The Dark Night
I’m not sure if it was the excitement of the sheer thrill that what I was doing was wrong, but all of that disappeared in the moment. It didn’t corrupt my form, or desires, and neither did it affect hers. Who knew what her position was? I just met this girl a meager forty minutes ago and now she was passionately riding my cock in the front seat of my 4-runner. The leather seat squeaking with every motion and ambulation; our bodies perfectly synchronized to sex.
I didn’t think about the act I was committing, instead attentively engaging the task at hand. When I felt the thick residue that clung to my achingly erect penis, the truth evaporated, just like the love I deserted at home. While her quaint and perfect breasts nestled in and out of my thirsty mouth, adultery selfishly sneaked out the back door. Her subtle moans, “Oh God…Oh yes,” disrupted the footsteps of promiscuity that yearned to remind me of my former self. As I spread her luscious ass cheeks, opening the crease of her dripping wet pussy, my cock throbbed and thwarted for her; into her. We were unaware of name and identity, but yet we were silently bestowing every bit of each other we could escape with.
It may have been the mystery that vehemently heightened this tryst. In any case, there was no need for clarification.
People suppose that passion is acquired through time: A blossoming of two souls whom fate aligned. That may be correct, but in my experience passion can also exist through spontaneity- the desire for a casual encounter of instant gratification. Passion can breathe between two people drinking warm Budweiser who, forty minutes ago, were complete strangers, and with one simple question turned brevity into a series of blissful orgasms. While the girl came, now screaming and gasping into my ear, I never thought twice about the meaning of this rendezvous. I tickled the deep thresholds of her vagina, lunging harder with each moan and it never occurred to me that this was just sex. When she exalted the words “oh fuck, I’m gonna cum,” in my mind it wasn’t just another lay. But it wasn’t anything more either.
When it was my turn I held her back; teased her. She insistently grabbed my cock like a dangling sausage and crammed it into her mouth, sucking on its tip and slurping up the residue that she previously released. The thick milky white secretion she suppurated vanished. Our consecration could have led Catholicism into a lascivious riot, and while her lips lusciously massaged my cock, my fingers protruded the moist, viscous walls of her pussy.
Thick white cum nestled my fingers as I licked them clean. We turned into sexual gluttons, devouring advantageously every last bit of flavor.
This girl could have been a harlot- could have had a pimp. She could have been engaged, married, or a housewife. I was unfaithful. Why would she be any different? I could have been plagued with blight; a rapist or a murderer. We met through an ordained accident and committed a voracious affair. And why did I glean her? She was almost perfect in every sense of the way, but there was more. It wasn’t all contributed to her physical appearance- her short stature, perky breasts and voluptuous ass, or her dirty blonde hair that ultimately reflected her personality and immoral values; or our destruction and inability to maintain self control. She was almost perfect and the instance that my paint splattered her pretty picture, our frame shone bright with exquisiteness. Together our chemistry created a formula perfected for gratuitous desire.
In every evil casts the inevitable murky glow of beauty. It may be unwanted, or unwarranted. But when it appears, it is undeniable.
This avocation began somewhat formal. Although, the first stare executed by our pairs of eyes formulated the future. Her blue eyes met mine. My pale grey’s met hers. Together they were indelible. Our hands shook and our mouths mechanically set into motion, but only the silence could be heard. Nothing really mattered until the crucial question was posed. A six pack of warm beers now defeated the edge and my unconscious led us into a journey of the unattainable state of “realism.”
“So do you want to fuck me?” I asked. An expression of shock captivated her face.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want to fuck me? It’s a simply question really.”
“Umm. I don’t really know what to say? I’ve never really been asked that so bluntly.” In some cases bluntness is anything but sexy. But in this case, it was not only sexily intrusive, but honestly presumptuous- instilling my confidence in the moistened soil of her impressionable mind. Women can’t deny their attractiveness to confidence, even if it’s deemed arrogant.
“Why else did you really think we were meeting? And besides, people most often decide instantly whether or not they would fuck someone by their first impression. I knew that I would fuck you, and I’m pretty sure you’d fuck me.” Was I wrong? Not even the slightest, but it is a woman’s obligation to abstain a man’s desires for fear of judgment. But we both knew that any sort of scrutiny towards one another would just be naive and crass.
Once we were in agreement, nothing else would have mattered. We would have simply been two beings without identity, dining on whatever fates menu had to offer.
“Well…how about we just make out first.” There was no more need for dialogue; the second our lips met a spark spontaneously combusted us into each other. We no longer existed as separate entities. We turned into sex.
