This takes place in the seated waiting area for a municipal building. Could be jury duty, disputing traffic tickets, the DMV, etc. Person 1 is thin and seems prone to the sort of sudden movements that drive peoples' dogs crazy. Wearing tight (but not "skinny") jeans and a fitted t-shirt that could only be what an underground artist tossed in the trash because the design turned out too Ed Hardy. He stole it from the dumpster and ostensibly hasn't washed it. Person 2 is tiptoeing the line between doughy and muscular, wearing a tight ribbed sweater and jeans that are so unremarkable and ordinary that some people think he isn't wearing any pants at all. Perhaps he's at the municipal building to fight a public indecency citation because of this. Both men seem between 30-45 and have never spoken to one another before.
Person 1: (into a cellphone)Yep, looks like more of George Clooney coming to grips with his age. ... Doing what again? ... Well that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the movie, I just... No, I'm not implying that you need my permission to enjoy... Grand Poobah? You mean from The Mikado? ... Well yeah, but where the fuck do you think The Flintstones got it from? ... Well perhaps you should. ... No, you're right, it's somewhat promising, but... we'll see. Yeah, we'll see. Alrightbye. (1)
Person 2: So you're going to see "The Descendants"?
P1: Apparently.
P2: Eh.
P1: You saw it?
P2: Yeah. That's all there is to say.
P1: Really? See I read the book it's based on, and I imagine there would be many things to say about-
P2: I'm sure the book is waaaaay better.
P1: You liked the book?
P2: I didn't read the book.
P1: Oh. How do you know then?
P2: The book is always better than the movie. I think you were right when you said it's just more mainstream George Clooney posturing.
P1: Well I didn't say it was posturing. I'm just tired of George Clooney being the emblem of "middle-age guy reluctantly having an epiphany" when there are plenty of other actors that could do these roles and not carry the stigma of all George Clooney's other characters.
P2: It feels like every George Clooney movie is the same movie. It feels like EVERY movie I see in theaters is the same 3 or 4 movies. It's like I'm taking crazy pills, am I the only one who sees this?
P1: I agree somewhat, but there are plenty of notable exceptions.
P2: It's all focus groups. I'm sure they have people like you in their focus groups as well. Don't kid yourself. I imagine they probably even have someone like me, too. It's all marketing. No movies are worth watching anymore.
P1: Well that's a bit of a rash generalization. Perhaps what reaches mainstream theaters and becomes a major hit is often garbage, but have you been to The Grimmet? At 19th and Chesilhurst?
P2: No.
P1: You should go there. They play films by local artist on Thursdays and Sundays, and foreign and indie movies the rest of the week. It's cheap, and parking is way easier there than at the AMC 24 at Gibbon's Square.
P2: But why is it so hard for these films to find a larger audience?
P1: Ordinary people just aren't comfortable with challenging films. Last weekend they featured this one called "7AM in Debresko" about the day-to-day life of a small-time arms dealer in a small city in the Czech Republic. Even though he sells weapons to inept assassins and psychopaths, you can't help but compare his life to your own. That kind of absurdity doesn't sit well with the typical viewer.
P2: Yeah but really it's just another movie about assassins, right?
P1: Maybe a little, but-
P2: So they're trying to be mainstream. I mean whatever, I'm sure it's alright, but I'm just tired of movies about assassins.
P1: Sure. You should stop by this weekend then, they're showing "Fifth", a documentary that examines the relationship between memes and society and culture. The name comes from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, and a major part of the movie is a man with perfect pitch who goes around-
P2: Jeez it sounds like they're trying to be obscure!
P1: What?
P2: It sounds like they made the movie boring and obscure on purpose.
P1: Obscure? You encounter memes every day. For example-
P2: It's like every movie either tries too hard to be mainstream, or it tries too hard to be the opposite.
P1: I d- What!?
P2: I don't know, I just feel like I know why every movie is made. It sorta kills the magic for me.
P1: I don't know what you're talking about. Just last night I saw one that wasn't mainstream or obscure. Three friends who are fed up with their jobs decide to-
P2: You obviously don't get it.
P1: What don't I get?
P2: (Looking forward without expression) Just... the reason movies are made.
P1: I guess not?
P2: Enjoy "The Descendants".
P1: (Peering up at the monitor displaying his position in cue) I think I may. (2)
(1) Transcription of this conversation (if you want to cheat): Yep, looks like more of George Clooney coming to grips with his age. You're doing that thing again. Doing what again? That thing where you shit all over something when you only know like one or two details about it. It's annoying. Well that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the movie, I just- So glad I have your approval. No, I'm not implying that you need my permission to enjoy- Whatever, you're so the self-appointed Grand Poobah of taste. Grand Poobah? You mean from "The Mikado"? What? No, The Flintstones episode with the Freemason-type club they join. Well yeah, but where the fuck do you think The Flintstones got it from? Sorry, I don't keep wikipedia handy when I watch cartoons. Well perhaps you should. Apparently I have to. Look, you liked "Sideways", this might be similarly good. No, you're right, it's somewhat promising, but... we'll see. Stop being negative! Yeah, we'll see. You WILL see! Alrightbye. Bye.
(2) Try reading this again and imagine the temptation one may feel, being P1, to ask P2 "Are you sure you even like movies?" or perhaps "What movies do you like?"
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Thought Bubbles
Inspired by a conversation I sorta overheard and chose to misinterpret the hell out of. Imagine a guy looking at his Facebook newsfeed. These are his thoughts and actions. It helps to ignore the annotations on the first read, then read the whole thing.
Trish is so hot. Click Trish's profile. (I)
Look at how hot she is. View pics. (II)
Is she single? (III)
Nope.
Does she still date the same bland semi-intellectual versions of Dane Cook like she did in college? Click profile of guy she's "in a relationship" with.(IV)
Looks like it. Am I superior to him in the context of my own value system? Click self profile.(V)
Yep. (VI)
I'm so hot. (VII)
(I)Trish and I used to have fun together. I should consider getting back in touch with her. Why did we never date? (A)
(II)What has she been up to? I will be more easily able to determine this by looking at her pictures than by reading her wall because the pictures cover a greater span of time than her day-to-day postings.
(III)Is she settling down?(B)
(IV)I wonder if he is like Brent. He was kinda annoying. (C)
(V)I wonder what she would see if she were to look at my profile. What would she think?(D)
(VI)I'm sure he's a great guy.
(VII)I lead a good life.
(A)Or whatever. I can have attractive female friends without any hidden sexual agenda. That's why I'm awesome. (i)
(B)Not that being "in a relationship" means you are "settling down".(ii)
(C)We had a decent conversation about The New Pornographers. Or was it The Coldwar Kids? I can't tell the difference.(iii)
(D)That is an innocently charming and not at all creepy thought to have, right? A refreshingly new mode of self-evaluation! (iv)
(i)That doesn't really make me awesome. If I am capable of it, anybody is because people are by default decent and moral and I am glad to be alive among them.
(ii)Not that there's anything wrong with settling down. After all, what else are we here for?(a)
(iii)I just need to listen to more indie music. Then I'll be able to appreciate the nuances that differentiate the artists and bands.
(iv)Not that I care. I'm totally free to think whatever I want to think!
(a)There are plenty of other reasons we could be here, breeding isn't necessarily the only goal of life. (1)
(1)Not that this is a rationalization of my being single, which is a choice I have made on my own in the unbiased realm of my mind, and not because I want to rebel against society or because I lack other options.
Trish is so hot. Click Trish's profile. (I)
Look at how hot she is. View pics. (II)
Is she single? (III)
Nope.
Does she still date the same bland semi-intellectual versions of Dane Cook like she did in college? Click profile of guy she's "in a relationship" with.(IV)
Looks like it. Am I superior to him in the context of my own value system? Click self profile.(V)
Yep. (VI)
I'm so hot. (VII)
(I)Trish and I used to have fun together. I should consider getting back in touch with her. Why did we never date? (A)
(II)What has she been up to? I will be more easily able to determine this by looking at her pictures than by reading her wall because the pictures cover a greater span of time than her day-to-day postings.
(III)Is she settling down?(B)
(IV)I wonder if he is like Brent. He was kinda annoying. (C)
(V)I wonder what she would see if she were to look at my profile. What would she think?(D)
(VI)I'm sure he's a great guy.
(VII)I lead a good life.
(A)Or whatever. I can have attractive female friends without any hidden sexual agenda. That's why I'm awesome. (i)
(B)Not that being "in a relationship" means you are "settling down".(ii)
(C)We had a decent conversation about The New Pornographers. Or was it The Coldwar Kids? I can't tell the difference.(iii)
(D)That is an innocently charming and not at all creepy thought to have, right? A refreshingly new mode of self-evaluation! (iv)
(i)That doesn't really make me awesome. If I am capable of it, anybody is because people are by default decent and moral and I am glad to be alive among them.
(ii)Not that there's anything wrong with settling down. After all, what else are we here for?(a)
(iii)I just need to listen to more indie music. Then I'll be able to appreciate the nuances that differentiate the artists and bands.
(iv)Not that I care. I'm totally free to think whatever I want to think!
(a)There are plenty of other reasons we could be here, breeding isn't necessarily the only goal of life. (1)
(1)Not that this is a rationalization of my being single, which is a choice I have made on my own in the unbiased realm of my mind, and not because I want to rebel against society or because I lack other options.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Daysong
Every day, the composer dies.
He leaves behind an unfinished score
Dangling, swinging, scraping at my door
Edited collected work of the flies
Sated from my corpse, though no more realized
Than the thoughts of my unpaid landlord
The flies that crawl into my mouth by night
Tickle my grin all day
My flesh, an investment, paves the way
For when their forensic larva take flight
My thoughts are loose change,
Ideas are laundry
The world is my pockets and couch
But conclusion is out of range
For I am not me
Until I can go without
He leaves behind an unfinished score
Dangling, swinging, scraping at my door
Edited collected work of the flies
Sated from my corpse, though no more realized
Than the thoughts of my unpaid landlord
The flies that crawl into my mouth by night
Tickle my grin all day
My flesh, an investment, paves the way
For when their forensic larva take flight
My thoughts are loose change,
Ideas are laundry
The world is my pockets and couch
But conclusion is out of range
For I am not me
Until I can go without
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Toast for Bedtime
I am an intruder
I am to blame
I am the burnt toast you take to bed
You try to chew my shame,
But your lips can't contain
So, my seed you spread
This is our symbiotic shame, we are one at its suggestion,
Our march is the same as sun's daily progression
It nourishes the soil we daily pass
And by night we toil in its diffusing gas
When we serve each other with coffee,
You needn't ask
For I am an intruder
I am to blame
I am to blame
I am the burnt toast you take to bed
You try to chew my shame,
But your lips can't contain
So, my seed you spread
This is our symbiotic shame, we are one at its suggestion,
Our march is the same as sun's daily progression
It nourishes the soil we daily pass
And by night we toil in its diffusing gas
When we serve each other with coffee,
You needn't ask
For I am an intruder
I am to blame
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sunset, Better Than Fresh
They're blueberries and peaches
Smashed and smeared across the sky
Life can be waiting in effect
While causes are saddled
Bored, you defect 'round the bend
Licking a piece of the horizon
Darting to the land's other end
Firing a harpoon
Then bitterly clasping your hands
They hold only rope burn,
Now you understand
The location of my sweet tooth
Smashed and smeared across the sky
Life can be waiting in effect
While causes are saddled
Bored, you defect 'round the bend
Licking a piece of the horizon
Darting to the land's other end
Firing a harpoon
Then bitterly clasping your hands
They hold only rope burn,
Now you understand
The location of my sweet tooth
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Comforting Thoughts
You used to deflect the ground
Like a stone glancing at the bottom of a lake
Like it was just a distraction
Not a destination
Not a destiny
Not to land next to me
But somewhere in that horizon
The one I described with my teasing tosses
Then I cross the bridge of a million losses
Then there I was
And now here you are
Waiting for a sign
To put down the harp
And lay down the tarp
And talk at me
Of crisis,
ledges
Anagnorisis,
edges
And if I wasn't standing here bearing
Only a smock and a smirk staring
Then we'd fall from space, and give no chase
Then we'd have never been built in the first place
Like a stone glancing at the bottom of a lake
Like it was just a distraction
Not a destination
Not a destiny
Not to land next to me
But somewhere in that horizon
The one I described with my teasing tosses
Then I cross the bridge of a million losses
Then there I was
And now here you are
Waiting for a sign
To put down the harp
And lay down the tarp
And talk at me
Of crisis,
ledges
Anagnorisis,
edges
And if I wasn't standing here bearing
Only a smock and a smirk staring
Then we'd fall from space, and give no chase
Then we'd have never been built in the first place
Thursday, June 30, 2011
It is the necessity of spinning
1
I forgot that
The more holes you have
The less you must
Spinnnnnn...
For people to find you
Just because I am discovered on the walls
Someone's blasting through the sheet rock
Looking for me
I didn't know, so I
Repaired it
Like new
2
Oh... you've been drilling!
I can see it now in your skating path
Behind
The groove gets deeper
As
You get closer
Somewhere jumps too hard
Now you've struck oil
Down the rig
Down the rig
Ridges of sound,
like stairs,
Down the rig
fly by.
Too bad, I
I kinda liked that song
3
A humorous mess,
Life is better with fluids
Ample and exchanged
Borrowed colors that run
Fast
Where will we end up?
Follow the densest smoke
When it expires
You'll nearly be home
I forgot that
The more holes you have
The less you must
Spinnnnnn...
For people to find you
Just because I am discovered on the walls
Someone's blasting through the sheet rock
Looking for me
I didn't know, so I
Repaired it
Like new
2
Oh... you've been drilling!
I can see it now in your skating path
Behind
The groove gets deeper
As
You get closer
Somewhere jumps too hard
Now you've struck oil
Down the rig
Down the rig
Ridges of sound,
like stairs,
Down the rig
fly by.
Too bad, I
I kinda liked that song
3
A humorous mess,
Life is better with fluids
Ample and exchanged
Borrowed colors that run
Fast
Where will we end up?
