, dig deep into the eyes of a stranger. Cast a withering glance or a sharp word into the ether and you'll see me there, floating in the undercurrent.
He so often forgets me. He is surprised and awkward at my presence. Sometimes he feels like things might just be better if he surrendered to me. I live and thrive independent of these things.
Today we do battle and unfortunately he outwills me. He returns home and collapses into a sorrowful, quivering heap. He is exhausted but cannot place why.
Take a minute, if you will, and examine the knuckles surrounding you. Better yet, dig deep into the eyes of a stranger. Cast a withering glance or a sharp word into the ether and you'll see me there, floating in the undercurrent.
He so often forgets me. He is surprised and awkward at my presence. Sometimes he feels like things might just be better if he surrendered to me. I live and thrive independent of these things.
Today we do battle and unfortunately he outwills me. He returns home and collapses into a sorrowful, quivering heap. He is exhausted but cannot place why.
Writing exercise/block killer4
'Love me' I say. I shout it quietly but constantly. I will theworld to throw me something, anything, convinced that the smallest scrap would serve to sate some of the vacuum inside. But it never does.
I look up. Across from me is a man. Strange, I hadn't even noticed anyone come in. He reads, obviously waiting for someone. I remember moments of not-so-veiled threats. My shoulders tense..more than they already have been. Catch myself chewing a rough patch on the inside of my lip. Become awash in the memory of feelings that were, at the time, overwhelming. Strange how intense the relics can be even after the immediacy and, truly, even the residual had faded. I wonder at the value of these evocative moments. At that moment, long past, the genetic imperative of my feelings was readily apparent; justifiable. But now? What purpose does this irrational anger, this will to violence serve?
I am, of course, a rational man, and would be hard pressed to act on such things, but the thought itches my brain. I am troubled by its continued existence. I am troubled by the why of it. Perhaps more tellingly I am troubled by the ease at which my rationality has vanished, replaced by the lizard brain.
He sees me, looks slightly uncomfortable. Good. I keep a stone face but I'm sure my eyes burn. Hands shake slightly. Maybe the coffee. A busboy clears tables efficiently, wordless, his slick apron evoking recent horror movies. More violence. I watch him work, his face also stone. He remains entirely focused. In spite of the distraction I can't clear my head. I think about him-the other guy that is, and the lizard wants to ruin his life.
I look up. Across from me is a man. Strange, I hadn't even noticed anyone come in. He reads, obviously waiting for someone. I remember moments of not-so-veiled threats. My shoulders tense..more than they already have been. Catch myself chewing a rough patch on the inside of my lip. Become awash in the memory of feelings that were, at the time, overwhelming. Strange how intense the relics can be even after the immediacy and, truly, even the residual had faded. I wonder at the value of these evocative moments. At that moment, long past, the genetic imperative of my feelings was readily apparent; justifiable. But now? What purpose does this irrational anger, this will to violence serve?
I am, of course, a rational man, and would be hard pressed to act on such things, but the thought itches my brain. I am troubled by its continued existence. I am troubled by the why of it. Perhaps more tellingly I am troubled by the ease at which my rationality has vanished, replaced by the lizard brain.
He sees me, looks slightly uncomfortable. Good. I keep a stone face but I'm sure my eyes burn. Hands shake slightly. Maybe the coffee. A busboy clears tables efficiently, wordless, his slick apron evoking recent horror movies. More violence. I watch him work, his face also stone. He remains entirely focused. In spite of the distraction I can't clear my head. I think about him-the other guy that is, and the lizard wants to ruin his life.
3.06.2011
Writing exercise/block killer3
Everything around him burned. He sat calmly, breathing in the smoke, waiting to be overtaken. Flames licked at his paralised feet and he felt nothing. He tried to conjure the sensation of pain as his sole began to melt. He'd picked a soundtrack for this end but in the heat his stereo warbled and finally died, leaving him alone with the mumbling of the immolation.
Flame became fluid and he realized, waking with a start, that he'd fallen asleep before relocating for high tide. He stood groggily, brushing off mites and sandy patches. His toes squished sensually into the cold muck. A fish flopped nearby - praying to drown. He moved and obliged it.