Her fellatio was anything but fallacious. It was obvious that all self doubt was eradicated. I pushed her over to the passenger seat. She sat like a blooming tulip. Her legs enticed me, slowly blossoming and inviting my cock- dripping with her saliva and desire. I felt villainous as I crept toward the gap between her limbs. My vision blurred and reverted through the fogged up window of the passenger door. This delusion obstructed me from reality. When my cock infiltrated her pussy, luminosity created a fantastical fairy tale in which we were writing. And then the grasp of my skin jolted me back into the non-fiction. The harder she scratched my back, the faster I shoveled my penis inside of her. She slyly snaked her hands around my shoulders and neck, down to my pectorals, where she rubbed and moaned. Faster and faster I protruded her. I violated her and pulled her hair. And then I pollinated her.
The aftermath was bittersweet. Neither of us could really put into words what just happened; the darkness of the night and the desolation of our location slowly begun to shelve us back into reality. There was really no need for conversation and so I took her home and we never spoke another word, or shared the sweat of each other again.
Passion was attainable because we both agreed upon the circumstances. What we did was not necessarily right. Did I feel guilt during my drive home? Of course- for I am human- but with that said, I am also doomed with a desire for excitable and forbidden satisfaction. This occurrence does not represent a palatable experience for every one night stand, and I don’t condone this behavior. I’ve had many that were passionless and left me with nothing but a feeling of complete and utter emptiness. But in life, there are times when the stars are perfectly aligned, and the foundation of our Christian belief system actually displays the power of God’s will, whether it be evil or un-pure, it can still be beautiful and unforgettable none the less.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Delirium Part One
Last night was the second night in a row I didn’t sleep. This is new to me. Usually, I sleep too much, but lately, I can’t at all. I think a curse has been cast upon me. Granted, it’s only been two days and I may be blowing this out of proportion. But I’m a common man, one who, for the most part, lives a simple life. One could even go so far as to call it luxurious, aside from these past two days. Therefore, I’ve concluded that this sleep deprivation is entirely out of my hands. It’s something existential, beyond my comprehension; and yet I look forward to discovering the reason.
This is comparable to a story about my cousin, Tommy. He isn’t bright, but he’s a genius. Often times he’ll unintentionally illuminate ways in which this universe operates. I guess that could be the definition of a genius, one who does great things without ever really aspiring greatness. This particular story involves a train, and a gooey piece of gum. He was taking a train from Chicago to San Francisco; his motives are of no importance to this story. Tommy thought he had missed his train, and the one he thought was his started to leave. Only, this train was across the tracks, and clearly heading east, not west. But that didn’t register to Tommy. He grabbed his two rugged suitcases and rapidly headed toward the train when that fresh, gooey piece of gum latched onto his leather shoe. The gum grasped him so well that Tommy had to stop. The squish with every footstep irritated him, and not so much by the fact that a selfish person would spit their gum on the station walkway, but the unknown reason for arraignment of these two objects. He looked down to the bottom of his shoe where the slimy, now stringy mess glued him to the ground. Tommy looked toward the sky, and then straight ahead where a train whizzed past him; the collar of his jacket swaying, and his eyes closing invariably by the force of the train. If Tommy had taken one more step, that train could have taken his life. But more importantly, when that train left the station another
pulled up, the one headed west toward San Francisco. Maybe my lack of sleep will introduce me to my train?
I am an art collector. After receiving a very nice settlement from my mother’s death, I came to New York and purchased a loft. The loft is pretty standard, one with open windows and tall ceilings. There are wooden beams protruding from the floor, and hardly any walls. It is cold and nearly empty, and I like it that way. My view isn’t anything to brag about, in fact, it looks straight into another loft. I’ve been here four years, right after my mother died. Two months ago a man moved into the loft across from me. I catch him staring into my pad once in a while, usually with a set of binoculars. He isn’t very sly about it either. At first, when I would catch him, he’d get up and walk away. Now he just directs his binoculars toward me and sits down, as if he’s awaiting some sort of show. I’m figuring that he’s just scoping my art. I guess, in a way, he is getting a show. I’m not sure what else this man does. He seems to be home quite often, like me, but his windows are draped, unlike me. I like to watch the gloomy days of New York pass me by. It’s not for everyone, but I like to know I’m living and dying at the same time.