Follow the densest smoke
When it expires
You'll nearly be home
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Just Breakfast
The phone call came unexpectedly on a Saturday. It was about 9:30 in the morning and Trevor was at the urban farm market. Sort of. Actually he was standing just outside the rows of locally grown produce merchants and waiting in line among the truck-bound vendors of premade food to order a very popular handheld breakfast. The droning sound of the engines competes with the amplified ringing acoustic strums of the hired live entertainment: a nervous doughy songwriter/cover artist with a compressed tenor voice and a discreetly balanced patch of stubble under his burgeoning chin. The carelessly drawn out delivery of the familiar lyrics reveals a sense of vanity and selfishness behind the impulse of falling in love being presented in the songs. Every note is an attempt to sing well beyond his abilities. It seems that he imagines this live performance is being recorded and will eventually be released and held in the same regard as Jeff Buckley's "Live at Sine", except without the untimely drowning. Trevor feels the vibrations on his thigh and as the ring tone fades in he realizes that it was a mistake to leave his phone off silent. His girlfriend Sandra is standing beside him and she is about to be party to a conversation between him and a prospective employer. He is considering ways to avoid this as he alters his stance dramatically for optimum pocket access on his skinny jeans, which fit more tightly around his calves than his waist, so as he reaches in for his phone you can see the top of his buttcrack and imagine how the line withers in its downward procession. He was about to try and use the momentum of shifting his stance to step aside and answer his phone in privacy, but he was positioned right between two signs that read "NO PLACE HOLDING". The phone was halfway through its ring cycle and he took a moment to marvel at the fact that these vendors actually take the time to put up those signs for their traveling meal car. He ponders the causal relationship of those signs advertising their aggressive cue maintenance policy and his 45 minute wait to have a customized breakfast chimichanga. He pretends not to notice the signs, but remains stationary anyway to take the call. He takes out a pen and notepad. It is a phone interview and it won't likely require any note taking, but he knows Sandra will think he is not taking the position seriously if he doesn't at least jot down something. The situation turns out in his favor it seems, as the pressure of the phone interview is completely eclipsed by the looming notion of Sandra's inevitable scrutiny afterwards. He hangs up the phone and tries to say something that will preclude any further interest. "Eh, they wanted to start me out in the call center making less than I am now." Silence. He responds to himself by throwing in some more details, "Yeah that must be why they called me on a Saturday... they wanted me to work the weekend shift..." She responds dryly, "Well whatever, I'm sure something better will come up," then without missing a beat, she changes the subject, "did you see they were selling squash blossoms? I think we should make squash blossom frittata!" Trevor responds carelessly. "Yeah... except we've been waiting in line so long, and I'm curious about this breakfast chimichanga." Sandra is quiet, so Trevor continues, "I've heard you can add up to 9 optional ingredients in addition to the 6 that come standard in each chimichanga." She doesn't share his enthusiasm. "Yeah but so? There is no line over there..." She motions towards the produce vendors with her slender and questionably hairless arm. "We can go back to your place and make a healthy breakfast together!" She lightly bumps her hip against his, causing his knees to unlock so he loses balance for a split second. "Well it won't be breakfast by the time we finish making it! Let's just each get completely different breakfast chimichangas and share them." She gets quiet again for a second. Then without looking at him she asks, "Why don't you want me to cook for you?" This puts him on the defensive. "It's not that I don't want your cooking... I just don't want to spend all day in the kitchen." She instantly retorts, "Why? What do you have planned?" He stares at her blankly. This is all the response she needs, as she speaks words that have clearly been forming in her mind. "You never have the patience to start anything from scratch. You start out with the right intentions, but you always get bored and discouraged by the follow through and take the easy way out. We go to the farm market to buy some fresh local produce and make something, but we beeline straight past all the actual farm stands so we can have something that is already made." Trevor attempts to cut her off, "Actually I have just heard really good things about the chimichanga truck breakfast items and really wanted to try it out. What the hell are you talking about?" His outburst at the end provides more fuel to her frustration. "Don't you dare try to make me sound like I'm crazy! You do this with your job, too! That is why you hold on to this lousy middle management position. They threw you that job because they wanted to keep you around. They promoted you quickly hoping that you wouldn't bother trying to start working for a better company. Who was it that called this morning about the call center job?" He was too punch-drunk to think of anything but the truth. "Platinum Marketing Group." "PMG!? You want to turn down a foot in the door at the largest advertizing company in the city so you can keep making... what, a few hundred dollars a month extra? A thousand? This is exactly what I'm talking about! Here is a job that, yeah, may start out like a demotion from where you currently are... but in like 12 months, 5 years, down the line... you could actually be working to your potential." Trevor's strategy during these arguments is generally to play possum, but he always ends up snapping at some point. "Alright, I get it! Look, I didn't say I was going to turn it down. I just didn't want to deal with your criticism today!" He looks around and says, "I mean seriously, are we actually having this conversation right now, right here?" Sandra has given up searching his eyes for anything comprehensible, so she is blankly staring somewhere near his face. "You are such a pussy! Do you think I enjoy having to confront you like I'm your guidance counselor... like a child about being responsible for your own well-being? I'm just trying to help you get over your myopic point of view that you're just gonna land some dream job from where you are now. And of course as usual you're more concerned with what people think than of actually discussing the issue at hand. Yes, we're having this conversation... right now! In front of all these strangers. So what?" Trevor is gripping at whatever he can find in his defense. "What do you mean 'As usual'? When else am I overly concerned with what others think of me? This is news to me! Why do you always pad your arguments with random unrelated things? And did you really need to throw 'myopic' in there?" Her arms fall to her sides with those last words. "You're such an asshole, I can't deal with this right now. I'm going home." He reaches for her, but she snaps at him, "I'll take the bus." Trevor takes one step... then back into line. He is next, and he orders a very basic chimichanga, which he takes several meek bites of as the hired entertainment adds syncopation to "Danny's Song" by Kenny Loggins and really makes it his own.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Ironic Cupcakes: A Fairy Tale
Yarmond was growing weary of his self-imposed mission, which required many tedious door-to-door interactions while carrying an increasingly cumbersome sack. He was entering the Village of Pattadonna Hill, a sprawling series of uniformly cylindrical cottages with large doors made of chestnut planks and polished brass bolts. It was a prosperous town full of attractive people and vibrant landscape; even the clouds that passed overhead appeared to be sculpted by someone selected through a formal process that involved auditions and stodgy interviews.
The first cottage he visited was eclectic indeed, with statues of feathered beasts indigenous to faraway lands, folky crafts of coloured straw, and water fixtures that require far more than gravity and capillary effects to function. He taps at the door and waits patiently, his eyes lose focus around the brass bolts as he is wading through thoughts far, far away from the improvised yet somehow rehearsed tales he intends to tell. The patriarch of the Narrowmiller family opens the door and Yarmonds words are dripping with presumptions, as these conversations have become so perfunctory and rote that he can almost respond on their behalf. To enter their comfort zone as a stranger who has lost his way, he flatters and describes his first hand experience with the subject matter of their lavish exotic decor during his travels.
There is a reason these compliments of excess are being used. The rulers of this realm, the corrupt and bureaucratic Society of Wizard Overlords, noticed a lack of productivity and sincere motivation among the masses. Due to their relative lack of individual power and freedom, it seems they had given up on the traditional ambitions that the ruling class of wizards benefit from, so people began to keep modest personal goals and spend more time developing a bitter sense of humor to cope with the unbearably harsh realities of being ruled by wizards who, despite being very powerful and wise were prone to scandal. Rather than try to improve their behavior so people would become less jaded, the Society of Wizard Overlords passed a blanket spell that causes anybody who enjoyed an incident of irony to have their household transformed into gourmet cupcakes that feature characteristics that identified them. For instance somebody who was shallow but happy would probably have overly sweetened icing with rainbow sprinkles and extra spongy cake, someone who was prone to holding grudges would have stale icing and bitter fruit filling, someone who was indecisive would be made of marble cake and have one piece of several candy toppings, etc. The wizards found that the citizens were worth more as gourmet cupcakes than as lazy disillusioned workers. Since laughing ironically at failure and hopelessness was no longer an option, people were forced to take life very seriously and put all of their effort into being successful, as success was the only means to happiness.
Having been invited into the Narrowmiller's home for refreshments, Yarmond is asking questions of the young couple that give them the opportunity to express their sincere beliefs on broad social issues and show off their worldly knowledge. After a while he asks them if they want to see a trick. They oblige him, given of course that no irony is involved. Yarmond says it is as straightforward a trick as they have ever seen... and he continues the conversation speaking entirely in titles of books that can be found on the Narrowmiller's shelves. Having been entertained in many similar homes, his choices are flawless. Each sentence is seamless and free flowing; it is as though no matter what question they can think of to ask of him, he can form a response using only titles of various publications found throughout the house. The conversation lasts for hours, until they nearly forget that all he needed were some directions to the best lodging in the area. Eventually he begins his departure pleasantries, and then he asks, "I forget, what were your names?" After an awkward pause, the husband started to speak his name... but the wife interrupts, "Wait... you know every book in our house... but you don't know our names?" At that moment, both were transformed into nearly identical cupcakes. They were made with red velvet cake and had lumps of toffee too large to be melted in the baking process, and the vanilla icing was unable to maintain its intended decorative formation due to all the toppings, which ranged from crumbled chocolates to pan-seared sea bass with capers. Yarmond wrapped them in separate napkins and tossed them into his sack and moved on to the next cottage.
After visiting a few homes, people start to warn others. Once the chain reaction begins, Yarmond's job becomes much easier. People begin arming themselves and dashing through the streets in a panic shouting "LOOK OUT! HE IS USING IRONY!" Then they think about what they are yelling while running around brandishing weapons, and relinquish a smile as they are changed into cupcakes. After the calamity, all Yarmond needs to do is retrieve them.
Of course even when they are an expression of an entire human life, a bag of cupcakes is not worth much to anybody. So why was Yarmond collecting them with such zeal? Not long ago Yarmond was in love with a woman named Miscellanea, and she was congruently in love with him. They spent their days nearly catatonic in amazement of every detail of one another... he of the way her hair felt between the insides of his fingers, her of his lower back and the corners of his eyes... her subtle ways of drawing attention to herself, his neurotic deconstruction of his surroundings... her vulnerability to him despite his flaws, his devotion to her despite all the worry he holds onto. Their state of reverie formed an impenetrable atmosphere, basically a new world outside of the jurisdiction of the Society of Wizard Overlords, who found this world to be threatening. Their world indeed had an actual physical presence, and Yarmond and Miscellanea entered and exited their world many times before they realized it was there. For Miscellanea this presence was a magical enhancement to her life, but for Yarmond it was a source of anxiety. What if it vanishes unexpectedly? What should they do to maintain it so that doesn't happen? What if Miscellanea betrays him? Miscellanea did all she could to reassure him that they were safe as long as the atmosphere was strong, but he was still doubtful and the wizards were aware of this. One day when he was outside of their atmosphere, a representative from the Society of Wizard Overlords wore the guise of a local merchant and invited Yarmond to his shop. After a few glasses of truth potion, masked with the flavor of a bitter local drink, Yarmond opened up about his feelings for Miscellanea, as well as his doubts. The shop was dimly lit and full of dusty lamps and pendants and some more confusing formations of sheet metal. The wizard let him know of a possible solution for his uncertainty. He reached behind him and presented a simple tarnished lantern. "Ignite this lantern with a lock of your lovers hair and speak her name into it. Then think deeply of everything that makes you love her, and when the flame burns out, everything you don't like about her will melt away." Yarmond purchased the lantern without hesitation and decided to use it the following morning.
Now, the Society of Wizard Overlords can't intervene in the lives of the people without an approved cause. They had to give Yarmond two options, and the immoral option, if chosen, justifies commensurate punishment. Yarmond collected a lock of Miscellanea's hair and spoke her name into the ignited lantern, and let his mind indulge in every one of her favorable qualities. After waiting patiently for the fire to burn out, he ran over to Miscellanea's home only to find a crowd had gathered and her roof was missing... along with her. Several passers by said there was a flash of light that projected up to the sky and outwards in all directions, and she was nowhere to be found. Yarmond located the merchant and asked what went wrong. The merchant removed his disguise and explained to Yarmond what he had done. "By using that lantern, you have deconstructed and separated all of Miscellanea's attributes and caused them to be scattered and distributed to every single person throughout the land." Yarmond begged of the wizard to break the spell. He replied, "Well even if I wanted to, I can't go against a decision made by the Society of Wizard Overlords. However, if you can find a way to bring everybody in the world into close proximity, the wizards will consider that deed a form of atonement and retrieve all of her features from the citizens and bring her back.
Yarmond went into hiding for a while and didn't resurface until the cupcake spell was passed, as he saw this as an opportunity: Since there was an element of her in every person in the world, and people were being turned into cupcakes... then the cupcake must contain this essence of her, as well. All he needed to do was make everybody turn into cupcakes, then they would be easy to keep all in one place and present to the wizards. Yarmond was immune to irony because he had lost all joy when Miscellanea vanished... so he could speak and perpetrate all the irony he wanted with complete invincibility.
Yarmond noticed that one of the eclectic cottages in Pattadonna Hill had a flattened pillar, most likely from Village of Blott, where phallic symbols of any kind are banned. This was the final village of his quest, and he soon found himself at the town center reading the engraved pancake-shaped monument to its founders. He was reading the town's slogan: "Hidden in the genius required by necessity are the building blocks of a better future." Nobody in Blott knew what it actually meant, but the words "genius" and "better future" were promising so it stuck. Yarmond knew only the crudest irony wouldn't be lost on these people, and since they wouldn't find any irony in acts of panic the way other towns have, he needed to get everybody in one shot. Fortunately he showed up the day of their monthly town hall meetings, the attendance of which was mandatory for at least one member of every household. The main purpose of these meetings is to debate over the many interpretations of the town slogan, as well as what defines something as phallic. The town has recently banned the usage of nails, so this month's meeting is about whether buildings must be demolished and reconstructed with the use of adhesives and fitted materials in favor of traditional elongated fasteners with an aspect ratio greater than 4:1. Yarmond slowly moved to the front of the room throughout the meeting, then during the open forum he took the podium and suggested that perhaps fasteners with a 4:1 aspect ratio would be acceptable if they were less than 2 inches in length. The suggestion received enthusiastic applause by most in the crowd, but there were several cries of disapproval around the room, the loudest of which was coming from the mayor. Yarmond seized this opportunity and yanked the mayor's pants and drawers down to his ankles, and the entire town turned into cupcakes. Mostly vanilla with bi-colored sprinkles and a plastic garnish.
Now holding the cupcake of every person in the land, Yarmond begins journeying to the Valley of Power find the Society of Wizard Overlords. When he arrived, the unseen wizards opened a portal to a new land where he and Miscellanea can start anew. All he had to do was listen to the wizard's explanation of why they put him through this trial. "We gave you the option to let your love take its natural course... but you chose to turn her into less than a person... you chose to strain out the qualities you found disagreeable. We found this to be unacceptable." Yarmond scratched his head. "Wait... so you're saying that in order to teach me about the value of human life... you made me turn the entire population of this realm into cupcake avatars of themselves?" Then, for the first time since he last saw Miscellanea's wide-eyed smile, Yarmond laughed. He was instantly transformed into a cupcake. After a few moments, Miscellanea materialized inside the bag of cupcakes. The voices of the wizards told her to enter the portal, and she stepped forward to oblige. All memory from her previous life had been wiped clean, but for some reason she wanted to eat the cupcake she found on the ground next to her before she left. It appeared to be chocolate caramel... She brought it up to her lips... and discovered it was made of stone. She tossed it aside and wandered into the new realm.
The first cottage he visited was eclectic indeed, with statues of feathered beasts indigenous to faraway lands, folky crafts of coloured straw, and water fixtures that require far more than gravity and capillary effects to function. He taps at the door and waits patiently, his eyes lose focus around the brass bolts as he is wading through thoughts far, far away from the improvised yet somehow rehearsed tales he intends to tell. The patriarch of the Narrowmiller family opens the door and Yarmonds words are dripping with presumptions, as these conversations have become so perfunctory and rote that he can almost respond on their behalf. To enter their comfort zone as a stranger who has lost his way, he flatters and describes his first hand experience with the subject matter of their lavish exotic decor during his travels.
There is a reason these compliments of excess are being used. The rulers of this realm, the corrupt and bureaucratic Society of Wizard Overlords, noticed a lack of productivity and sincere motivation among the masses. Due to their relative lack of individual power and freedom, it seems they had given up on the traditional ambitions that the ruling class of wizards benefit from, so people began to keep modest personal goals and spend more time developing a bitter sense of humor to cope with the unbearably harsh realities of being ruled by wizards who, despite being very powerful and wise were prone to scandal. Rather than try to improve their behavior so people would become less jaded, the Society of Wizard Overlords passed a blanket spell that causes anybody who enjoyed an incident of irony to have their household transformed into gourmet cupcakes that feature characteristics that identified them. For instance somebody who was shallow but happy would probably have overly sweetened icing with rainbow sprinkles and extra spongy cake, someone who was prone to holding grudges would have stale icing and bitter fruit filling, someone who was indecisive would be made of marble cake and have one piece of several candy toppings, etc. The wizards found that the citizens were worth more as gourmet cupcakes than as lazy disillusioned workers. Since laughing ironically at failure and hopelessness was no longer an option, people were forced to take life very seriously and put all of their effort into being successful, as success was the only means to happiness.
Having been invited into the Narrowmiller's home for refreshments, Yarmond is asking questions of the young couple that give them the opportunity to express their sincere beliefs on broad social issues and show off their worldly knowledge. After a while he asks them if they want to see a trick. They oblige him, given of course that no irony is involved. Yarmond says it is as straightforward a trick as they have ever seen... and he continues the conversation speaking entirely in titles of books that can be found on the Narrowmiller's shelves. Having been entertained in many similar homes, his choices are flawless. Each sentence is seamless and free flowing; it is as though no matter what question they can think of to ask of him, he can form a response using only titles of various publications found throughout the house. The conversation lasts for hours, until they nearly forget that all he needed were some directions to the best lodging in the area. Eventually he begins his departure pleasantries, and then he asks, "I forget, what were your names?" After an awkward pause, the husband started to speak his name... but the wife interrupts, "Wait... you know every book in our house... but you don't know our names?" At that moment, both were transformed into nearly identical cupcakes. They were made with red velvet cake and had lumps of toffee too large to be melted in the baking process, and the vanilla icing was unable to maintain its intended decorative formation due to all the toppings, which ranged from crumbled chocolates to pan-seared sea bass with capers. Yarmond wrapped them in separate napkins and tossed them into his sack and moved on to the next cottage.
After visiting a few homes, people start to warn others. Once the chain reaction begins, Yarmond's job becomes much easier. People begin arming themselves and dashing through the streets in a panic shouting "LOOK OUT! HE IS USING IRONY!" Then they think about what they are yelling while running around brandishing weapons, and relinquish a smile as they are changed into cupcakes. After the calamity, all Yarmond needs to do is retrieve them.