The moon was nearly full and the whole of the beach was illuminated cerulean. He fought off waves of pleasure and happiness. He fought off the thought of this calm peacefulness. Now wasn't the time. He wanted to put on his socks and his 'real people clothes' but they'd apparently washed away. Stupid. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Clothes gone. Time gone. He checked his watch. 3am. Friends would all be sleeping. He needed something. Someone. He was cold. He shuffled to his car, safely parked and waiting, grabbed his spare from the wheelwell and got in. The click was telltale, his frustration palpable. He would be walking home in his board shorts. Surely enough he was catcalled and pelted with remnants by semi-drunk motorists, who were more than likely returning from a much better evening than he'd had. He tried to imagine their stories but his irritation turned them all into monsters. Drunks, rapists, despicable folk.
He booted his door open and ran for the bathroom, making it just in time to unleash a torrent of vomit into its best receptacle. He passed out again somewhere between there and his bedroom, silent but for the occasional outburst.
'Dude are you ok?'
He rolled onto his side.
'Hey! What the hell man? You alright?'
He sat up, groaning like an old man.
'Yeahimfine...whatareyoudoing...' he looked around '..here?'
'I was driving by and your door was open. Haven't seen you for a while - wanted to make sure you were like, alive.'
'Fuck. I'm alive. Can i not be anymore?'
His friend helped him up and they moved to the kitchen where, in a matter of a minute or two, water was boiling and coffee waiting to be pressed.
'Rough night eh?'
'Must've been. Last i remember was some girl dancing on a table'
From there they moved outside for a smoke. He was blinded and struggled to mount his shades to his face. His friend looked him in the eyes, hesitant, and looked away before faltering with words. He quickly quieted.
'What is it? You have something. Say it already.'
'So..I wasn't just randomly driving by this morning.'
'Ah, stalking me huh. I knew you--'
'Look, this feels totally lame and you're probably going to hate me for this and push us all even further away'
He cast eyes downward, willing words to come.
'We're all really worried about you man.'
'Oh come on.'
Anger welled. God..this again.
'I know you don't like to..that you're not much of a talker, but...
Honestly man, when i saw your door I didn't know if you'd even be alive to have this talk with.'
'Thanks mom. Should i be sure to be home before 9 tonight? Call you before i go anywhere?'
'Yeah, funny. This is serious. Everyone's seen. We all know what you're going through. Everyone is here to support you. We just want you to be ok, you know?'
'You know...'
He bit his lip - hard, stood up and rested his hands on the balcony, back to his concerned friend. His 'best friend'.
'You don't know a goddamn thing about what I'm going through. You think you know me? Understand me? Give me a break. You don't. And spare me your little worry party while you're at it. It's stress. I neither need, nor want it.'
The friend cringed; hurting, reeling at the sudden venom in his voice.
'We're your friends. We're supposed to be here to help.'
'Yeah well..you're here. Thanks. But you can't help me.'
'Why don't you let us try?'
He stopped momentarily, calming himself with measured breaths.
'You've all been more friend than a guy like me deserves, or has any right to ask for.'
He cleared his throat, coughed a little. His friend sat a bit straighter. Maybe this tone change was progress. The two made eye contact.
'I don't need any of you. If you knew me we wouldn't be having this stupid conversation day after day. I feel like I'm fucking ambushed at every turn.'
His friend was the angry one now.
'Fuck you. We do this because we love you. And maybe we'd know you if you ever fucking let us'
He smirked, knowing this would be over soon. He pulled the glasses down,l sat, rested his head against the wall. His friend thought that, in spite of it all, he looked like a picture from an old poster; the wasted, weary antihero.
Without opening his eyes he said "you know as much of me as you need to. It's obviously worth something, right?'
'Right. Of course.'
'Great so..let me finish here...you either take me as I am or you can go to hell..the lot of you.'
He nodded toward the front door.
'So either beat it already or bum me as smoke and go get the Jack out of the freezer. We're celebrating.'
He caught the cig and lit it, inhaling thoughtfully.
'What are we celebrating?'
'Your reluctant but ever-so-wise decision to stay in my world.
We celebrate your brilliance and my fucked-upness.'
He flashed a smile that involved more of a sardonic lip with upturned eyebrows than teeth and joy, threw back a swig from the bottle, and passed it.
'Salud.'
'You're an asshole.'
'Love me.'
Flame became fluid and he realized, waking with a start, that he'd fallen asleep before relocating for high tide. He stood groggily, brushing off mites and sandy patches. His toes squished sensually into the cold muck. A fish flopped nearby - praying to drown. He moved and obliged it.