He could be the one casting the spell. Or maybe he’s just inhabited by my lifestyle. Maybe my deprivation is a result of my dreams. The night before I stopped sleeping I had a terrible nightmare. I relived the final moments with my mother. The recollection hurts too much to divulge great detail, but she was murdered by a vitamin corporation who mistakenly mixed oxyconton in a batch of B12 tablets. She died from trying to live, which could have been her mistake. I realize my lack of sleep has taken its toll on my mental state. She- the girl whose name I refuse to glorify- felt so compelled to call me delusional; this of course after our conversation about my neighbor, whom since this morning hasn’t laid his binoculars off me.
“Yes, I know, you’ve told me about him. So why haven’t I seen him doing it?”
“How would I know? Maybe that would be too suspicious, you know- if I had an alibi, or a witness, then he wouldn’t be able to carry out his plan.”
“And what plan is this?”
“Not sure yet. Either he really likes art, or he’s planning to kill me.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“Ya…maybe. But I don’t think sex is his motive.”
“Does he play with himself while he watches you?”
“Oh come on, now this has gone too far.”
“Well, that’s not exactly an odd scenario. It happens all the time.”
“Fine, you’re right. But no, he doesn’t…play with himself. He’s been watching me all day, ever since I woke up.”
“How many days have you gone without sleep?”
“Two.”
“Ya, ok. You’re delirious.”
“You bitch. I’m not. This is a critical matter I have on my hands here.”
“Well, you better wash em with some good soap. I have to go back to work.”
“Wait, come over when you’re done. Please. Hello? Hello? Bitch.”
It’s six p.m. The man is still staring at me. I don’t really care as much. I’m simple and boring, and soon enough he’ll figure that out. I am an art collector, mainly undiscovered and amateur art. I’ve always liked art, but after my decision to cease working, it became a fundamental part of my life. Even before, when I was a working man, I never discovered what I loved. I was a mechanical engineer, operating heavy machinery for damns and waterways. The money was good, and it funded my life. It helped me survive while slowly choking the life out of me. After my mother died, I quit my job, and my life fell to pieces. My wife, the woman whose name I refuse to glorify, left me. She took my daughter, Amelia, whom I haven’t seen since. The woman tells Amelia I ran out on them. I didn’t. I only ran out on my unhappy life. These details aren’t vital to the story.
I look out the window. It’s six thirty pm and I’m still alone and still being watched. I wouldn’t have called the woman, but she’s unfortunately one of the only people I can turn to. Living a life as an art collector can become reclusive, and though I meet and talk to many talented artists and agents, they never become friends, only business allies. If I admitted somebody was scoping me and their art, they would surely never sell to me again. So I must protect my investments as they hang from the rafters and ceiling. They hang from wires connected to beams. The art sits on the floor and stand on easels. The art has become my friends. They see what’s going on, and they believe me. I just hope they’re prepared for another sleepless night.
It’s six o clock a.m. He is standing and staring. I look at him, frazzled and tired. He looks very sharp and handsome. His hand reaches for the window. I take a step back and he hesitates. This eases me, and he continues to open the window. I walk closer to mine and then I see him stepping out onto the ledge. What is this madman doing? Does he want me to call for help? Is this a cry for attention?
He is waving his arms and suddenly freezes. I get it. He’s mocking a very familiar painting. A piece of art I collected while visiting San Francisco from Chicago. It’s called “hello and goodbye for the final time,” painted by Mario Visconti. I turn around and see the large painting. It frames my silhouette. The large black hands on the top, in motion, as tiny red hands flock toward the ground. There is an eyeball in the palm of every hand, and hidden in the lifelines of the palms are various smiles. It makes me smile, and I turn my attention back towards this enigma of a man. His demeanor is now serious as he raises his hand to his mouth. He kisses it and blows on the palm.
It’s six thirty am. The man spreads his arms and dives off the ledge. I already hear the sirens.
Floating through the air is much more serene than imagined. Nearly all thoughts are erased, and the sounds of the busy city have converted into a gentle, angelic whisper. I am an art collector. It’s the one thing I love doing. But there’s something else I yearn for- the creation of art. I’ve purchase ample amounts in hopes of inspiring my own work, but I’ve never prospered the way I envisioned, until three sleepless days ago, when I found art in life and emulated its beautiful wounds. Thank you life for bleeding death, this is my final, and only piece of art for you to remember me by. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. It feels so nice to wave hello and goodbye without the worry of generating a response. I’ll call this piece “Engine No. Mine- Destination Nowhere.”