Of course even when they are an expression of an entire human life, a bag of cupcakes is not worth much to anybody. So why was Yarmond collecting them with such zeal? Not long ago Yarmond was in love with a woman named Miscellanea, and she was congruently in love with him. They spent their days nearly catatonic in amazement of every detail of one another... he of the way her hair felt between the insides of his fingers, her of his lower back and the corners of his eyes... her subtle ways of drawing attention to herself, his neurotic deconstruction of his surroundings... her vulnerability to him despite his flaws, his devotion to her despite all the worry he holds onto. Their state of reverie formed an impenetrable atmosphere, basically a new world outside of the jurisdiction of the Society of Wizard Overlords, who found this world to be threatening. Their world indeed had an actual physical presence, and Yarmond and Miscellanea entered and exited their world many times before they realized it was there. For Miscellanea this presence was a magical enhancement to her life, but for Yarmond it was a source of anxiety. What if it vanishes unexpectedly? What should they do to maintain it so that doesn't happen? What if Miscellanea betrays him? Miscellanea did all she could to reassure him that they were safe as long as the atmosphere was strong, but he was still doubtful and the wizards were aware of this. One day when he was outside of their atmosphere, a representative from the Society of Wizard Overlords wore the guise of a local merchant and invited Yarmond to his shop. After a few glasses of truth potion, masked with the flavor of a bitter local drink, Yarmond opened up about his feelings for Miscellanea, as well as his doubts. The shop was dimly lit and full of dusty lamps and pendants and some more confusing formations of sheet metal. The wizard let him know of a possible solution for his uncertainty. He reached behind him and presented a simple tarnished lantern. "Ignite this lantern with a lock of your lovers hair and speak her name into it. Then think deeply of everything that makes you love her, and when the flame burns out, everything you don't like about her will melt away." Yarmond purchased the lantern without hesitation and decided to use it the following morning.
Now, the Society of Wizard Overlords can't intervene in the lives of the people without an approved cause. They had to give Yarmond two options, and the immoral option, if chosen, justifies commensurate punishment. Yarmond collected a lock of Miscellanea's hair and spoke her name into the ignited lantern, and let his mind indulge in every one of her favorable qualities. After waiting patiently for the fire to burn out, he ran over to Miscellanea's home only to find a crowd had gathered and her roof was missing... along with her. Several passers by said there was a flash of light that projected up to the sky and outwards in all directions, and she was nowhere to be found. Yarmond located the merchant and asked what went wrong. The merchant removed his disguise and explained to Yarmond what he had done. "By using that lantern, you have deconstructed and separated all of Miscellanea's attributes and caused them to be scattered and distributed to every single person throughout the land." Yarmond begged of the wizard to break the spell. He replied, "Well even if I wanted to, I can't go against a decision made by the Society of Wizard Overlords. However, if you can find a way to bring everybody in the world into close proximity, the wizards will consider that deed a form of atonement and retrieve all of her features from the citizens and bring her back.
Yarmond went into hiding for a while and didn't resurface until the cupcake spell was passed, as he saw this as an opportunity: Since there was an element of her in every person in the world, and people were being turned into cupcakes... then the cupcake must contain this essence of her, as well. All he needed to do was make everybody turn into cupcakes, then they would be easy to keep all in one place and present to the wizards. Yarmond was immune to irony because he had lost all joy when Miscellanea vanished... so he could speak and perpetrate all the irony he wanted with complete invincibility.
Yarmond noticed that one of the eclectic cottages in Pattadonna Hill had a flattened pillar, most likely from Village of Blott, where phallic symbols of any kind are banned. This was the final village of his quest, and he soon found himself at the town center reading the engraved pancake-shaped monument to its founders. He was reading the town's slogan: "Hidden in the genius required by necessity are the building blocks of a better future." Nobody in Blott knew what it actually meant, but the words "genius" and "better future" were promising so it stuck. Yarmond knew only the crudest irony wouldn't be lost on these people, and since they wouldn't find any irony in acts of panic the way other towns have, he needed to get everybody in one shot. Fortunately he showed up the day of their monthly town hall meetings, the attendance of which was mandatory for at least one member of every household. The main purpose of these meetings is to debate over the many interpretations of the town slogan, as well as what defines something as phallic. The town has recently banned the usage of nails, so this month's meeting is about whether buildings must be demolished and reconstructed with the use of adhesives and fitted materials in favor of traditional elongated fasteners with an aspect ratio greater than 4:1. Yarmond slowly moved to the front of the room throughout the meeting, then during the open forum he took the podium and suggested that perhaps fasteners with a 4:1 aspect ratio would be acceptable if they were less than 2 inches in length. The suggestion received enthusiastic applause by most in the crowd, but there were several cries of disapproval around the room, the loudest of which was coming from the mayor. Yarmond seized this opportunity and yanked the mayor's pants and drawers down to his ankles, and the entire town turned into cupcakes. Mostly vanilla with bi-colored sprinkles and a plastic garnish.
Now holding the cupcake of every person in the land, Yarmond begins journeying to the Valley of Power find the Society of Wizard Overlords. When he arrived, the unseen wizards opened a portal to a new land where he and Miscellanea can start anew. All he had to do was listen to the wizard's explanation of why they put him through this trial. "We gave you the option to let your love take its natural course... but you chose to turn her into less than a person... you chose to strain out the qualities you found disagreeable. We found this to be unacceptable." Yarmond scratched his head. "Wait... so you're saying that in order to teach me about the value of human life... you made me turn the entire population of this realm into cupcake avatars of themselves?" Then, for the first time since he last saw Miscellanea's wide-eyed smile, Yarmond laughed. He was instantly transformed into a cupcake. After a few moments, Miscellanea materialized inside the bag of cupcakes. The voices of the wizards told her to enter the portal, and she stepped forward to oblige. All memory from her previous life had been wiped clean, but for some reason she wanted to eat the cupcake she found on the ground next to her before she left. It appeared to be chocolate caramel... She brought it up to her lips... and discovered it was made of stone. She tossed it aside and wandered into the new realm.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Walk Through/What are you, Crazy?
Walk through
The inky blue
As though our landing gear is true
The impact is great
When in need of
anticipated repair
Can we continue as cement mixers
Relieving ourselves through eye droppers?
Will these be radiation burns
Or super powers and eternal life?
Have you seen the bottom!!??
Or is this another pane-divided segment
Of glass bottomed eternity?
What do I know of the next room
Aside from which magazines I'd read
The inky blue
As though our landing gear is true
The impact is great
When in need of
anticipated repair
Can we continue as cement mixers
Relieving ourselves through eye droppers?
Will these be radiation burns
Or super powers and eternal life?
Have you seen the bottom!!??
Or is this another pane-divided segment
Of glass bottomed eternity?
What do I know of the next room
Aside from which magazines I'd read
The Balance of One Guest
Death from a chandelier mishap,
they were there in the first place.
Who made their decision ----------- (not them)
Who cleans up afterward ----------- (not them)
This was supposed to be a formal ceremony,
This is an options optional zone,
I chose to make dancing
multiple shadows.
The impact of one shadow is muffled
just before it is measured.
they were there in the first place.
Who made their decision ----------- (not them)
Who cleans up afterward ----------- (not them)
This was supposed to be a formal ceremony,
This is an options optional zone,
I chose to make dancing
multiple shadows.
The impact of one shadow is muffled
just before it is measured.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Fixie
The customer recognizes my ragged youthfulness along with my chosen profession and interprets it all to include feelings of revolutionary resentment towards more traditional ambitions. "Most people don't choose a career path based on what they enjoy. The decision is a noxious combination of fear and convenience." This is just one of many generalities he preaches at me with exaggerated conviction because he wants me to agree with him with the same vigor, like we're suddenly going to feel a warm kinship because of it. Like if you underline a few common interests with enough enthusiasm, you could bypass the years it takes to form a real friendship. I own a garage and sell miscellaneous refurbished goods (appliances, tools, bicycles, etc), and I have these conversations with lonely idealistic souls new to downtown often enough to know that he is about to say something even more riddled with jagged camaraderie bait. "...and fear and convenience ought to be abolished in general." He's just another hack in a fedora who has mistaken my dusty shop for a drawing room in some Russian novel. He's been checking out my one bicycle, and he's touched his wallet several times in the 15 minutes he's been rambling, as though he's still trying to decide. I have no doubt that he is going to buy this recently repainted cerulean blue fixed gear Schwinn with the visibly marked-down price. He knows it to; it is the only thing in the world towards which he feels no ambivalence. Meanwhile I struggle to find the balance of being cordial enough not to alienate the sale but curt enough to get him to complete what is really a perfunctory transaction that requires no such declamatory statements. I turn 90 degrees to the right and tinker on my workbench as he tells me about how primitive it is that the city lacks proper bike lanes on its arterial boulevards, and how the city should adopt a filtered permeability model. While I may not have an associates degree in urban planning, I know that a several hundred year old city is not very likely to repossess its storefronts so the citizens with the highest smugness-to-profitability ratio can save their knees a few statistically inevitable scrapes. He takes the hint when I break eye contact and apply my Dremel to some lightweight titanium tubing.
There is a reason I tolerate vexing hipster rants to sell a cheap used bicycle in my otherwise surprisingly profitable shop. I keep track of all their inclinations so I know where they may be found. Within two weeks I will have stolen the bike I just sold them and sold it to somebody else, and it helps to have a general idea of where they'll be. Urban cyclists tend to conglomerate at the same few cafes, but daytime is difficult to work with. From the conversation I glean whether they are after indie music, poetry, slutty art school girls, jazz, DJ's, terrible punk shows, etc. After they basically read their Facebook profile to me, I know which venues to stroll by every Friday and Saturday night to find my bike. Sooner or later, it ends up on the rack, and I retrieve it.
Once the bike is at my shop, I am sure to repaint the frame and obscure any recognizable dings and scratches in case they return to buy a replacement, which is usually what happens. I stole my bike from the same guy three times in 2 months. Eventually I sold him a used Vespa for three grand, which he's had better luck with. He stopped by to tell me this, and he introduces his friends to me when I see him drunk swaying in front of clubs late at night. Many of them know me already.
Today's customer didn't give me any good leads... if I had to guess, he spends most of his time with the lights out watching Zeitgeist drinking pure grain alcohol. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt with suspenders, so my first stake out is either Ellis Island circa 1921 or the jazz clubs. Given his disdain for the bourgeoisie, I avoided the places that charge admission and feature Pat Metheny covers in favor of the seedier venues. Places with names like The Rusted Oleander and Brazen Blue seemed like his scene, but I hung out all night and all I got was a free preview of tinnitus. After that I winged it for a while, hitting up all of my usual spots until I realized the one clue he gave me with his words. He spoke of career choices and civil engineering... so I scanned the 24 hour library at the university religiously for two weeks until I gave up.
Having exhausted all other options, I toured the cafes where all of my former clients have Sunday brunch. I found him at Merci Beaucoup sitting alone at the bar next to the spinning cakes. I sit down on the other side and order something to drink. Within three sips he recognizes me and starts a conversation. I ask him how the bike is working out and he says, "It needed a little adjustment and some new parts... and that color was hideous, I don't know who owned it previously but it was just awful." I paused to wonder what type of person takes such issue with cerulean blue, then asked if he had it with him today. "You know to be honest, I sold it to a friend. I needed something with more gears, y'know?" So my bike was lost, but there was one more thing I was looking for. I asked how he was acclimating to the downtown scene, and he replied, "I spend most of my time at home or at the library studying for classes." I didn't have to ask him which college or at what times he could be found there, I already knew I was right enough about it. So right, in fact, that I needed to close my shop and find a new city, somewhere I can hopefully never become so familiar with as I have with this city.
There is a reason I tolerate vexing hipster rants to sell a cheap used bicycle in my otherwise surprisingly profitable shop. I keep track of all their inclinations so I know where they may be found. Within two weeks I will have stolen the bike I just sold them and sold it to somebody else, and it helps to have a general idea of where they'll be. Urban cyclists tend to conglomerate at the same few cafes, but daytime is difficult to work with. From the conversation I glean whether they are after indie music, poetry, slutty art school girls, jazz, DJ's, terrible punk shows, etc. After they basically read their Facebook profile to me, I know which venues to stroll by every Friday and Saturday night to find my bike. Sooner or later, it ends up on the rack, and I retrieve it.
Once the bike is at my shop, I am sure to repaint the frame and obscure any recognizable dings and scratches in case they return to buy a replacement, which is usually what happens. I stole my bike from the same guy three times in 2 months. Eventually I sold him a used Vespa for three grand, which he's had better luck with. He stopped by to tell me this, and he introduces his friends to me when I see him drunk swaying in front of clubs late at night. Many of them know me already.
Today's customer didn't give me any good leads... if I had to guess, he spends most of his time with the lights out watching Zeitgeist drinking pure grain alcohol. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt with suspenders, so my first stake out is either Ellis Island circa 1921 or the jazz clubs. Given his disdain for the bourgeoisie, I avoided the places that charge admission and feature Pat Metheny covers in favor of the seedier venues. Places with names like The Rusted Oleander and Brazen Blue seemed like his scene, but I hung out all night and all I got was a free preview of tinnitus. After that I winged it for a while, hitting up all of my usual spots until I realized the one clue he gave me with his words. He spoke of career choices and civil engineering... so I scanned the 24 hour library at the university religiously for two weeks until I gave up.
Having exhausted all other options, I toured the cafes where all of my former clients have Sunday brunch. I found him at Merci Beaucoup sitting alone at the bar next to the spinning cakes. I sit down on the other side and order something to drink. Within three sips he recognizes me and starts a conversation. I ask him how the bike is working out and he says, "It needed a little adjustment and some new parts... and that color was hideous, I don't know who owned it previously but it was just awful." I paused to wonder what type of person takes such issue with cerulean blue, then asked if he had it with him today. "You know to be honest, I sold it to a friend. I needed something with more gears, y'know?" So my bike was lost, but there was one more thing I was looking for. I asked how he was acclimating to the downtown scene, and he replied, "I spend most of my time at home or at the library studying for classes." I didn't have to ask him which college or at what times he could be found there, I already knew I was right enough about it. So right, in fact, that I needed to close my shop and find a new city, somewhere I can hopefully never become so familiar with as I have with this city.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Jagged Angles of Comfort
Vic felt a bit hesitant going to Tanya's viewing. They had been dating for two months, and the relationship had taken a turn for the serious in the weeks before the car crash claimed her life, so while he couldn't imagine not going, he knew most of the attendees mostly through her stories about them. Vic had met only a few of her friends and, very briefly, her sister. He imagined that her ex-husband would be there, and he tried to stifle inappropriately trivial thoughts of awkwardness, but he couldn't help himself from the occasional speculative glance around the room. He'd never seen a picture, so he had to guess by the composite sketch in his imagination. Anybody in the 30-40 age bracket was suspect, and his mind would rattle off several features to scan each face for before his conscience called him out. This cycle of internal struggle disturbed him, but it also kept his grief at a safe distance.
Glenn had been shifting in his seat at the back of the room speaking into a mobile device with both hands cupping the receiver. He approached Vic and solemnly introduced himself as her ex-husband. To cut the unbearable silence short, Vic asked how Glenn's band was doing. Glenn tightened his brows, "What band?" "Tanya said you were in a cover band..." Glenn seemed on the verge of laughter. "I was in a cover band in college. It paid for grad school!" Vic stares blankly as he thinks to himself, "Grad school?" Glenn continues, "I'm a writer and producer for TLC." This distracts him even further from his grief. Not only is Glenn successful now, but it seems that he has always been resourceful with his creativity, which is distinctly at odds with what Tanya told him. As the conversation continues, Vic tries to figure out why she lied to him. It seems like she was trying to give a more palatable impression of her choice to move on, as though she divorced an inept struggling artist for a more stable lifestyle with Vic. Was she trying to make Vic feel better for being less interesting than Glenn, or was she making herself feel better for not being able to handle her husband's ambitious lifestyle? Or maybe he cheated on her! He instantly feels shame for being relieved at that thought. The resulting insecurities would explain some of her bedroom acrobatics though.
While Vic was lost in his thoughts, Glenn turned to the side and spoke into a small recording device and mumbled the date and time a few barely audible sentences like "Reality series of what French women do on their 2 years of maternity leave" and "The secret lives of feral cats. Cats are all over the internet." Vic couldn't let this opportunity for some personal vindication pass. "Don't you think that is a bit inappropriate?" Glenn talked over his last few words into the device as though he wasn't listening, "8 episode series about the authenticity of celebrity pizza endorsements in New York". Vic was going to let the question drop, but Glenn turned to him and said, "I do feel a little self-conscious, but when ideas come there is no excuse not to record them. It would be a disservice to my staff if I didn't capture every possible idea. It's not easy..." Glenn's delivery of those lines is well-worn and rehearsed, as was his dismount. "It was nice meeting you, hopefully under better circumstances next time." He might as well have put a netspeak frowning face at the end.
When Vic arrives at the open coffin, he sees an attractive stranger. He places his hand beside her cheek as he often did in intimate moments and stares into her closed eyes. People around him probably thought he was restraining tears, but in reality he was trying not to say "Why did you lie to me?" His mind replied for her that she wanted to start over with someone who was unremarkable but attentive. This left him feeling even more unfulfilled... He walks away wondering if she ever existed in the first place when her voice rang in his thoughts, saying "I just can't believe Chelsea would be so short-sighted." Chelsea was one of her coworkers. This is the phone conversation she was having with him immediately before the accident. He absently agreed with her. Glenn is pacing next to the doorway saying things like "Chinese soy barons are the next oil moguls" and "The development of bacon into the phenomenon that it has become" as he replays the dialog. This is what he has for closure.