The moon was nearly full and the whole of the beach was illuminated cerulean. He fought off waves of pleasure and happiness. He fought off the thought of this calm peacefulness. Now wasn't the time. He wanted to put on his socks and his 'real people clothes' but they'd apparently washed away. Stupid. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Clothes gone. Time gone. He checked his watch. 3am. Friends would all be sleeping. He needed something. Someone. He was cold. He shuffled to his car, safely parked and waiting, grabbed his spare from the wheelwell and got in. The click was telltale, his frustration palpable. He would be walking home in his board shorts. Surely enough he was catcalled and pelted with remnants by semi-drunk motorists, who were more than likely returning from a much better evening than he'd had. He tried to imagine their stories but his irritation turned them all into monsters. Drunks, rapists, despicable folk.
He booted his door open and ran for the bathroom, making it just in time to unleash a torrent of vomit into its best receptacle. He passed out again somewhere between there and his bedroom, silent but for the occasional outburst.
'Dude are you ok?'
He rolled onto his side.
'Hey! What the hell man? You alright?'
He sat up, groaning like an old man.
'Yeahimfine...whatareyoudoing...' he looked around '..here?'
'I was driving by and your door was open. Haven't seen you for a while - wanted to make sure you were like, alive.'
'Fuck. I'm alive. Can i not be anymore?'
His friend helped him up and they moved to the kitchen where, in a matter of a minute or two, water was boiling and coffee waiting to be pressed.
'Rough night eh?'
'Must've been. Last i remember was some girl dancing on a table'
From there they moved outside for a smoke. He was blinded and struggled to mount his shades to his face. His friend looked him in the eyes, hesitant, and looked away before faltering with words. He quickly quieted.
'What is it? You have something. Say it already.'
'So..I wasn't just randomly driving by this morning.'
'Ah, stalking me huh. I knew you--'
'Look, this feels totally lame and you're probably going to hate me for this and push us all even further away'
He cast eyes downward, willing words to come.
'We're all really worried about you man.'
'Oh come on.'
Anger welled. God..this again.
'I know you don't like to..that you're not much of a talker, but...
Honestly man, when i saw your door I didn't know if you'd even be alive to have this talk with.'
'Thanks mom. Should i be sure to be home before 9 tonight? Call you before i go anywhere?'
'Yeah, funny. This is serious. Everyone's seen. We all know what you're going through. Everyone is here to support you. We just want you to be ok, you know?'
'You know...'
He bit his lip - hard, stood up and rested his hands on the balcony, back to his concerned friend. His 'best friend'.
'You don't know a goddamn thing about what I'm going through. You think you know me? Understand me? Give me a break. You don't. And spare me your little worry party while you're at it. It's stress. I neither need, nor want it.'
The friend cringed; hurting, reeling at the sudden venom in his voice.
'We're your friends. We're supposed to be here to help.'
'Yeah well..you're here. Thanks. But you can't help me.'
'Why don't you let us try?'
He stopped momentarily, calming himself with measured breaths.
'You've all been more friend than a guy like me deserves, or has any right to ask for.'
He cleared his throat, coughed a little. His friend sat a bit straighter. Maybe this tone change was progress. The two made eye contact.
'I don't need any of you. If you knew me we wouldn't be having this stupid conversation day after day. I feel like I'm fucking ambushed at every turn.'
His friend was the angry one now.
'Fuck you. We do this because we love you. And maybe we'd know you if you ever fucking let us'
He smirked, knowing this would be over soon. He pulled the glasses down,l sat, rested his head against the wall. His friend thought that, in spite of it all, he looked like a picture from an old poster; the wasted, weary antihero.
Without opening his eyes he said "you know as much of me as you need to. It's obviously worth something, right?'
'Right. Of course.'
'Great so..let me finish here...you either take me as I am or you can go to hell..the lot of you.'
He nodded toward the front door.
'So either beat it already or bum me as smoke and go get the Jack out of the freezer. We're celebrating.'
He caught the cig and lit it, inhaling thoughtfully.
'What are we celebrating?'
'Your reluctant but ever-so-wise decision to stay in my world.
We celebrate your brilliance and my fucked-upness.'
He flashed a smile that involved more of a sardonic lip with upturned eyebrows than teeth and joy, threw back a swig from the bottle, and passed it.
'Salud.'
'You're an asshole.'
'Love me.'
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