This is comparable to a story about my cousin, Tommy. He isn’t bright, but he’s a genius. Often times he’ll unintentionally illuminate ways in which this universe operates. I guess that could be the definition of a genius, one who does great things without ever really aspiring greatness. This particular story involves a train, and a gooey piece of gum. He was taking a train from Chicago to San Francisco; his motives are of no importance to this story. Tommy thought he had missed his train, and the one he thought was his started to leave. Only, this train was across the tracks, and clearly heading east, not west. But that didn’t register to Tommy. He grabbed his two rugged suitcases and rapidly headed toward the train when that fresh, gooey piece of gum latched onto his leather shoe. The gum grasped him so well that Tommy had to stop. The squish with every footstep irritated him, and not so much by the fact that a selfish person would spit their gum on the station walkway, but the unknown reason for arraignment of these two objects. He looked down to the bottom of his shoe where the slimy, now stringy mess glued him to the ground. Tommy looked toward the sky, and then straight ahead where a train whizzed past him; the collar of his jacket swaying, and his eyes closing invariably by the force of the train. If Tommy had taken one more step, that train could have taken his life. But more importantly, when that train left the station another
pulled up, the one headed west toward San Francisco. Maybe my lack of sleep will introduce me to my train?
I am an art collector. After receiving a very nice settlement from my mother’s death, I came to New York and purchased a loft. The loft is pretty standard, one with open windows and tall ceilings. There are wooden beams protruding from the floor, and hardly any walls. It is cold and nearly empty, and I like it that way. My view isn’t anything to brag about, in fact, it looks straight into another loft. I’ve been here four years, right after my mother died. Two months ago a man moved into the loft across from me. I catch him staring into my pad once in a while, usually with a set of binoculars. He isn’t very sly about it either. At first, when I would catch him, he’d get up and walk away. Now he just directs his binoculars toward me and sits down, as if he’s awaiting some sort of show. I’m figuring that he’s just scoping my art. I guess, in a way, he is getting a show. I’m not sure what else this man does. He seems to be home quite often, like me, but his windows are draped, unlike me. I like to watch the gloomy days of New York pass me by. It’s not for everyone, but I like to know I’m living and dying at the same time.
He could be the one casting the spell. Or maybe he’s just inhabited by my lifestyle. Maybe my deprivation is a result of my dreams. The night before I stopped sleeping I had a terrible nightmare. I relived the final moments with my mother. The recollection hurts too much to divulge great detail, but she was murdered by a vitamin corporation who mistakenly mixed oxyconton in a batch of B12 tablets. She died from trying to live, which could have been her mistake. I realize my lack of sleep has taken its toll on my mental state. She- the girl whose name I refuse to glorify- felt so compelled to call me delusional; this of course after our conversation about my neighbor, whom since this morning hasn’t laid his binoculars off me.
“Yes, I know, you’ve told me about him. So why haven’t I seen him doing it?”
“How would I know? Maybe that would be too suspicious, you know- if I had an alibi, or a witness, then he wouldn’t be able to carry out his plan.”
“And what plan is this?”
“Not sure yet. Either he really likes art, or he’s planning to kill me.”
“Maybe he’s gay?”
“Ya…maybe. But I don’t think sex is his motive.”
“Does he play with himself while he watches you?”
“Oh come on, now this has gone too far.”
“Well, that’s not exactly an odd scenario. It happens all the time.”
“Fine, you’re right. But no, he doesn’t…play with himself. He’s been watching me all day, ever since I woke up.”
“How many days have you gone without sleep?”
“Two.”
“Ya, ok. You’re delirious.”
“You bitch. I’m not. This is a critical matter I have on my hands here.”
“Well, you better wash em with some good soap. I have to go back to work.”
“Wait, come over when you’re done. Please. Hello? Hello? Bitch.”
It’s six p.m. The man is still staring at me. I don’t really care as much. I’m simple and boring, and soon enough he’ll figure that out. I am an art collector, mainly undiscovered and amateur art. I’ve always liked art, but after my decision to cease working, it became a fundamental part of my life. Even before, when I was a working man, I never discovered what I loved. I was a mechanical engineer, operating heavy machinery for damns and waterways. The money was good, and it funded my life. It helped me survive while slowly choking the life out of me. After my mother died, I quit my job, and my life fell to pieces. My wife, the woman whose name I refuse to glorify, left me. She took my daughter, Amelia, whom I haven’t seen since. The woman tells Amelia I ran out on them. I didn’t. I only ran out on my unhappy life. These details aren’t vital to the story.