Glenn had been shifting in his seat at the back of the room speaking into a mobile device with both hands cupping the receiver. He approached Vic and solemnly introduced himself as her ex-husband. To cut the unbearable silence short, Vic asked how Glenn's band was doing. Glenn tightened his brows, "What band?" "Tanya said you were in a cover band..." Glenn seemed on the verge of laughter. "I was in a cover band in college. It paid for grad school!" Vic stares blankly as he thinks to himself, "Grad school?" Glenn continues, "I'm a writer and producer for TLC." This distracts him even further from his grief. Not only is Glenn successful now, but it seems that he has always been resourceful with his creativity, which is distinctly at odds with what Tanya told him. As the conversation continues, Vic tries to figure out why she lied to him. It seems like she was trying to give a more palatable impression of her choice to move on, as though she divorced an inept struggling artist for a more stable lifestyle with Vic. Was she trying to make Vic feel better for being less interesting than Glenn, or was she making herself feel better for not being able to handle her husband's ambitious lifestyle? Or maybe he cheated on her! He instantly feels shame for being relieved at that thought. The resulting insecurities would explain some of her bedroom acrobatics though.
While Vic was lost in his thoughts, Glenn turned to the side and spoke into a small recording device and mumbled the date and time a few barely audible sentences like "Reality series of what French women do on their 2 years of maternity leave" and "The secret lives of feral cats. Cats are all over the internet." Vic couldn't let this opportunity for some personal vindication pass. "Don't you think that is a bit inappropriate?" Glenn talked over his last few words into the device as though he wasn't listening, "8 episode series about the authenticity of celebrity pizza endorsements in New York". Vic was going to let the question drop, but Glenn turned to him and said, "I do feel a little self-conscious, but when ideas come there is no excuse not to record them. It would be a disservice to my staff if I didn't capture every possible idea. It's not easy..." Glenn's delivery of those lines is well-worn and rehearsed, as was his dismount. "It was nice meeting you, hopefully under better circumstances next time." He might as well have put a netspeak frowning face at the end.
When Vic arrives at the open coffin, he sees an attractive stranger. He places his hand beside her cheek as he often did in intimate moments and stares into her closed eyes. People around him probably thought he was restraining tears, but in reality he was trying not to say "Why did you lie to me?" His mind replied for her that she wanted to start over with someone who was unremarkable but attentive. This left him feeling even more unfulfilled... He walks away wondering if she ever existed in the first place when her voice rang in his thoughts, saying "I just can't believe Chelsea would be so short-sighted." Chelsea was one of her coworkers. This is the phone conversation she was having with him immediately before the accident. He absently agreed with her. Glenn is pacing next to the doorway saying things like "Chinese soy barons are the next oil moguls" and "The development of bacon into the phenomenon that it has become" as he replays the dialog. This is what he has for closure.
Friday, June 10, 2011
It's a Fucking Shark!
I'm at a table somewhere in 2002 with french fries that were dissolving in ketchup and brown gravy, coffee where the cream was separating in psychedelic patterns just below the surface, and Matt is pitching an idea to everybody: he wants to create an online archive of vintage video game music. Everybody is excited except for me, but I keep my mouth shut because I'm at a table of lazy idealists, and there is nothing on my mind that their ex-girlfriends haven't already broke up with them over. I've already started siphoning contempt in my direction by saying that 90% of tattoos are stupid. I only know one of the six people at the table, and statistically I insulted everybody, but they all probably assumed they were part of the 10% with cool tattoos and called it optimism. It doesn't matter though, my lack of enthusiasm is enough to get me called out. Matt says, "You're not on board for this one, are you?" I cannot lie. The subject changes a few times as the night goes on, but inevitably he brings up his brilliant idea again. This time he puts me on the spot. "You're getting a business degree, right? Well isn't it advertising that pays for these websites? Don't you see the opportunity?" He cuts my reply off before any possible meaning could have been gleaned and he continues, "You know what your problem is? You never make a choice. Ideas, you know... they're like picking a girlfriend. You can spend years waiting for what you think is an ideal situation that may never happen or it may not turn out the way you wanted it to. Me, I like to run with whatever I think is a good idea until it fails." Everybody agrees with him as they start talking about people they know who are closed minded like I am, and I decide to take a stand in a way they would possibly relate to. I say "Have you ever looked around you and wondered what other people are thinking? Well I always had the idea that we should consider the opposite." I let that sit for a second to make sure everybody is paying attention. I continue, "I think that the sharpest tool for self-assessment is to imagine the people we care about and even random strangers suddenly had a membership to our library of thoughts." I suggested that we try it right at that moment at this almost empty diner at nearly 4 AM. We sit in silence for a while as we all imagined that people of varying personal significance were browsing our thoughts and memories. I imagine a frenzied entity taking a tour of my memories presented to them in 12 pt Arial font, and my current thoughts over a PA. The entity was drawn to thoughts I considered shameful, but once the two parties met I realized how silly shame is... Everybody began digging up shameful thoughts before they even decided who was sifting through them, then deciding who would be most affected by it. Incidences of petty racism, chunks of inappropriate lust... all revealed to everybody at the table, and anybody else we could summon to mind... they pass through us and take a souvenir before they dissipate. In the end, I am left with equanimity. We break concentration when the check arrives, and I am the only one who feels no need to speak, for though my fries are still untouched, I am not hungry in the least.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Close Encounters
My leg hair felt like the innards of a golf ball digging their way out of a life sentence on my thighs as I make my way through the alley entrance to my apartment complex on a summer evening. I am having very practical thoughts about the capacity of my mouth. If I didn't have teeth, imagine how much more food I could fit in it! I take several steps past a homeless guy collecting bottles from the dumpster and through the gate to my complex before the guilt sets in. There is usually somebody in one of the alley dumpsters at this hour, but I'm not usually having such lustful thoughts about food, which will most likely be covered in cheese and hot sauce and other unnecessary enhancements, while the guy in the dumpster will probably be testing very different limits of his digestive system than heat and lactose tolerance. Thus imbued with a sense of moral obligation, I burst into my kitchen to heat some mediocre leftover beans that I was suddenly glad to have kept around. I crudely fried an egg and sliced some sharp Tillamook cheddar and designated even portions of each with intention to deposit them into several corn tortillas that were heating in the oven. While I'm waiting I poke my head out my bedroom window (my apartment is at the end of the building nearest the dumpsters) to make sure the guy is still there. I yell out to him, "Hey! Uhh, are you hungry?" He looks up and without hesitation says, "I'm ok, but thank you!" He sounded crisp and content, albeit distracted by the new bag he was tearing open to search. I refused to believe this, so I press on, "Uhh, are you sure? Y-you're in a dumpster..." He says, "I know..." then pauses and looks down at his next bag. He looks back up at me and continues, "...but I'm not hungry." I go back into the kitchen and package his meal in a sealable bag with napkins and a wedge of lime. No way is he telling the truth, but I didn't want to insult him by continuing to state the obvious. Even though I'm sure he's probably not paying attention to my every action as closely as I am, I find an excuse to go outside and "coincidentally" walk past him. I decided to wash my bath towels. As I leave the laundry room with my bag of egg and bean tacos with a slice of lime, and which I at the last moment decided to also add a sprig of fresh cilantro to, I call to him over the fence, "No seriously, I am not going to eat this. I'm going out of town tomorrow and this food is going to spoil, so I'd rather it not go to waste." He smiles, "No really, I'm not hungry right now and I ate well earlier." I pressed on, "Well perhaps you'll want them later on. Please take them!" No wonder he's homeless, the man doesn't know how to plan ahead! "Look man, the shelter really takes care of me, and I think I'll be back on my feet in a few days. But thank you anyway." He pushes his cart to the next complex, and I leave the bag on top of a car, hoping that if not him, someone else will be humble enough to accept a free meal.
The following night I am passed out on my couch with a melted bowl of ice cream on the armrest and, courtesy of my ex-girlfriend's Netflix account, some horrible documentary about life on other planets on loop on my laptop. It is 3AM and my sleep is interrupted by the sound of that bowl of melted ice cream falling off the arm rest. I am slow to react because I am not surprised, as the arm rest is very thin. In fact I passed out expecting the bowl to fall, but I didn't care enough to risk interfering with the prospect of robust sleep. I'm still not fully awake, so I try not to concern myself with how much of it spilled on the floor. I decide to remain on the couch for the night. I hold on to sleep in my hands like a jello mold that wasn't quite set all the way. These are my thoughts as I debate snipping the last thread supporting consciousness or if it is worth it to write down the line, "Ribbed Tupperware shape is gone; now I am grasping onto the largest lump" in the nearest notebook in the hopes that it would become a poem. Then I shift to my left and a warm sneaker kicks me in the shoulder. It is at this point I scream and jump and notice someone climbing in through the window behind my couch. Abandoning his attempt at stealth, the intruder falls into the room and says, "What are you doing here?" I wield my fallen ice cream bowl as a weapon and turn on the light... it's the guy from the dumpster. "What do you mean "What am I doing here"? I fucking live here, get out before I call the cops!" He sits on my couch and says, "Yeah, but you said you were going to be out of town." For some reason my first thoughts when he sits down are "So I guess it was he who knocked over my ice cream bowl?" and "Now that I'm awake, should I write down that line about the Jello mold." Too distracted to tell anything but the truth, I say, "Yeah, but... you said you were gonna be on your feet in a few days!" He nodded and said, "Yeah, from robbing your house!" Against my better judgement, I ask him, "Don't you feel bad trying to rob someone who tried to give you food?" He fixes his posture and says, "Nope. You fit the profile of someone who deserves exactly this. You live alone and judging by your meticulously chosen attire and that satchel you carry, you're an artist of some kind. You were eager to offer me an elaborately crafted meal that took at least 10 minutes to put together. When people do this it generally means that they're more interested in sharing the product of their labor than actually helping someone." My guard down, I try to ask several questions at once, but he interrupts me and says, "Not that I think you don't care at all... I mean, everybody cares somewhat, right? But just because you care doesn't make you some sort of selfless hero." This puts me on the defensive, "You may be right, but at least I chose to act. I mean, other people-" He interrupts me again, "You really miss her, don't you? The girl... or the guy you used to cook these meals for." I reply, "WAIT... you can tell all of these things about what I do in my spare time and why I made food for you based on casual observations... but you can't tell if I'm straight or gay?" He stares unfocused over my shoulder at the fruitlessness of that topic. Knowing that we both understood one another, I felt a bit more at ease, so I continue. "Ok, so if you knew that my offering of that meal was so important to me, why didn't you just take it? ... Oh wait! Are you trying to help me by not encouraging my lingering emotional attachments?" The homeless man says without hesitation, "Hell no, I'm not your shrink! I didn't take your food because I didn't want to give you the satisfaction. You're pretentious and small-minded, and the cultural and philosophical minutiae you obsess over shows that none of your priorities are right because you have had it way too easy in life. I broke into your house, and you seem to have completely forgotten this fact simply because I started talking about your favorite subject: yourself!"
I wake up as the bowl of melted ice cream falls to the floor and shatters against another bowl that had previously fallen off the narrow arm of my couch. In my dream, the man from the dumpster grabbed my laptop and smashed it on the floor where the bowl landed. My first thought is to lock my doors, but I am also pulled towards my phone. I was going to make a phone call. I stopped myself not because there was nobody I ought to be calling at this hour and in fact had nobody in mind yet to call. I stopped myself when I saw the time. 3:07. I was asleep for only seven minutes. I toss my phone onto a nearby table, then take two steps towards the door. Then three steps towards the couch. Then a step towards the table. Then to the shattered bowl of ice cream. Then my bed. I should latch the door, but what would the implications of latching my door be? What am I really scared of? I should clean up the ice cream, but then I'd need to put on shoes so my feet don't get cut on the glass, and the whole activity would preclude the notion of going back to sleep at all. I should not be calling anybody at this hour, regardless of their time zone, but for some reason I want to. There is no way I will sleep well on the couch. I shouldn't try to go to bed until I make a decision about the phone and the door and the broken glass. As if pushed, I sit back on the couch and poke my laptop out of hibernation and wait.
The following night I am passed out on my couch with a melted bowl of ice cream on the armrest and, courtesy of my ex-girlfriend's Netflix account, some horrible documentary about life on other planets on loop on my laptop. It is 3AM and my sleep is interrupted by the sound of that bowl of melted ice cream falling off the arm rest. I am slow to react because I am not surprised, as the arm rest is very thin. In fact I passed out expecting the bowl to fall, but I didn't care enough to risk interfering with the prospect of robust sleep. I'm still not fully awake, so I try not to concern myself with how much of it spilled on the floor. I decide to remain on the couch for the night. I hold on to sleep in my hands like a jello mold that wasn't quite set all the way. These are my thoughts as I debate snipping the last thread supporting consciousness or if it is worth it to write down the line, "Ribbed Tupperware shape is gone; now I am grasping onto the largest lump" in the nearest notebook in the hopes that it would become a poem. Then I shift to my left and a warm sneaker kicks me in the shoulder. It is at this point I scream and jump and notice someone climbing in through the window behind my couch. Abandoning his attempt at stealth, the intruder falls into the room and says, "What are you doing here?" I wield my fallen ice cream bowl as a weapon and turn on the light... it's the guy from the dumpster. "What do you mean "What am I doing here"? I fucking live here, get out before I call the cops!" He sits on my couch and says, "Yeah, but you said you were going to be out of town." For some reason my first thoughts when he sits down are "So I guess it was he who knocked over my ice cream bowl?" and "Now that I'm awake, should I write down that line about the Jello mold." Too distracted to tell anything but the truth, I say, "Yeah, but... you said you were gonna be on your feet in a few days!" He nodded and said, "Yeah, from robbing your house!" Against my better judgement, I ask him, "Don't you feel bad trying to rob someone who tried to give you food?" He fixes his posture and says, "Nope. You fit the profile of someone who deserves exactly this. You live alone and judging by your meticulously chosen attire and that satchel you carry, you're an artist of some kind. You were eager to offer me an elaborately crafted meal that took at least 10 minutes to put together. When people do this it generally means that they're more interested in sharing the product of their labor than actually helping someone." My guard down, I try to ask several questions at once, but he interrupts me and says, "Not that I think you don't care at all... I mean, everybody cares somewhat, right? But just because you care doesn't make you some sort of selfless hero." This puts me on the defensive, "You may be right, but at least I chose to act. I mean, other people-" He interrupts me again, "You really miss her, don't you? The girl... or the guy you used to cook these meals for." I reply, "WAIT... you can tell all of these things about what I do in my spare time and why I made food for you based on casual observations... but you can't tell if I'm straight or gay?" He stares unfocused over my shoulder at the fruitlessness of that topic. Knowing that we both understood one another, I felt a bit more at ease, so I continue. "Ok, so if you knew that my offering of that meal was so important to me, why didn't you just take it? ... Oh wait! Are you trying to help me by not encouraging my lingering emotional attachments?" The homeless man says without hesitation, "Hell no, I'm not your shrink! I didn't take your food because I didn't want to give you the satisfaction. You're pretentious and small-minded, and the cultural and philosophical minutiae you obsess over shows that none of your priorities are right because you have had it way too easy in life. I broke into your house, and you seem to have completely forgotten this fact simply because I started talking about your favorite subject: yourself!"