I look out the window. It’s six thirty pm and I’m still alone and still being watched. I wouldn’t have called the woman, but she’s unfortunately one of the only people I can turn to. Living a life as an art collector can become reclusive, and though I meet and talk to many talented artists and agents, they never become friends, only business allies. If I admitted somebody was scoping me and their art, they would surely never sell to me again. So I must protect my investments as they hang from the rafters and ceiling. They hang from wires connected to beams. The art sits on the floor and stand on easels. The art has become my friends. They see what’s going on, and they believe me. I just hope they’re prepared for another sleepless night.
It’s six o clock a.m. He is standing and staring. I look at him, frazzled and tired. He looks very sharp and handsome. His hand reaches for the window. I take a step back and he hesitates. This eases me, and he continues to open the window. I walk closer to mine and then I see him stepping out onto the ledge. What is this madman doing? Does he want me to call for help? Is this a cry for attention?
He is waving his arms and suddenly freezes. I get it. He’s mocking a very familiar painting. A piece of art I collected while visiting San Francisco from Chicago. It’s called “hello and goodbye for the final time,” painted by Mario Visconti. I turn around and see the large painting. It frames my silhouette. The large black hands on the top, in motion, as tiny red hands flock toward the ground. There is an eyeball in the palm of every hand, and hidden in the lifelines of the palms are various smiles. It makes me smile, and I turn my attention back towards this enigma of a man. His demeanor is now serious as he raises his hand to his mouth. He kisses it and blows on the palm.
It’s six thirty am. The man spreads his arms and dives off the ledge. I already hear the sirens.
Floating through the air is much more serene than imagined. Nearly all thoughts are erased, and the sounds of the busy city have converted into a gentle, angelic whisper. I am an art collector. It’s the one thing I love doing. But there’s something else I yearn for- the creation of art. I’ve purchase ample amounts in hopes of inspiring my own work, but I’ve never prospered the way I envisioned, until three sleepless days ago, when I found art in life and emulated its beautiful wounds. Thank you life for bleeding death, this is my final, and only piece of art for you to remember me by. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. It feels so nice to wave hello and goodbye without the worry of generating a response. I’ll call this piece “Engine No. Mine- Destination Nowhere.”
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Laughter That Never Subsided
I'm generally not aggressive. I don't like to mope or impune anyone's sunshiny smile. I know that sometimes I look pissed off when I'm begging for love. But when you enter my domain, don't belittle me with your thoughtlessness. You ask me, "What's wrong? You look pissed off?" And every fucking time I answer with the same response, "It's just the way I look." And then you laugh. That contagious, artificial, lengthy laugh. Never has a persons happiness made me more sick to my stomach.
I am at war with your laughter. When we first befriended one another, I omitted the redundancy of this cheerfulness. Maybe you just had a killer week and everything from the call of a crow to a pink umbrella made you gloat; your belly rumbling, your smile tattooed on your unaffected face. Then a week turned to two and your laugh would expound from your silly mouth to things that weren't funny. When I would admit my frustration with you, you'd simply laugh. But I wasn't joking. I began to wonder, how could you ever tell what was real and what was fake? And were you being real? Or being fake? In any conclusion, you were, and probably are, happier than I. Well, fuck you for that. You are now my enemy.
So how would I retaliate? No matter how many times I set you up and have you laugh at unfunny things right in front of our peers, nothing seemed to phase you. Or them. Was I crazy? Hardly. You would unintentionally threaten me with your midnight phone conversations, always interrupting the most crucial parts of my movie. Goddamn you, you win even when you don't try. I hate your laugh. I was convinced that maybe this was all part of your master plan;, to drive me nuts, straight to the loony bin, while your conniving laugh haunted me for the rest of my life. Well, that's not gonna happy fun guy. You're laugh is in grave danger.
Could I pull a Poe? Maybe instead of extracting his eye, I'll rip the vocal chords from his throat. But then the laugh would surely haunt me. I'll threaten him with a livid battle cry, just so he knows how serious I am. But his laugh is powerful and established, while my cry is still in its beginning stages. I wonder how many people he's expelled from his life because of this laugh? Maybe, just maybe, I could out-laugh him? That was it! Fight fire with fire and kill laughter with laughter.
I'm generally not aggressive, but when I am it's balls to the wall. I waited for him to arrive while I lounged on my couch watching Arrested Development- my ammunition. All of a sudden I heard a fumbling at the door, keys were wresting with the lock- a vision of what was about to come. Then he entered and stared into my brazen eyes. Only, his eyes were more visceral, like a sword against my dagger. Rattled, I fumbled the controller and set my attention toward the television, laughing at the most unfunny part of that particular episode. The man said nothing to me, no attempt to gaze into my challenging eyes. My opposition didn't even dare oppose me, maybe I was winning? But that wasn't the case. He walked into the kitchen and into his room where he slammed the door.
I sat alone. He didn't laugh. The one time I wanted him to laugh, he refused. He played my game without signing up. I tried to laugh louder and harder in an attempt to lure him out of his room, but to no avail. Finally I gave up and slouched on the couch. I was angry and unsettled, until an hour later I heard it. The laughter, and it made the hairs on my skin crawl and curl. Not only did he defeat me, but he was kicking me while I was down. That son of a bitch.
My hands turned to fists, and I could feel my face turning red. Just as I was about to pry myself off the couch and to his room the door burrowed open and he appeared in the living room. "What's up? You look pissed off?" ARRHGHGHEREIHREOGH! Shit, what a fucker!
"This is just how I look!"
Laughter.
My stomach felt ill.
"You looked pissed off, what was wrong with you!" (playing his own game)
"Oh, well I had a shitty day at work. But I'm over it."
"That fast?"
"Ya, hahahahaha." What was the goddamn reason to laugh? Why couldn't this man be serious. Ever. And then I realized that laughing was his vice. His way of not facing the shitty day...of just forgetting it ever happened. It's his shield, his fortress against all my attempts to put him down. And it works. His laughter will never subside because he won't ever face reality without it. And the reason I sometimes look pissed off is because I don't have a shield. I let reality get to me, I revel in it. If I had a shield, his laughter wouldn't pierce my soul. People's subtle perversions wouldn't irritate me and I'd be a much happier person.
I deal with the laughter. We aren't friends, but not mortal enemies. Sometimes I just have to laugh it off when inevitably he out laughs my laugh, and I just leave it up to him. Because, well, it's what he does best.
I am at war with your laughter. When we first befriended one another, I omitted the redundancy of this cheerfulness. Maybe you just had a killer week and everything from the call of a crow to a pink umbrella made you gloat; your belly rumbling, your smile tattooed on your unaffected face. Then a week turned to two and your laugh would expound from your silly mouth to things that weren't funny. When I would admit my frustration with you, you'd simply laugh. But I wasn't joking. I began to wonder, how could you ever tell what was real and what was fake? And were you being real? Or being fake? In any conclusion, you were, and probably are, happier than I. Well, fuck you for that. You are now my enemy.
So how would I retaliate? No matter how many times I set you up and have you laugh at unfunny things right in front of our peers, nothing seemed to phase you. Or them. Was I crazy? Hardly. You would unintentionally threaten me with your midnight phone conversations, always interrupting the most crucial parts of my movie. Goddamn you, you win even when you don't try. I hate your laugh. I was convinced that maybe this was all part of your master plan;, to drive me nuts, straight to the loony bin, while your conniving laugh haunted me for the rest of my life. Well, that's not gonna happy fun guy. You're laugh is in grave danger.
Could I pull a Poe? Maybe instead of extracting his eye, I'll rip the vocal chords from his throat. But then the laugh would surely haunt me. I'll threaten him with a livid battle cry, just so he knows how serious I am. But his laugh is powerful and established, while my cry is still in its beginning stages. I wonder how many people he's expelled from his life because of this laugh? Maybe, just maybe, I could out-laugh him? That was it! Fight fire with fire and kill laughter with laughter.
I'm generally not aggressive, but when I am it's balls to the wall. I waited for him to arrive while I lounged on my couch watching Arrested Development- my ammunition. All of a sudden I heard a fumbling at the door, keys were wresting with the lock- a vision of what was about to come. Then he entered and stared into my brazen eyes. Only, his eyes were more visceral, like a sword against my dagger. Rattled, I fumbled the controller and set my attention toward the television, laughing at the most unfunny part of that particular episode. The man said nothing to me, no attempt to gaze into my challenging eyes. My opposition didn't even dare oppose me, maybe I was winning? But that wasn't the case. He walked into the kitchen and into his room where he slammed the door.
I sat alone. He didn't laugh. The one time I wanted him to laugh, he refused. He played my game without signing up. I tried to laugh louder and harder in an attempt to lure him out of his room, but to no avail. Finally I gave up and slouched on the couch. I was angry and unsettled, until an hour later I heard it. The laughter, and it made the hairs on my skin crawl and curl. Not only did he defeat me, but he was kicking me while I was down. That son of a bitch.