I wake up as the bowl of melted ice cream falls to the floor and shatters against another bowl that had previously fallen off the narrow arm of my couch. In my dream, the man from the dumpster grabbed my laptop and smashed it on the floor where the bowl landed. My first thought is to lock my doors, but I am also pulled towards my phone. I was going to make a phone call. I stopped myself not because there was nobody I ought to be calling at this hour and in fact had nobody in mind yet to call. I stopped myself when I saw the time. 3:07. I was asleep for only seven minutes. I toss my phone onto a nearby table, then take two steps towards the door. Then three steps towards the couch. Then a step towards the table. Then to the shattered bowl of ice cream. Then my bed. I should latch the door, but what would the implications of latching my door be? What am I really scared of? I should clean up the ice cream, but then I'd need to put on shoes so my feet don't get cut on the glass, and the whole activity would preclude the notion of going back to sleep at all. I should not be calling anybody at this hour, regardless of their time zone, but for some reason I want to. There is no way I will sleep well on the couch. I shouldn't try to go to bed until I make a decision about the phone and the door and the broken glass. As if pushed, I sit back on the couch and poke my laptop out of hibernation and wait.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
On the Verge of Coherence
When I drove into the city for work every day, I was forced into a practical and analytical mindset before even entering the building. Planning my route according to traffic reports, monitoring speed limits, merging, BBC news on NPR, finding parking, calculating whether it is cheaper to feed a meter all day or use a parking garage, figuring out the fastest walking route or which bus to use to get from wherever I end up parking to my office... It was a warm up often more challenging than the job I had at the time, whatever that was. People like me could land a decent position back then, the job market was less competitive. Then again any job market can be described as nothing short of dystopia to a prematurely jaded recent college grad who is holding onto dreams of being a rock star despite a complete lack of focus and a hair line that was even then showing signs that it would soon recede. I was just grateful to be done with retail, construction, bartending, and the other undergrad employment options. My degree was an inconsequential side effect of years of indecisive debauchery, and my career goals were commensurate with that. Specifically, I had no ambitions past moving out of my parents house and into some urban space that probably had one brick wall and some outdated heating system that involves steam and large metal coils that were prone to vibrating all night... y'know, so I could more accurately imitate the lives I found featured in books, movies, and magazines. As the stress of driving to work got to me, I learned that commuting to Philadelphia from the Jersey suburbs via public transit was a filth-caked luxury in comparison. Not only did it cost about the same as driving with far less stress, I also had options like reading books, people watching, or even active courtship. I rarely participated in the latter, but I did witness some really gratifying unions where two obnoxious people mercifully removed each other from the local dating pool. My personal favorite was also the most frequently encountered: Two attractive people generally a few years older than I was at the time who've never met... wearing B-list designer outfits whose name ends in a vowel from Lord & Taylor (the guy) or something with incendiary sleeve placement and a skirt with faded orchids, oleanders, and clippings from an Andulusian newspaper circa 1916 from Anthropologie (the girl) that will eventually be worn by actual cool people twenty years from now(1). After an ice breaker and 3-5 sentences they are sitting next to each other talking about other countries they've visited (2). I suspect that they always wear at least one attention-grabbing article of clothing or accessory purchased overseas to increase the likelihood of manipulating the conversation in that direction. Eager to impress, they treat their trips to Europe like an $8.99 prime rib special. They give rehearsed depictions of glass pyramids like an all you can eat pancake offer, and of course unlimited free refills of camaraderie in Nepal. After being exposed to this for several months, I acquired a discerning appreciation for the nuances of schadenfreude, which was becoming less recreational and more of a lifestyle.
So every day I was inhabiting these ambient domains for an hour or so before arriving at work, occupying this head-space of literature and ego-biased people watching. My daily transition from this to cold hard data analysis was in need of some sort of segue. In the absence of this segue, I find the jolts of reality and the impact of concrete demands begin having a strange effect. My brain acquired a goaltender to protect me from reality and responsibilities so I could continue hopping between incomplete lofty thoughts. With this entry-level position, work-related decisions are basically made for me by logic and numbers. I had no interest in advancement, so I just coasted through every day, trying to imitate the behavior and vocabulary of coworkers. Sometimes I felt wretched, but usually I didn't feel anything at all.
After work I backtrack to return to the speed line. I pass through Rittenhouse Square, a standard issue urban park featuring statues, grass, and a defunct fountain. Sometimes I like to hang around and feel like part of the atmosphere as I read, reflect, and of course look fuckin' cool. The park benches that aren't occupied by the homeless are in high demand, so I often end up in the grass, which is the choice for the young people anyway. I sit amongst the artists and students, precisely the bohemian crowd you'd expect to find in this setting(3). I experienced frequent epiphanies at these times, each one contradicting the previous. I feel like the outsider at the park as the only guy wearing a long-sleeve dress shirt and a tie in the summer, and I feel like the outsider at work because nobody else sits in the park and reads Russian literature after hours. Am I the only person with both perspectives? Am I just surrounded by pods?
Aside from all that, I don't accomplish much in the grass on these afternoons. Sometimes I splurge a little and consider dinner at one of the local restaurants, though I am never successful. Every single time I wander the surrounding blocks (which feature most of the best the city has to offer) all I do is find reasons to doubt each eatery until I give up and just get pizza at one of several places near the speed line entrance. It doesn't feel like defeat until I struggle to open the door with two plates in my hands because I'm too self-conscious to eat at a booth by myself. Even more aggravating is groping for my ticket for the subway. I always thought that the "no eating on the train" rule was just an excuse for the cops to persecute the homeless. Not that I read about it or heard it at a cafe or in a song lyric or that I am even prone to making these sort of connections myself, but that I like to imagine that the world is full of clear injustices that I can focus my idealogical outrage on. The fact that I get away with eating pizza on the platform serves as proof that my theory is valid, and the resulting sense of pride and vindication engulfs both the personal failure of eating the same damned pizza as usual as well as the enjoyment of my pizza.
One morning, I am running a little late to work. This has been becoming the norm lately, so the excuses were becoming more like desperate pitches for spin-offs of sitcoms on the CW. Well on this day I don't even have the energy to focus my thoughts and make something up. I try as I sit on the train, but just as I start to form an idea the train goes underground and makes calling work impossible, and by the time it resurfaces it would no longer make sense to use that excuse. I try to think of another excuse, but find myself distracted as I approach Rittenhouse Square. I was later than usual, and apparently at this hour the park is full of ostensibly unemployed or self-employed artists/freelancers walking their dogs. Puffy-eyed from insomnia and from being over thirty... incoherent from years of substance abuse or from being around too many incoherent people... their t-shirts look like expensive relics from someone elses childhood, their sweaters belong to an ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, their arms are as limp as the dog's leash as they clean up the warm mess and move on.
I decide to say I locked my keys and my phone in the car, thus explaining why I was late and didn't even bother to call. Fortunately nobody had any follow up questions or remarks. I couldn't tell if nobody cared, or if my excuse was so unbearably transparent that they just wanted me out of their face. Either way, I win! I celebrate by treating myself to pizza after work. I took it with me to the park and sat in the grass. People-watching over a meal is great because nobody notices you staring at them when you're shoving food in your mouth. I notice that the bohemians in the grass are just younger versions of the people I saw earlier. I can see them now, balding and stretched out with dark circles around their eyes, walking their neurotic dogs and using the bag their vegan breakfast burrito came in to clean up the crap in the... in the grass. My pizza is on my lap, but both palms are on the ground. I smell my left hand... garlic powder. Then I smell my right hand. Then I throw my pizza out. I walk a lap around the fountain in the middle of the park... I am facing the dry fountain, but I am staring at the people in the grass. Do they need to be made aware of this? I consider the symbolism... "look what your future selves have left for you, don't follow their footsteps, it's not too late to change," etc. I think about how clear and tangible the premises and conclusion were to what I learned today, especially in comparison to rest of the conclusions I've drawn lately about the people, society, myself, etc. What a bunch of bullshit. Then I remember that I still have dog shit on my hands. I walk into a nice restaurant and use the bathroom... and since I'm once again in need of a meal, I ask to be seated.
(1) Not just their style of designer clothes, but the specific garments that they they own and are wearing as they speak. I see some of the same people every day and their clothes are always immaculately pressed, exactly as advised to in articles found in GQ or Esquire... so I imagine they'll be in pretty good shape in twenty years.
(2) For some reason they tend to start out one horizontal row apart and on the opposite side of the aisle (basically one checkers move) from each other, as though they sat just outside of comfortable conversation distance because they were initially feeling shy, but then one decides to finally lean over and start a conversation.
(3) It is tempting to characterize them some more by their specific tastes in music, drink, and irony... but I think that has been done to death. Specifically, I think anybody reading this would already have an image in their head, making any further details unnecessary.
So every day I was inhabiting these ambient domains for an hour or so before arriving at work, occupying this head-space of literature and ego-biased people watching. My daily transition from this to cold hard data analysis was in need of some sort of segue. In the absence of this segue, I find the jolts of reality and the impact of concrete demands begin having a strange effect. My brain acquired a goaltender to protect me from reality and responsibilities so I could continue hopping between incomplete lofty thoughts. With this entry-level position, work-related decisions are basically made for me by logic and numbers. I had no interest in advancement, so I just coasted through every day, trying to imitate the behavior and vocabulary of coworkers. Sometimes I felt wretched, but usually I didn't feel anything at all.
After work I backtrack to return to the speed line. I pass through Rittenhouse Square, a standard issue urban park featuring statues, grass, and a defunct fountain. Sometimes I like to hang around and feel like part of the atmosphere as I read, reflect, and of course look fuckin' cool. The park benches that aren't occupied by the homeless are in high demand, so I often end up in the grass, which is the choice for the young people anyway. I sit amongst the artists and students, precisely the bohemian crowd you'd expect to find in this setting(3). I experienced frequent epiphanies at these times, each one contradicting the previous. I feel like the outsider at the park as the only guy wearing a long-sleeve dress shirt and a tie in the summer, and I feel like the outsider at work because nobody else sits in the park and reads Russian literature after hours. Am I the only person with both perspectives? Am I just surrounded by pods?
Aside from all that, I don't accomplish much in the grass on these afternoons. Sometimes I splurge a little and consider dinner at one of the local restaurants, though I am never successful. Every single time I wander the surrounding blocks (which feature most of the best the city has to offer) all I do is find reasons to doubt each eatery until I give up and just get pizza at one of several places near the speed line entrance. It doesn't feel like defeat until I struggle to open the door with two plates in my hands because I'm too self-conscious to eat at a booth by myself. Even more aggravating is groping for my ticket for the subway. I always thought that the "no eating on the train" rule was just an excuse for the cops to persecute the homeless. Not that I read about it or heard it at a cafe or in a song lyric or that I am even prone to making these sort of connections myself, but that I like to imagine that the world is full of clear injustices that I can focus my idealogical outrage on. The fact that I get away with eating pizza on the platform serves as proof that my theory is valid, and the resulting sense of pride and vindication engulfs both the personal failure of eating the same damned pizza as usual as well as the enjoyment of my pizza.
One morning, I am running a little late to work. This has been becoming the norm lately, so the excuses were becoming more like desperate pitches for spin-offs of sitcoms on the CW. Well on this day I don't even have the energy to focus my thoughts and make something up. I try as I sit on the train, but just as I start to form an idea the train goes underground and makes calling work impossible, and by the time it resurfaces it would no longer make sense to use that excuse. I try to think of another excuse, but find myself distracted as I approach Rittenhouse Square. I was later than usual, and apparently at this hour the park is full of ostensibly unemployed or self-employed artists/freelancers walking their dogs. Puffy-eyed from insomnia and from being over thirty... incoherent from years of substance abuse or from being around too many incoherent people... their t-shirts look like expensive relics from someone elses childhood, their sweaters belong to an ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, their arms are as limp as the dog's leash as they clean up the warm mess and move on.
I decide to say I locked my keys and my phone in the car, thus explaining why I was late and didn't even bother to call. Fortunately nobody had any follow up questions or remarks. I couldn't tell if nobody cared, or if my excuse was so unbearably transparent that they just wanted me out of their face. Either way, I win! I celebrate by treating myself to pizza after work. I took it with me to the park and sat in the grass. People-watching over a meal is great because nobody notices you staring at them when you're shoving food in your mouth. I notice that the bohemians in the grass are just younger versions of the people I saw earlier. I can see them now, balding and stretched out with dark circles around their eyes, walking their neurotic dogs and using the bag their vegan breakfast burrito came in to clean up the crap in the... in the grass. My pizza is on my lap, but both palms are on the ground. I smell my left hand... garlic powder. Then I smell my right hand. Then I throw my pizza out. I walk a lap around the fountain in the middle of the park... I am facing the dry fountain, but I am staring at the people in the grass. Do they need to be made aware of this? I consider the symbolism... "look what your future selves have left for you, don't follow their footsteps, it's not too late to change," etc. I think about how clear and tangible the premises and conclusion were to what I learned today, especially in comparison to rest of the conclusions I've drawn lately about the people, society, myself, etc. What a bunch of bullshit. Then I remember that I still have dog shit on my hands. I walk into a nice restaurant and use the bathroom... and since I'm once again in need of a meal, I ask to be seated.
(1) Not just their style of designer clothes, but the specific garments that they they own and are wearing as they speak. I see some of the same people every day and their clothes are always immaculately pressed, exactly as advised to in articles found in GQ or Esquire... so I imagine they'll be in pretty good shape in twenty years.
(2) For some reason they tend to start out one horizontal row apart and on the opposite side of the aisle (basically one checkers move) from each other, as though they sat just outside of comfortable conversation distance because they were initially feeling shy, but then one decides to finally lean over and start a conversation.
(3) It is tempting to characterize them some more by their specific tastes in music, drink, and irony... but I think that has been done to death. Specifically, I think anybody reading this would already have an image in their head, making any further details unnecessary.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Incomplete Enjoyment
I like the way pants look when they are alone and empty
I like shrimp because it is conveniently packaged within itself and has a nice texture
I like pears because they are sweet and the inner flesh is compatible with the outer flesh
No other reasons
Are mountains for looking or walking up?
Can my joys be desiccated into joy powder, then reconstituted as a time release joy capsule?
Can a photo of an incandescent bulb on my wall light my way, or does it find another means of guiding me safely en route to the bathroom at 3AM?
Because I certainly don't know my way on my own.
Foreign countries provide me with accents, foods, timing belts, pornography, exciting water options
But there's something else
Incomplete appreciation
Why are my thoughts like this?
What can I really accomplish
When my mind is a lawnmower with hammers for blades
Sure every now and then, some kids leave the right toys out
And I make my presence known this way
If I combine all of these things
Then it is not quite solipsism
Then there is one other
How do I find them?
I suppose I can climb the empty pants, the shrimp, the pears, the pornography, and the exciting water options, frozen in mid air
I like shrimp because it is conveniently packaged within itself and has a nice texture
I like pears because they are sweet and the inner flesh is compatible with the outer flesh
No other reasons
Are mountains for looking or walking up?
Can my joys be desiccated into joy powder, then reconstituted as a time release joy capsule?
Can a photo of an incandescent bulb on my wall light my way, or does it find another means of guiding me safely en route to the bathroom at 3AM?
Because I certainly don't know my way on my own.
Foreign countries provide me with accents, foods, timing belts, pornography, exciting water options
But there's something else
Incomplete appreciation
Why are my thoughts like this?
What can I really accomplish
When my mind is a lawnmower with hammers for blades
Sure every now and then, some kids leave the right toys out
And I make my presence known this way
If I combine all of these things
Then it is not quite solipsism
Then there is one other
How do I find them?
I suppose I can climb the empty pants, the shrimp, the pears, the pornography, and the exciting water options, frozen in mid air
Monday, May 23, 2011
Conditional
Mid-introduction, I noticed her in that way you notice someone who you hope will be in a classic work of fiction you'll read someday. Perhaps it's already on my bookshelf as much as it is in the stars. I stood upon my best game and rolled tennis balls dipped in paint down the edge of it, and I explained to her the color genome of love and I told her why the tennis balls would never run dry. She is unaffected, she says, "I will not fall in love unless I know you are suffering." While unexpected, this demand feels familiar. She continues, "Since I have already experienced and deconstructed the structure of courtship to the point of oblivion, all I ask and all that's left that I can accept are disjointed incidences of personal anguish. Physical or emotional, real or perceived. Pain."
I accepted this mission and with unsure reason began seeking the unavoidable consequences of completely understandable mistakes. Having no idea how or when it will end, I built a resume of agony that defied description, and in response to my attempt at defying description, description prepared for battle, and the more I defied description, the closer it became until we clashed. I learned that losing a battle against description is the most concrete and inevitable personal defeat possible, and as soon as I conceded victory to description, the contents of my true self were revealed and made easily accessible in a PDF document that I hold no editing rights over. I realized that no further suffering was necessary, and I made my way back to her. She was already standing there, with a weak version of exaltation at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes grew bloated at the sight of me and deflated as she read my PDF document. "So by now you must have acquired considerable disdain for me." I could not lie to her. She said, "Take out that disdain on the rest of the world. When you are done, I will be waiting for you." Before I left she gave me her PDF document.
I wanted this mission even less than the previous one, but it came to me involuntarily. My heart and mind were a minefield of spite and grudges... I was a sprinkler system of barbed comments that nobody wanted to get to know, but I forced them to. I studied the habits of every single person in the world, and discovered one sentence that would insult every single one of them into a temporary comatose state. I approached them and said, "You are not me!", then presented them with my two PDF documents. Once they read both documents, they froze in time. Once my work was complete, she appeared to me and everybody moved again. The first time we made love, all the arbitrary systems of human measurement ceased to be. In the movie "Say Anything", Lloyd Dobler asks Diane if she needed someone or if she needed him. This is the only way to be sure.