My hands turned to fists, and I could feel my face turning red. Just as I was about to pry myself off the couch and to his room the door burrowed open and he appeared in the living room. "What's up? You look pissed off?" ARRHGHGHEREIHREOGH! Shit, what a fucker!
"This is just how I look!"
Laughter.
My stomach felt ill.
"You looked pissed off, what was wrong with you!" (playing his own game)
"Oh, well I had a shitty day at work. But I'm over it."
"That fast?"
"Ya, hahahahaha." What was the goddamn reason to laugh? Why couldn't this man be serious. Ever. And then I realized that laughing was his vice. His way of not facing the shitty day...of just forgetting it ever happened. It's his shield, his fortress against all my attempts to put him down. And it works. His laughter will never subside because he won't ever face reality without it. And the reason I sometimes look pissed off is because I don't have a shield. I let reality get to me, I revel in it. If I had a shield, his laughter wouldn't pierce my soul. People's subtle perversions wouldn't irritate me and I'd be a much happier person.
I deal with the laughter. We aren't friends, but not mortal enemies. Sometimes I just have to laugh it off when inevitably he out laughs my laugh, and I just leave it up to him. Because, well, it's what he does best.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Mother, The Therapist, and The Tragedy
The Mother, The Therapist, and The Tragedy
She told me she loved me. I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted her to love me. I’m broken.
***
It was a rainy day. The pellets were drizzling against the pane of the glass. I could hardly focus on anything. The pictures on the walls seemed only squares of colors. The jaw of my therapist was rampant and entirely useless to me. His fountain pen scribbled down observations of my behavior, as he would touch his index finger to the frame of his glasses, pushing them towards his cranium. It was obtrusive that this was his meeting; not mine. I noticed the glaze of the mirror to my left. The silver shadow pierced my eyesight, as distracted as I was. It was luring me, mocking me; possibly even discovering me. Week after week the mirror never taunted, nor hardly revealed itself. But that day was raining hard, and the pellets on the windows were nothing but a bore. The mirror, however, captivated my integral fears and displayed them. The pen moved, the jaw squawked and my eyes dilated.
***
Sometimes my mother would cradle my head in her arms. "Love is a myth baby," she would say, rocking my skull back and forth to sounds of Beethoven. String quartets diluted my head, and the Moonlight Sonata stole my sun. "I won’t let love hurt you baby," she would say. Then she left, every time, she’d leave, pulling the yarn that ceased the light, and left me alone in the closet where I was to slumber, only to be released to the dark night.
And how did this make you feel?
Invincible.
***
I told her not to fucking love me. I didn’t want this. I never wanted her to love me. I’m broken, but she claimed to be a "fixer." She said I wasn’t broken, but I didn’t believe her. All I wanted was to skip on the stars.
***
The rain egged me on, dancing along the fiery trim of the swarthy red building. The framed colors started to swirl, and my therapist’s jaw fell off, down to the floor. His tongue conformed to his pointed jaw lines; his speech perverted and contorted. The mirror attacked the lenses of the spotted brown frame of his glasses. His eyes were now my fears. They stared at me, stabbing through me, and the rain continued to egg me on. I had no choice but to hold the hand of thunder.
***
My mother used to comb my hair after bathing. She would slick it back and tell me I was handsome; too handsome for love. "Love will steal your hair baby," she would say. "I’ll make sure you’ll never go bald baby," she promised. She would curl the ends of my black, shoulder length dew, and smooth out the top with her young hands. Then she would place both hands on my head and mess up my freshly combed hair until I cried. "This is how love hurts baby," she would say, and then comb it back to comfort until I stopped crying and eradicated the feelings that made me cry in the first place. After a while I stopped crying completely.
And how did this make you feel?
Unbeatable.
***
We sat in the closet with the light off. "I just don’t understand," she said- repeatedly. There was nothing I could do to explain. It couldn’t be explained. It wasn’t possible. Her hand nestled its way into the underside of my cross legged knee. Her phalanges protruded through the crease of my thigh and lower leg. My clammy skin couldn’t even detour her passion. I tensed up and waited for the darkness to save me. But it never did. I waited for something, for anything; for a tear, or a throb, or a skip of a beat from my heart. But I felt nothing. I couldn’t even apologize, because I didn’t care about hurting her. I was invincible, and unbeatable. "I never asked for you to love me," I said. "I never wanted you to love me," I was saying as the tips of her fingers touched my skin for the last time. She rose to her feet, pulling the yarn that filled the closet with light. A salty tear ran down my face but it wasn’t mine. I heard a soft whisper of words: I love you. The door opened and slammed, and a silvery shadow captivated my attention.