I accepted this mission and with unsure reason began seeking the unavoidable consequences of completely understandable mistakes. Having no idea how or when it will end, I built a resume of agony that defied description, and in response to my attempt at defying description, description prepared for battle, and the more I defied description, the closer it became until we clashed. I learned that losing a battle against description is the most concrete and inevitable personal defeat possible, and as soon as I conceded victory to description, the contents of my true self were revealed and made easily accessible in a PDF document that I hold no editing rights over. I realized that no further suffering was necessary, and I made my way back to her. She was already standing there, with a weak version of exaltation at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes grew bloated at the sight of me and deflated as she read my PDF document. "So by now you must have acquired considerable disdain for me." I could not lie to her. She said, "Take out that disdain on the rest of the world. When you are done, I will be waiting for you." Before I left she gave me her PDF document.
I wanted this mission even less than the previous one, but it came to me involuntarily. My heart and mind were a minefield of spite and grudges... I was a sprinkler system of barbed comments that nobody wanted to get to know, but I forced them to. I studied the habits of every single person in the world, and discovered one sentence that would insult every single one of them into a temporary comatose state. I approached them and said, "You are not me!", then presented them with my two PDF documents. Once they read both documents, they froze in time. Once my work was complete, she appeared to me and everybody moved again. The first time we made love, all the arbitrary systems of human measurement ceased to be. In the movie "Say Anything", Lloyd Dobler asks Diane if she needed someone or if she needed him. This is the only way to be sure.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-30: Size is Amazing Style
Just the sinks last week
Come here, intentions
That's how it is
Weird psychosis, Hi
Caramel sure side
Eat your name
Unless your card is noble
Size, eat anything today
Alright for room
Signed off on accusations
Americano on the Illiad
Drink your sar... torium?
Definitely don't be bitter
Mad scenario
Hate it
Bottled total
My sort of polyglot
Amazing, negative I am not
How many was I picking
Usual shelves
Spot you the good day
Come here, intentions
That's how it is
Weird psychosis, Hi
Caramel sure side
Eat your name
Unless your card is noble
Size, eat anything today
Alright for room
Signed off on accusations
Americano on the Illiad
Drink your sar... torium?
Definitely don't be bitter
Mad scenario
Hate it
Bottled total
My sort of polyglot
Amazing, negative I am not
How many was I picking
Usual shelves
Spot you the good day
Friday, April 29, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-29: Geologic
By the time some love is found
Geology best describes it
As it lies there on the ground
Released from blankets of slate profound
With your chisel that divides it
By the time some love is found
Identification comes around
Forgotten magma intrusion defines it
As it lies there on the ground
Scan for jewels when love is crowned
Cracked in the heat that refines it
By the time some love is found
Sealed by layers, homeward bound
But cracked marble enshrines it
As it lies there on the ground
Best left where it originally drowned
In the crystalline column that hides it
By the time some love is found
As it lies there on the ground
Geology best describes it
As it lies there on the ground
Released from blankets of slate profound
With your chisel that divides it
By the time some love is found
Identification comes around
Forgotten magma intrusion defines it
As it lies there on the ground
Scan for jewels when love is crowned
Cracked in the heat that refines it
By the time some love is found
Sealed by layers, homeward bound
But cracked marble enshrines it
As it lies there on the ground
Best left where it originally drowned
In the crystalline column that hides it
By the time some love is found
As it lies there on the ground
Thursday, April 28, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-28: Everything I Try to Focus On
Since I'm writing this so late, I will make this a collage of lines inspired by my day, completely out of order. You can pretty much treat it like a cut-up... you know what I'm talking about. "Oh, so this is a bunch of disjointed sentences that may potentially form a remarkable and amusing coincidence." Though I think it does a have a bit more direction than that... you be the judge!
I didn't quite listen to Bjork today
Urban Unsigned overpriced pancakes
Spongey, room for angsty air leaks
Expressive pinholes in the shower head
The guns are pretzeled
On their way out of our mouths
Real distances have no hang time
I remember life on the outside when I see you
Our hands touch where the glass shouldn't be
When Vince Vaughn is practically forbidden
Your smile lowers in the center
Until you're so happy
Your zipper teeth
Are dangerously low on angles
And angles beg the question
How long does it take to see a photograph?
I didn't quite listen to Bjork today
Urban Unsigned overpriced pancakes
Spongey, room for angsty air leaks
Expressive pinholes in the shower head
The guns are pretzeled
On their way out of our mouths
Real distances have no hang time
I remember life on the outside when I see you
Our hands touch where the glass shouldn't be
When Vince Vaughn is practically forbidden
Your smile lowers in the center
Until you're so happy
Your zipper teeth
Are dangerously low on angles
And angles beg the question
How long does it take to see a photograph?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-27: Gratifying Impact
A baseball bat
A graceful rat
A face full of fat
Fattening chews of brick layers
And stick slayers of juice, taters, and masturbaters
Poundy poundy squish poundy squish squish squish!
The Chromolume beseeches you
Get back to work
Follow the color and light
Wallow in squalor and plight
Swallow, then fight
After impact echoes subside
Rafter track records belie
Future time and effort
Despite that time
Is the reward for those who never claim it
Swat it away with your
Baseball bat
Pine tar scandal
Blind sparked candle
Find the stars handle
By any means necessary
Pull them down and pop them
A graceful rat
A face full of fat
Fattening chews of brick layers
And stick slayers of juice, taters, and masturbaters
Poundy poundy squish poundy squish squish squish!
The Chromolume beseeches you
Get back to work
Follow the color and light
Wallow in squalor and plight
Swallow, then fight
After impact echoes subside
Rafter track records belie
Future time and effort
Despite that time
Is the reward for those who never claim it
Swat it away with your
Baseball bat
Pine tar scandal
Blind sparked candle
Find the stars handle
By any means necessary
Pull them down and pop them
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-26: Equanimity & Creme Brulee
Something still hurts me
So I must stretch my flesh
A pizza crust around the world
Pie of melted barb wire
Hardened by the will of the sun
Foreseeable fissures form
At select locations
Like a film premier
A fractured crowd of deionized water
Dissolves my creme brulee
I wanted to crack that shell
So I stomp my feet in protest
Stomp my feet on a hard surface
Another creme brulee
A mile deep
Filled with loose shit
The bottom is where
The hurting stops
So I must stretch my flesh
A pizza crust around the world
Pie of melted barb wire
Hardened by the will of the sun
Foreseeable fissures form
At select locations
Like a film premier
A fractured crowd of deionized water
Dissolves my creme brulee
I wanted to crack that shell
So I stomp my feet in protest
Stomp my feet on a hard surface
Another creme brulee
A mile deep
Filled with loose shit
The bottom is where
The hurting stops
Monday, April 25, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-25: Empty Hand
A jar meant for broken glass
Also shattered
Every room needs a bag
When I've no broom to drag
Next time words fill my hand
Needing somewhere to go
I will squeeze tight as I can
Before I choose to throw
Also shattered
Every room needs a bag
When I've no broom to drag
Next time words fill my hand
Needing somewhere to go
I will squeeze tight as I can
Before I choose to throw
Sunday, April 24, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-24: Time Candy
Momentary mask movement
We don't know what we're saying
Crackling time
Tiny bursts of alternative involvement
Flow of reality is a hard candy
We can choose to bite
An anisotropic hard candy
Blind approach delight
We can define
With myriad methods of unconscious unfolding
And with considerable caprice
We stare at each crease
Considering the possibility
Of re-unfolding
Before we know it we are all at the bar and every possible configuration of sexual partner in this room has come to pass
Sentimentality has tunnel vision
Because it sits in the alley
Picking fights, finding cause for division
Stubborn like Ayn Rand McNally
Don't question me, I am my own god and I know where I'm going
Run into the same wall enough times and your face will get some sexy muscles
Don't they feel good between your fingers?
Squeeze them! squeeze them as you sob
Perhaps squeezing your sobbing diesel face will be the greatest pleasure of your life
Or perhaps you have friends in high places
Like Joan of Arc
Or Charles J. Guiteau
He'll pull you over the wall and you'll certainly be remembered
Or do you leave the folded reality where it is
And start shaving trees for more questions to answer
Tab A, meet Tab B...
The periodical meaning of life
We don't know what we're saying
Crackling time
Tiny bursts of alternative involvement
Flow of reality is a hard candy
We can choose to bite
An anisotropic hard candy
Blind approach delight
We can define
With myriad methods of unconscious unfolding
And with considerable caprice
We stare at each crease
Considering the possibility
Of re-unfolding
Before we know it we are all at the bar and every possible configuration of sexual partner in this room has come to pass
Sentimentality has tunnel vision
Because it sits in the alley
Picking fights, finding cause for division
Stubborn like Ayn Rand McNally
Don't question me, I am my own god and I know where I'm going
Run into the same wall enough times and your face will get some sexy muscles
Don't they feel good between your fingers?
Squeeze them! squeeze them as you sob
Perhaps squeezing your sobbing diesel face will be the greatest pleasure of your life
Or perhaps you have friends in high places
Like Joan of Arc
Or Charles J. Guiteau
He'll pull you over the wall and you'll certainly be remembered
Or do you leave the folded reality where it is
And start shaving trees for more questions to answer
Tab A, meet Tab B...
The periodical meaning of life
Saturday, April 23, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-23: Western Haiku
You can find an explanation for Western Haiku here. You can also find these listed as a comment there, which makes me posting here a little redundant, but it doesn't count as my NPM poem unless it's in my blog, dammit!
1.
Quick! Determine
The scent of morning
Before your nose awakens
2.
The botanical garden
Of women
I seek a maraschino cherry
3.
An elected official takes office
Like I am at work
Realizing I missed a spot shaving
4.
Organs fit together
Arms move freely
I love both of these ways
5.
Shelter seeking
Shelter seeking
Shelter
6.
"Amoeba me", she said
Not with
A knife
7.
My appetite
Misses breakfast
Most days
8.
Roll me in carpet
Throw me down a well
Sexual frustration
9.
Sun burns through
Its wealth
of clouds
10.
My window pane
A graveyard
For crispy insects
1.
Quick! Determine
The scent of morning
Before your nose awakens
2.
The botanical garden
Of women
I seek a maraschino cherry
3.
An elected official takes office
Like I am at work
Realizing I missed a spot shaving
4.
Organs fit together
Arms move freely
I love both of these ways
5.
Shelter seeking
Shelter seeking
Shelter
6.
"Amoeba me", she said
Not with
A knife
7.
My appetite
Misses breakfast
Most days
8.
Roll me in carpet
Throw me down a well
Sexual frustration
9.
Sun burns through
Its wealth
of clouds
10.
My window pane
A graveyard
For crispy insects
Friday, April 22, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-22: Guy Walks Into Bar
Play nintendo wii until your bladder distends
Buy everything in bulk, carry it home with your friends
Dire ambitious years of highly acclaimed debauchery
Expected depravity you deliver
Slathered curdled sunny delight
Gathering hurdles to wish you goodnight
Hysterectomy wrecked your family dynamic
Your vital organs operate
in triode
pentode
dodecaphonic chronic broadcast
Past the ballast that you passed gas underneath
A coverband of your desires
Dozing off with a set of pliers
Meant for a deeper purpose
Trial of errors by your peers
Bile of terrors from chandeliers
dripping into a funnel of your placement
That's right you get to choose where the funnel goes,
but somebody else gets to place the hose
You get to emcee the traffic reporting
And afterwards you're out cavorting
With starlets but it's just a recording
Of the generalities you apply to whatever you don't understand
Music featuring proper nouns in the age of information
Is a dangerous fun trap
Buy everything in bulk, carry it home with your friends
Dire ambitious years of highly acclaimed debauchery
Expected depravity you deliver
Slathered curdled sunny delight
Gathering hurdles to wish you goodnight
Hysterectomy wrecked your family dynamic
Your vital organs operate
in triode
pentode
dodecaphonic chronic broadcast
Past the ballast that you passed gas underneath
A coverband of your desires
Dozing off with a set of pliers
Meant for a deeper purpose
Trial of errors by your peers
Bile of terrors from chandeliers
dripping into a funnel of your placement
That's right you get to choose where the funnel goes,
but somebody else gets to place the hose
You get to emcee the traffic reporting
And afterwards you're out cavorting
With starlets but it's just a recording
Of the generalities you apply to whatever you don't understand
Music featuring proper nouns in the age of information
Is a dangerous fun trap
Thursday, April 21, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-21: To Catch a Butterfly
I approached the oldest tree in the forest
With the most convoluted trunk formation
His dead branches are his reverent statues
I ask him how to catch a butterfly
Like the ones that surround him
But never dare to land
He speaks of stillness and patience,
but I know stillness alone
Only catches precluded hope
Vulnerable to gusts of wind
The triumph of the will of random chance
Builds only the valor of serendipity
Great wisdom in stillness
but once stillness is achieved
Knowledge and strength will hold her loyalty
Moments conquered and foes bested
Will keep the gentle creature invested
For only when your honor is tested
Will she be yours forever
The tree laughs at my thoughts
"Of course you must possess knowledge and strength
You must carry the world
Until you know the weight and origin
of every twig and pebble
And witness every transgression of the will of chance
And how every precious moment can slip from worthy hands
And into idle hands
For they are just as still as yours and no less noble
And imbued with the strength of Earth
And the knowledge of life's burden
That you won't know forever until you're there
You must carry it all
And still remain motionless
When she lands in your hands
Your existence must be
As light as hers
Before I understood
I had to know why none landed on him
"In my stillness I lost vigilance
My branch fell off
Crushed her against the ground
Not one has landed for even a moment since"
I set fire to his fallen branches
And pushed them into his hollow trunk
And when the blaze was finished
I stood upon the ashen mound
And mingled my roots with the soil below
With the most convoluted trunk formation
His dead branches are his reverent statues
I ask him how to catch a butterfly
Like the ones that surround him
But never dare to land
He speaks of stillness and patience,
but I know stillness alone
Only catches precluded hope
Vulnerable to gusts of wind
The triumph of the will of random chance
Builds only the valor of serendipity
Great wisdom in stillness
but once stillness is achieved
Knowledge and strength will hold her loyalty
Moments conquered and foes bested
Will keep the gentle creature invested
For only when your honor is tested
Will she be yours forever
The tree laughs at my thoughts
"Of course you must possess knowledge and strength
You must carry the world
Until you know the weight and origin
of every twig and pebble
And witness every transgression of the will of chance
And how every precious moment can slip from worthy hands
And into idle hands
For they are just as still as yours and no less noble
And imbued with the strength of Earth
And the knowledge of life's burden
That you won't know forever until you're there
You must carry it all
And still remain motionless
When she lands in your hands
Your existence must be
As light as hers
Before I understood
I had to know why none landed on him
"In my stillness I lost vigilance
My branch fell off
Crushed her against the ground
Not one has landed for even a moment since"
I set fire to his fallen branches
And pushed them into his hollow trunk
And when the blaze was finished
I stood upon the ashen mound
And mingled my roots with the soil below
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-20: Defined Flesh
I was fucking this girl the other night
She was plump, but her face had good definition
I really enjoyed the movement of the fat
That clung to her ribcage
It makes clapping sounds as
The folds of her flesh open
and close
The erratic occurrences of the sound
Are an indictment of my poor rhythm
But she seems to be having a decent time
My hands caress without restricting
the motion
I want to touch her with
More of myself than I have
I consider what it would be like to
Clone myself at this moment
so that while I fuck her traditionally
I can also fuck the temporary crevice
Resulting from the collision
Of her belly fat and her torso fat
Then I turn her sideways and grab
Her shoulder facing me
And fuck her like an accordion
I stretch her topmost leg
So my midsection
Which is fairly lean
Is making fiercely satisfying impact with
The broad side of her
tidal wave thigh
The carnal chaos from my perspective
Reminds me of a supersized desktop pendulum made of jello
in a dryer made of glass
Now in need of distraction
I consider the slender women I've had in the past
My prominent pelvic bone
crashing into theirs like a stubbed toe
Because I need to push much harder
To find the fleshy friction I crave
Even with this image in mind
I feel myself approaching the point of no return
I signal this in the Morse code of thrusts
And in that moment, amidst all
The crashing creases and pelvic displacement
I can feel her insides undulate
and then skip a few beats
Signing an approval for withdrawal
I dispense swift sticky justice
All over her abdomen
After a few moments, she permits me
To break eye contact
So I can survey ground zero
Her glistening body decorated with
An archipelago of an uneven distribution
Of translucent white globules
Reminds me of a fresh glazed
French pastry
In which I will soon indulge
She was plump, but her face had good definition
I really enjoyed the movement of the fat
That clung to her ribcage
It makes clapping sounds as
The folds of her flesh open
and close
The erratic occurrences of the sound
Are an indictment of my poor rhythm
But she seems to be having a decent time
My hands caress without restricting
the motion
I want to touch her with
More of myself than I have
I consider what it would be like to
Clone myself at this moment
so that while I fuck her traditionally
I can also fuck the temporary crevice
Resulting from the collision
Of her belly fat and her torso fat
Then I turn her sideways and grab
Her shoulder facing me
And fuck her like an accordion
I stretch her topmost leg
So my midsection
Which is fairly lean
Is making fiercely satisfying impact with
The broad side of her
tidal wave thigh
The carnal chaos from my perspective
Reminds me of a supersized desktop pendulum made of jello
in a dryer made of glass
Now in need of distraction
I consider the slender women I've had in the past
My prominent pelvic bone
crashing into theirs like a stubbed toe
Because I need to push much harder
To find the fleshy friction I crave
Even with this image in mind
I feel myself approaching the point of no return
I signal this in the Morse code of thrusts
And in that moment, amidst all
The crashing creases and pelvic displacement
I can feel her insides undulate
and then skip a few beats
Signing an approval for withdrawal
I dispense swift sticky justice
All over her abdomen
After a few moments, she permits me
To break eye contact
So I can survey ground zero
Her glistening body decorated with
An archipelago of an uneven distribution
Of translucent white globules
Reminds me of a fresh glazed
French pastry
In which I will soon indulge
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-19: Chasing a Dog
If I sought knowledge
With the naive enthusiasm
That you seek to get hit by a car
The turning pages of books would braise my unclasping eyelashes
If I procured riches
With the same magnetic diligence
That pulls you repeatedly into unrelenting traffic
I'd hire a bum to chase you
and hire a social worker for the bum
And hire a much needed assistant for the social worker
If the confusion I feel at night
Mimicked your zigzag pattern of flight
I'd need to leave a trial of clues
To know how I really feel about anything
If my quest for love agape
Seemed as innocent pure and innate
As your crusade to meet that gratifying impact
Then everybody would believe me
If my desire to be run over by a car
Matched your desire to be run over by a car
I'd have done so successfully by now
With the naive enthusiasm
That you seek to get hit by a car
The turning pages of books would braise my unclasping eyelashes
If I procured riches
With the same magnetic diligence
That pulls you repeatedly into unrelenting traffic
I'd hire a bum to chase you
and hire a social worker for the bum
And hire a much needed assistant for the social worker
If the confusion I feel at night
Mimicked your zigzag pattern of flight
I'd need to leave a trial of clues
To know how I really feel about anything
If my quest for love agape
Seemed as innocent pure and innate
As your crusade to meet that gratifying impact
Then everybody would believe me
If my desire to be run over by a car
Matched your desire to be run over by a car
I'd have done so successfully by now
Monday, April 18, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-18: Dream David Bowie
David Bowie,
why do you show me
Slight disdain in my dreams
You even regret the energy spent
To express vague disapproval, it seems
It would sting much less
If your indifference would progress
Into at least a committed hate
A taunt, jive, or quip
Instead of merely a sip
Of your true opinion's state
I've done nothing to earn his irk
But even if I was a jerk
He would offer me a vexation most venerable
Perhaps the nothing I've done
Is the very means by which I've won
His jaded response to my existence in general
If only I weren't such a walking abortion in his mind
Tripping over my loathsome bedraggled umbilical chord
He'd form at least a sentence of recognition
But I'm too much waste for his taste
And if I don't make haste
To provide fodder for his point of view
To say, "Fuck you, dream David Bowie
You don't even know me"
So perhaps he'd say "fuck you, too!"
why do you show me
Slight disdain in my dreams
You even regret the energy spent
To express vague disapproval, it seems
It would sting much less
If your indifference would progress
Into at least a committed hate
A taunt, jive, or quip
Instead of merely a sip
Of your true opinion's state
I've done nothing to earn his irk
But even if I was a jerk
He would offer me a vexation most venerable
Perhaps the nothing I've done
Is the very means by which I've won
His jaded response to my existence in general
If only I weren't such a walking abortion in his mind
Tripping over my loathsome bedraggled umbilical chord
He'd form at least a sentence of recognition
But I'm too much waste for his taste
And if I don't make haste
To provide fodder for his point of view
To say, "Fuck you, dream David Bowie
You don't even know me"
So perhaps he'd say "fuck you, too!"
Sunday, April 17, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-17: Important Suffering
Hidden mantra:
If it didn't hurt this much
It wouldn't have been worth it
Are these delusions from pain?
Doing this alone amounts to surgery sans anesthesia
So my nose is on the ground but my head is in the clouds
My shoulder is pressed against a vending machine
It's just a casual passive lean, but I wish for a deluge of candy bars
So I keep my mouth open in preparation
One day I will leave my umbrella home under lifeless clear skies
And remove the condom from my wallet before heading out
And that night, I will make love in the driving rain
If it didn't hurt this much
It wouldn't have been worth it
Are these delusions from pain?
Doing this alone amounts to surgery sans anesthesia
So my nose is on the ground but my head is in the clouds
My shoulder is pressed against a vending machine
It's just a casual passive lean, but I wish for a deluge of candy bars
So I keep my mouth open in preparation
One day I will leave my umbrella home under lifeless clear skies
And remove the condom from my wallet before heading out
And that night, I will make love in the driving rain
Saturday, April 16, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-16: Fucking Target
I want to implode myself
Demolish, crumble, rebuild
I arrange dynamite
And pray that I don't facilitate
The creation of an emotional strip mall
In place of the rich history contained
In the walls of the condemned structure
Photos featured on flyers petitioning beneath windshield wipers
"Save our history"
"All needn't perish in the quest for functionality"
Scrawled across a picket in my mind
I grip the sign with both hands
And rip it
Without noticing
That the perforated line leads
To an empty Target parking lot
That we once lent character to
Fortunately, I still have enough dynamite
All I need is a match
Demolish, crumble, rebuild
I arrange dynamite
And pray that I don't facilitate
The creation of an emotional strip mall
In place of the rich history contained
In the walls of the condemned structure
Photos featured on flyers petitioning beneath windshield wipers
"Save our history"
"All needn't perish in the quest for functionality"
Scrawled across a picket in my mind
I grip the sign with both hands
And rip it
Without noticing
That the perforated line leads
To an empty Target parking lot
That we once lent character to
Fortunately, I still have enough dynamite
All I need is a match
Friday, April 15, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-15: Somebody in a Smoking Jacket is Crying on the Inside
Partly my words, mostly a cut-up of sentences spoken at the Klang Gallery, which I arranged in a way that makes sense to me:
1
I don't understand the transfer of light
Is it the first step or the destination
The key to locations manipulated by place
Via photons
Sexless penguins and flightless amoeba
What reason is there to walk at all
When your full-on projects make a fair trade for wisdom
The happy trail upstairs opened the door
To the self-funding room with a view
Which begs the question:
What did you do with that beer?
2
Thai or Vietnamese are the only questions
Spending some time in a converted house
Your 55th convert
I was watching you last Friday
Your reflection in those eyes close at seven
When they leave, everything closes
I am the hole in the donut
Devoid of nourishment
I will be just as sweet when I'm buried
3
I'll be back here every other week
Until I am 300 pounds
of shed flesh and food combination
Hop inside for three of Mark's?
Yes, he said!
All this bacon banging in the wind tunnel
Is the outside just as crunchy?
I'm going
1
I don't understand the transfer of light
Is it the first step or the destination
The key to locations manipulated by place
Via photons
Sexless penguins and flightless amoeba
What reason is there to walk at all
When your full-on projects make a fair trade for wisdom
The happy trail upstairs opened the door
To the self-funding room with a view
Which begs the question:
What did you do with that beer?
2
Thai or Vietnamese are the only questions
Spending some time in a converted house
Your 55th convert
I was watching you last Friday
Your reflection in those eyes close at seven
When they leave, everything closes
I am the hole in the donut
Devoid of nourishment
I will be just as sweet when I'm buried
3
I'll be back here every other week
Until I am 300 pounds
of shed flesh and food combination
Hop inside for three of Mark's?
Yes, he said!
All this bacon banging in the wind tunnel
Is the outside just as crunchy?
I'm going
Thursday, April 14, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-14: Obligatory
This is an obligatory poem
I made a commitment
to write one every day
Some things you do just to honor a promise
To yourself
So you feel better in retrospect
I made a commitment
to write one every day
Some things you do just to honor a promise
To yourself
So you feel better in retrospect
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-13: The Core
Rented room in my skull
My mind is a ball of rubber bands
Assembled by a child
With the strength of adult hands
I shoot ideas that leave
Small welts on your face
Mostly on your eyes and lips
And all points in between
You are surprised at the moments chosen
You know the tenacity of some children
When it comes to complication
As you dig deeper you find
A foil ball in the center
Wrapped around
The blind splendor
Of intentions
My mind is a ball of rubber bands
Assembled by a child
With the strength of adult hands
I shoot ideas that leave
Small welts on your face
Mostly on your eyes and lips
And all points in between
You are surprised at the moments chosen
You know the tenacity of some children
When it comes to complication
As you dig deeper you find
A foil ball in the center
Wrapped around
The blind splendor
Of intentions
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-12: Mental Cleansing
"A good laugh or a good cry cleanse the mind"
So I've been told by the fortunate kind
Who possess far less jadedness than I
And it's for me to test, in serious jest
Whether their deep vision is blind
"If I announce to you
My intention to
Cleanse your mind with Windex,
You would laugh
But when I produce the blue cleaner
You'd change your demeanor
As I scrub the inside of your skull
Surely, you would then cry
And in the end your mind is cleansed...
But what truly cleansed your mind?
The laughter?
The crying?
The Windex?"
So I've been told by the fortunate kind
Who possess far less jadedness than I
And it's for me to test, in serious jest
Whether their deep vision is blind
"If I announce to you
My intention to
Cleanse your mind with Windex,
You would laugh
But when I produce the blue cleaner
You'd change your demeanor
As I scrub the inside of your skull
Surely, you would then cry
And in the end your mind is cleansed...
But what truly cleansed your mind?
The laughter?
The crying?
The Windex?"
Monday, April 11, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-11: Positive Attitude
Rattling days lead to
Roaring ways as I wake
Upon the notice of gas powered birds
The sounds I hear at 6:12
Provide the white noise backdrop
Through a day of runny nose and stubbed toes
Paper cuts and blind spot dwellers
All to the syncopated beat of propellers
A white noise that makes those things
All the easier to forget about tomorrow
Roaring ways as I wake
Upon the notice of gas powered birds
The sounds I hear at 6:12
Provide the white noise backdrop
Through a day of runny nose and stubbed toes
Paper cuts and blind spot dwellers
All to the syncopated beat of propellers
A white noise that makes those things
All the easier to forget about tomorrow
Sunday, April 10, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-10: Monumental
The war is over and the eulogy is read
Beneath tides of clover, I dwell among the dead
And since inside of you I've died
You'll be sure my bones have dried
Before you arrange them into their new context
And remember our names are carved on every one
My incarnate form did fail you
But now no longer nailed to
The flesh of the past
My spirit is cast into a memorial pillar
Very phallic indeed announces its intention
Through persistence we dispense with all forms of pretense
If you exchange your eyes with mine, we'll realize our souls intertwine
And on the day you intersect with me, dead I will no longer be
Our monument slides easily into your valley of life
And through your cleansing clenching drenching screams of all forms of "Gloria!"
Transfer to stone all former strife
And perhaps lost in your state of euphoria
You swear the stone memorial just moved inside of you
This is that which monuments dream
To return to the mortal stream
To be no longer made of stone, to float
By your side and not once again
But in uninterrupted love that always mends
Beneath tides of clover, I dwell among the dead
And since inside of you I've died
You'll be sure my bones have dried
Before you arrange them into their new context
And remember our names are carved on every one
My incarnate form did fail you
But now no longer nailed to
The flesh of the past
My spirit is cast into a memorial pillar
Very phallic indeed announces its intention
Through persistence we dispense with all forms of pretense
If you exchange your eyes with mine, we'll realize our souls intertwine
And on the day you intersect with me, dead I will no longer be
Our monument slides easily into your valley of life
And through your cleansing clenching drenching screams of all forms of "Gloria!"
Transfer to stone all former strife
And perhaps lost in your state of euphoria
You swear the stone memorial just moved inside of you
This is that which monuments dream
To return to the mortal stream
To be no longer made of stone, to float
By your side and not once again
But in uninterrupted love that always mends
Saturday, April 9, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-9: Road Radish
You must be a garnish
A radish recently in distress
Now a putrescent radish on hot sidewalk
Close to a fine restaurant
Your elaborately cut design muddled and brown
Folds of flesh intermingled unwillfully
We all know what sticking a fork in you
Or interviewing you between our teeth feels like
We've all been that hungry at some point
What would a perfect moment be
Without you there to remind us
That we know what it feels like
A radish recently in distress
Now a putrescent radish on hot sidewalk
Close to a fine restaurant
Your elaborately cut design muddled and brown
Folds of flesh intermingled unwillfully
We all know what sticking a fork in you
Or interviewing you between our teeth feels like
We've all been that hungry at some point
What would a perfect moment be
Without you there to remind us
That we know what it feels like
Friday, April 8, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-8: Nothing as it Appears, Everything That Is
There, there you'll find a vibrating string
Bound at the ends as they pull and release
Frantically trying to keep the same pitch
In a world in constant flux
The string struggles to remain
Vibrating words swollen shut with pride
Pride made possible by ineluctable changes
Changes the string vibrates against
Against change to maintain one tone
One tone of deconstructing om
Om that funnels life into a line
Lines for rationalization
Unrelenting death and decay
But here, here you'll find another string
A string acknowledging everything
Everything including the other string
That string of doubt, expectations and blame
But this string lets its pitch change
The pitch change disintegrates and discorporates blame
As conspicuously as the other string creaks and tightens,
His tones harmonize in the song of life
Reacting to compliment change
Then changing to compliment reactions
Reactions that have no end
Bound at the ends as they pull and release
Frantically trying to keep the same pitch
In a world in constant flux
The string struggles to remain
Vibrating words swollen shut with pride
Pride made possible by ineluctable changes
Changes the string vibrates against
Against change to maintain one tone
One tone of deconstructing om
Om that funnels life into a line
Lines for rationalization
Unrelenting death and decay
But here, here you'll find another string
A string acknowledging everything
Everything including the other string
That string of doubt, expectations and blame
But this string lets its pitch change
The pitch change disintegrates and discorporates blame
As conspicuously as the other string creaks and tightens,
His tones harmonize in the song of life
Reacting to compliment change
Then changing to compliment reactions
Reactions that have no end
Thursday, April 7, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-7: Running Away With Both Legs This Time
Strolling the sexual bellows of town
High commerce correspondence while clutching their belongings
Attractive people featured under green and white awnings
But a cigarette is all I'm after
I enter, swinging ice water in a glass with a brown tint
I laugh with the smokers outside as I hint
At what I want, but my intentions are well known
Their body language closes, "Go buy a pack of your own"
Said without words, thought of without prompting
And while they don't fill this new emptiness created by you
Cigarettes give me something to look forward to
Gratification, with a little repulsion before it comes back
I just don't want to be tied down to an entire pack
Which I can afford, but not abide the side effects
Stinking up my car, introducing it to my friends
Eventually someone relents on one condition
That I walk away when the cigarette ends
I feel pathetic and slighted but I know
This is the first of many pathetic steps to go
High commerce correspondence while clutching their belongings
Attractive people featured under green and white awnings
But a cigarette is all I'm after
I enter, swinging ice water in a glass with a brown tint
I laugh with the smokers outside as I hint
At what I want, but my intentions are well known
Their body language closes, "Go buy a pack of your own"
Said without words, thought of without prompting
And while they don't fill this new emptiness created by you
Cigarettes give me something to look forward to
Gratification, with a little repulsion before it comes back
I just don't want to be tied down to an entire pack
Which I can afford, but not abide the side effects
Stinking up my car, introducing it to my friends
Eventually someone relents on one condition
That I walk away when the cigarette ends
I feel pathetic and slighted but I know
This is the first of many pathetic steps to go
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-6: One More Night
As I exit the orange stained street light
With a little pink in the hue
And consider where I must travel tonight
My innards squeeze to form a 'W'
At the first photon of the sunrise
I'll find a bus waiting
With doors ajar, to take me far,
Far away from this lost cause locale
But for just one more night
My heart will pump blood into these abandoned streets
For just one more night
The blood will dry and
My boots will kick the mud clumps into walls
For just one more night
I'll breathe the sand I can't see
And think not of another place to be
But of barely recognizable defunct stores
That strands of lights couldn't save
The inefficient vacuum that nature abhors
The years of my life I gave
Just one more night
Of jumping every time I hear a sound
From fear or hope that a solution was found
Then reminding myself of why I can not stay
And this part of me lives
For just one more night
Just one more night than I can say
With a little pink in the hue
And consider where I must travel tonight
My innards squeeze to form a 'W'
At the first photon of the sunrise
I'll find a bus waiting
With doors ajar, to take me far,
Far away from this lost cause locale
But for just one more night
My heart will pump blood into these abandoned streets
For just one more night
The blood will dry and
My boots will kick the mud clumps into walls
For just one more night
I'll breathe the sand I can't see
And think not of another place to be
But of barely recognizable defunct stores
That strands of lights couldn't save
The inefficient vacuum that nature abhors
The years of my life I gave
Just one more night
Of jumping every time I hear a sound
From fear or hope that a solution was found
Then reminding myself of why I can not stay
And this part of me lives
For just one more night
Just one more night than I can say
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-5: Fire is on Your Couch
When I love with fire
And fire becomes complacent
And fire is on your couch
You are too busy sweeping soot
To cook or sit and eat
And sleeping next to heat
Does little to console
The burden of this role
And you're surrounded day and night
By more efficient sources of light
That are gentler to the touch
And these do not cost you much
These loves you may equally requite
And fire becomes complacent
And fire is on your couch
You are too busy sweeping soot
To cook or sit and eat
And sleeping next to heat
Does little to console
The burden of this role
And you're surrounded day and night
By more efficient sources of light
That are gentler to the touch
And these do not cost you much
These loves you may equally requite
Monday, April 4, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-4: Moment of Impact
I carry a love ball
I bounce it against a hate wall
For that split second of impact
The ball is consumed with hate
As I catch it on the way back
I wonder, does that split second dominate?
Stochastic tosses touch a truth
Is truth an average of moments?
Am I completely oblivious to
What my incessant tossing foments?
I bounce it against a hate wall
For that split second of impact
The ball is consumed with hate
As I catch it on the way back
I wonder, does that split second dominate?
Stochastic tosses touch a truth
Is truth an average of moments?
Am I completely oblivious to
What my incessant tossing foments?
Sunday, April 3, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-3 Drifting Apart
My comfort zone
My forgotten world
The melody to my rhythm
The tune stuck in my head
My frustrating puzzle
Long ago thought to be solved
But some pieces are missing
We look at one another through them
As though it were a wormhole
Gradually we realize it is not
There were just two puzzles in the same box
So as we drift apart
We gradually turn away
But I can still see you
Space and time
Were never our strong point, anyway
My forgotten world
The melody to my rhythm
The tune stuck in my head
My frustrating puzzle
Long ago thought to be solved
But some pieces are missing
We look at one another through them
As though it were a wormhole
Gradually we realize it is not
There were just two puzzles in the same box
So as we drift apart
We gradually turn away
But I can still see you
Space and time
Were never our strong point, anyway
Saturday, April 2, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-2: Magic Foot
Why should I let the hairs
on the top of my foot dictate
anything
Oh yeah, they weave between
the threads of my socks
Then each step almost pulls them out,
So I purchase socks with a higher thread-count
Fortified now, without an alibi, I walk
Foot hair no longer a factor
My ambitions climb
So my pace is faster
Foot hair not on my mind
The fine fabric massages my toes
A fan of friction, my Mercury rose
Forming pools of sweat beneath my arches
And static electricity like insects, marches
Marches as my hairs inter-tangle with my stride
So I speed up, as though this phase
Is merely the beginning of the trail I'll blaze
A quaint memory at most
And I continue patronizing this moment
"It'll make a great mantle-piece"
But soon, my static must find release
On these crowded streets, gunshots are heard
My feet glow, and people assume the position
I run at first, but I just become brighter
My only control is to ease my transition
Into a novelty life of public service
on the top of my foot dictate
anything
Oh yeah, they weave between
the threads of my socks
Then each step almost pulls them out,
So I purchase socks with a higher thread-count
Fortified now, without an alibi, I walk
Foot hair no longer a factor
My ambitions climb
So my pace is faster
Foot hair not on my mind
The fine fabric massages my toes
A fan of friction, my Mercury rose
Forming pools of sweat beneath my arches
And static electricity like insects, marches
Marches as my hairs inter-tangle with my stride
So I speed up, as though this phase
Is merely the beginning of the trail I'll blaze
A quaint memory at most
And I continue patronizing this moment
"It'll make a great mantle-piece"
But soon, my static must find release
On these crowded streets, gunshots are heard
My feet glow, and people assume the position
I run at first, but I just become brighter
My only control is to ease my transition
Into a novelty life of public service
Friday, April 1, 2011
NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-1: Mice
Everybody has a defiantly intentional home for mice within themselves
If small holes appear in that chamber, we Spackle them shut with feed
We feel constantly compelled to subtly reveal
Indirectly that these chambers exist
With a series of clues
Droppings
Squeeks in silent moments
Silent moments so designed with one thing in mind
The challenge of maintaining a tent of self so that in time you know
Different levels of where my mice may be kept, so I may know yours
If small holes appear in that chamber, we Spackle them shut with feed
We feel constantly compelled to subtly reveal
Indirectly that these chambers exist
With a series of clues
Droppings
Squeeks in silent moments
Silent moments so designed with one thing in mind
The challenge of maintaining a tent of self so that in time you know
Different levels of where my mice may be kept, so I may know yours
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Said The Dentures to the Peach...
I always knew my parents were strange as a child, but it wasn't until adulthood that I realized how truly bizarre my upbringing was. See, both of my parents had an oppressively conservative upbringing where wholesome family values were maintained with an iron fist. They ate dinner as a family unit every night, no TV past 7:30, and under no circumstance would they ever discuss anything remotely unpleasant. Well my parents' believe that this practice stunted their development, so they decided to do the exact opposite when they raised me and my sister. While they did enforce certain ground rules, I was always more than encouraged to learn about and then discuss my views on sex, drugs, violent movies, the concept of mortality, and anything else that pre-adolescents like specifically because their parents don't want them to know these things even exist. So when I turned twelve, of course they started leaving porno magazines in the bathroom. At the time I thought it was just a coincidence, until my parents, BOTH of them, lectured me on masturbation technique. The lecture seemed planned, like they wanted it to introduce the concept, let that sink in, then maybe a quick anatomy lesson, a few basic motions to get me started, and proper sperm disposal. But they kept arguing over details that were at the time completely over my head, like "If he always uses lotion it's gonna train him to get off too fast and he won't be able to hold down a relationship and he's gonna wind up committing hate crimes" or "That's gonna make it so he can only do girl on top"... I noticed they were always quietly hovering outside the bathroom door. Over the course of the next month or two, they repeatedly assured me that the magazines were in the basket next to the toilet for my enjoyment. My dad would wink at me and say, "Hey, I like the articles too, son!" like I was supposed to know what the fuck that meant! Most parents treat their kids like dogs or drunkards they are placating until they sober up into adulthood, my parents treated me like I was their buddy.
All the kids in school would make jokes about jerking off. Admitting it to their friends was a relief, the relief of admitting something they were made to feel ashamed of. Oh what I would give to know what it was to be ashamed of something natural! One kid said that the skin was bunched up in folds at the base of his dick like a Shar Pei because he was jerking off so much. Whenever he came back from the bathroom, a few of his friends would make this gushy sound with their lower lips and fingers that I assumed was what it sounded like when people jerked off. This gave me an idea. So whenever I was alone and I knew my parents were standing outside the door, I would make sure my door was locked and I'd sit on my bed and make those gushy fake masturbation sounds with my mouth. It must have worked because the questions stopped, and soon I found a shelf unit sound system in my bedroom that I never asked for, ostensibly so my parents wouldn't need to hear me "jerking off" anymore. It was the closest thing to shame I had ever felt, and I loved it!
As far as actual masturbation goes, I remember thinking how gross the whole thing seemed, and wondering why it is such a big deal. I was already freaked out by my new pubic hair, so the thought of anything other than pee coming out of there made my blood run cold.
Midway through that summer, the family packed into a van and drove up to the mountains for a family re-union at my grandparents' house. It was several days full of idyllic memories chasing crayfish under rocks, eating burnt diner pancakes at 6 AM before spending the day hiking, etc... by Sunday I was completely spent lying in the guest room full of aches and bruises as I looked at the old picture framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I was sharing a room with my dad. He comes in and after a few pleasantries brings up a subject I thought had been dropped long ago. "So you haven't been alone this whole trip, bet you must be jonesing for some privacy, eh?" I told him I already "took care of" what he was referring to, as though I took out the trash or mowed the lawn. "Oh, ok. You didn't use one of your socks, did you? I think you're all out of clean ones..." I told him I used a few tissues. "I don't see any tissues boxes in here." I was getting annoyed now, I told him I got them from the bathroom. "I don't see any tissues in the waste basket, either... are you lying to me?" I was tired, achey, and probably itchy from where my armpit hair was starting to grow. So I snapped. "Well... fuck you, dad, leave me alone! Maybe I'm just not in the mood!" My parents had a fairly traditional stance on swearing, especially when directed toward them. He used to stutter when he was this mad, but now he just adds unnecessary pauses and closes his eyes: "What did... you ... just ... say?" My dad tends to dole out impulsive and random punishments when he looses his temper. When my older sister was 15, he made her go on two dates with a guy she'd just broken up with because she went over her texting limit while they were dating that month. He calmed down and said, "You are going to stay in this room and masturbate, and you are going to give me the tissues when you're done. I'll come back here in half an hour and you had better produce something for me or else." I could barely make a fist from skipping rocks all day, and there were no magazines around for me to even try using for "inspiration". I thought about spitting into the tissues and handing that to him, but I didn't know if that would work. I started stroking myself and thinking of girls from TV and movies, girls I liked in school, girls with proportions I had imagined... but none of it was connecting to any real immediate sexual feeling. Then I looked at the old advertisements on the wall. Sure, the photos were black and white, but there were a few post cards with cute island girls wearing straw skirts... a magazine cover with a woman who was sorta pretty but was making a goofy face that I guess was sexy in 1957... and then there was a more elaborately framed dress ad with a woman who was giving me a very welcome stare. Her face was so approachable, as though I could meet her in real life and we could fool around or whatever. Her breasts were full and less pointy than the other breasts on the wall, so I could actually imagine what the nipples would look like in the context of the whole tit... I could see them shimmy gently as I pushed her legs apart and eased my cock inside of her... I had no idea how that would feel in real life, but I realized at that moment it must be some powerful stuff because I immediately ejaculated right over the one tissue I was holding, all over the side of the bed into my dad's open suitcase. I just stared at the mess as my posture deflated, thinking, "Wow, that's a lot! Did all that come from me? That's... awesome!" I used the tissue to clean up my mess and once my dad approved, it was time for dinner, which I planned to rush through and then go masturbate again while the room was still unoccupied. I sit at the table and take very little from each dish that passes by. It may not be an official rule, but it is implied that I am only to contribute to the dinner conversation when directed to do so. Maybe I'm a gentleman or maybe I just wanted to enrich my first consummated sexual fantasy with some details, but I wanted to get more information about the woman in the old dress ad. I didn't want to ask directly though, so I just talked about how much I liked those old ads hanging on the walls. My grandmother laughed and said, "Oh yeah, when you get old you tend to accumulate a lot of junk," and she paused to glare at my grandfather, then continued "I had such a hard time getting him to throw out any of those old magazines, so we compromised: he got to decide which clips we keep and I'd frame them and send the rest to recycling! Of course, that's why they're mostly pictures of pretty girls!" The old man was a shameless lech who went to great lengths to check out and make crass comments at anything, even girls in TV commercials. When I was little I used to say "She can't hear you, grandpa!", before I realized it didn't matter. My grandmother continued, "Oh, except for that old dress ad in the golden frame. That was from my short-lived modeling career, year before I met your grandfather." I gave my dad an unmistakable panicked look, and he interjected, "Uhh, you mean the one in the guest room that we're staying in? In the golden frame? Closest to the door? Polka-dot dress? That one?" My grandfather slouched in his seat and with a proud guttural groan he said, "Yep. That one."
All the kids in school would make jokes about jerking off. Admitting it to their friends was a relief, the relief of admitting something they were made to feel ashamed of. Oh what I would give to know what it was to be ashamed of something natural! One kid said that the skin was bunched up in folds at the base of his dick like a Shar Pei because he was jerking off so much. Whenever he came back from the bathroom, a few of his friends would make this gushy sound with their lower lips and fingers that I assumed was what it sounded like when people jerked off. This gave me an idea. So whenever I was alone and I knew my parents were standing outside the door, I would make sure my door was locked and I'd sit on my bed and make those gushy fake masturbation sounds with my mouth. It must have worked because the questions stopped, and soon I found a shelf unit sound system in my bedroom that I never asked for, ostensibly so my parents wouldn't need to hear me "jerking off" anymore. It was the closest thing to shame I had ever felt, and I loved it!
As far as actual masturbation goes, I remember thinking how gross the whole thing seemed, and wondering why it is such a big deal. I was already freaked out by my new pubic hair, so the thought of anything other than pee coming out of there made my blood run cold.
Midway through that summer, the family packed into a van and drove up to the mountains for a family re-union at my grandparents' house. It was several days full of idyllic memories chasing crayfish under rocks, eating burnt diner pancakes at 6 AM before spending the day hiking, etc... by Sunday I was completely spent lying in the guest room full of aches and bruises as I looked at the old picture framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I was sharing a room with my dad. He comes in and after a few pleasantries brings up a subject I thought had been dropped long ago. "So you haven't been alone this whole trip, bet you must be jonesing for some privacy, eh?" I told him I already "took care of" what he was referring to, as though I took out the trash or mowed the lawn. "Oh, ok. You didn't use one of your socks, did you? I think you're all out of clean ones..." I told him I used a few tissues. "I don't see any tissues boxes in here." I was getting annoyed now, I told him I got them from the bathroom. "I don't see any tissues in the waste basket, either... are you lying to me?" I was tired, achey, and probably itchy from where my armpit hair was starting to grow. So I snapped. "Well... fuck you, dad, leave me alone! Maybe I'm just not in the mood!" My parents had a fairly traditional stance on swearing, especially when directed toward them. He used to stutter when he was this mad, but now he just adds unnecessary pauses and closes his eyes: "What did... you ... just ... say?" My dad tends to dole out impulsive and random punishments when he looses his temper. When my older sister was 15, he made her go on two dates with a guy she'd just broken up with because she went over her texting limit while they were dating that month. He calmed down and said, "You are going to stay in this room and masturbate, and you are going to give me the tissues when you're done. I'll come back here in half an hour and you had better produce something for me or else." I could barely make a fist from skipping rocks all day, and there were no magazines around for me to even try using for "inspiration". I thought about spitting into the tissues and handing that to him, but I didn't know if that would work. I started stroking myself and thinking of girls from TV and movies, girls I liked in school, girls with proportions I had imagined... but none of it was connecting to any real immediate sexual feeling. Then I looked at the old advertisements on the wall. Sure, the photos were black and white, but there were a few post cards with cute island girls wearing straw skirts... a magazine cover with a woman who was sorta pretty but was making a goofy face that I guess was sexy in 1957... and then there was a more elaborately framed dress ad with a woman who was giving me a very welcome stare. Her face was so approachable, as though I could meet her in real life and we could fool around or whatever. Her breasts were full and less pointy than the other breasts on the wall, so I could actually imagine what the nipples would look like in the context of the whole tit... I could see them shimmy gently as I pushed her legs apart and eased my cock inside of her... I had no idea how that would feel in real life, but I realized at that moment it must be some powerful stuff because I immediately ejaculated right over the one tissue I was holding, all over the side of the bed into my dad's open suitcase. I just stared at the mess as my posture deflated, thinking, "Wow, that's a lot! Did all that come from me? That's... awesome!" I used the tissue to clean up my mess and once my dad approved, it was time for dinner, which I planned to rush through and then go masturbate again while the room was still unoccupied. I sit at the table and take very little from each dish that passes by. It may not be an official rule, but it is implied that I am only to contribute to the dinner conversation when directed to do so. Maybe I'm a gentleman or maybe I just wanted to enrich my first consummated sexual fantasy with some details, but I wanted to get more information about the woman in the old dress ad. I didn't want to ask directly though, so I just talked about how much I liked those old ads hanging on the walls. My grandmother laughed and said, "Oh yeah, when you get old you tend to accumulate a lot of junk," and she paused to glare at my grandfather, then continued "I had such a hard time getting him to throw out any of those old magazines, so we compromised: he got to decide which clips we keep and I'd frame them and send the rest to recycling! Of course, that's why they're mostly pictures of pretty girls!" The old man was a shameless lech who went to great lengths to check out and make crass comments at anything, even girls in TV commercials. When I was little I used to say "She can't hear you, grandpa!", before I realized it didn't matter. My grandmother continued, "Oh, except for that old dress ad in the golden frame. That was from my short-lived modeling career, year before I met your grandfather." I gave my dad an unmistakable panicked look, and he interjected, "Uhh, you mean the one in the guest room that we're staying in? In the golden frame? Closest to the door? Polka-dot dress? That one?" My grandfather slouched in his seat and with a proud guttural groan he said, "Yep. That one."
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