***
The thunder erased the sounds of the room. The swirly frames of colors stopped. My therapist’s tongue withered away into grain, resembling sand, and sprinkled the floor. The powerful rumble cracked the mirrored lenses, and his spotted brown frame cracked in half. The pen exploded and ink slowly dripped from his extended index finger- the finger that pointed at me. The thunder, still holding my hand, gently guided me to the window where the rain had subsided. The pane slithered up and showed me the clouds that rendered from blue to black. And then, as if it knew…as if it recognized my transformation- the universe sent a bolt of lightning that penetrated me.
***
On the last day my mother told me not to worry. She stroked my neatly combed hair as my head rested in her arms. "You’re so handsome baby," she said. "Just stay away from the day and love can’t hurt you," she promised. She released my head and adjusted my posture. "You can sit straight now baby," she said. "You can sit straight and comb your own hair. You can take your own baths and open your own doors. You can do all this without me. And you won’t need to cry when I’m gone. And you won’t have to worry about love, because love is just a myth baby." She said. "And now mama is going to take her own bath." The next night, when it was my turn to wash, I stood up by myself. I turned off the light and opened the door by myself. I walked down the hall and into the bathroom. The bath was already filled, waiting for me. It was filled with red water, and the lifeless body of my mother.
And how did this make you feel?
It didn’t.
***
I looked into the mirror; never before had I noticed its reflection. A small pellet of tear raced down my cheek to my mouth. My tongue forced its way through my lips and caught it. It tasted like her. Like what I would imagine her to taste. And then either the mirror, or my face, started to crack. At first it was a small crack with slow movement. I could follow the lines with my eyes, until my eyes started to breach. A small pellet of blood dropped down my cheek, and again my tongue forced its way out of my mouth and caught it. And again, it tasted like her. This aggravated something inside me. My splitting eyes started gushing red tears. I stood up and opened the door by myself. I ran down the hall, past the bathroom and opened the door to the outside. The day light hit me like a cannon, stealing the short breaths I exalted. I attempted to block the blinding sun with my forearm. Through the hazy illuminated blast I was presented with an outline of a figure. It was her- the girl I never wanted to love. I released my arm and lowered my gaze to the ground, where I was surrounded by a halo of hair. She screamed from a foot away.
How does this make you feel?
Loved.
She told me she loved me. I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted her to love me. I’m broken.
***
It was a rainy day. The pellets were drizzling against the pane of the glass. I could hardly focus on anything. The pictures on the walls seemed only squares of colors. The jaw of my therapist was rampant and entirely useless to me. His fountain pen scribbled down observations of my behavior, as he would touch his index finger to the frame of his glasses, pushing them towards his cranium. It was obtrusive that this was his meeting; not mine. I noticed the glaze of the mirror to my left. The silver shadow pierced my eyesight, as distracted as I was. It was luring me, mocking me; possibly even discovering me. Week after week the mirror never taunted, nor hardly revealed itself. But that day was raining hard, and the pellets on the windows were nothing but a bore. The mirror, however, captivated my integral fears and displayed them. The pen moved, the jaw squawked and my eyes dilated.
***
Sometimes my mother would cradle my head in her arms. "Love is a myth baby," she would say, rocking my skull back and forth to sounds of Beethoven. String quartets diluted my head, and the Moonlight Sonata stole my sun. "I won’t let love hurt you baby," she would say. Then she left, every time, she’d leave, pulling the yarn that ceased the light, and left me alone in the closet where I was to slumber, only to be released to the dark night.
And how did this make you feel?
Invincible.
***
I told her not to fucking love me. I didn’t want this. I never wanted her to love me. I’m broken, but she claimed to be a "fixer." She said I wasn’t broken, but I didn’t believe her. All I wanted was to skip on the stars.
***
The rain egged me on, dancing along the fiery trim of the swarthy red building. The framed colors started to swirl, and my therapist’s jaw fell off, down to the floor. His tongue conformed to his pointed jaw lines; his speech perverted and contorted. The mirror attacked the lenses of the spotted brown frame of his glasses. His eyes were now my fears. They stared at me, stabbing through me, and the rain continued to egg me on. I had no choice but to hold the hand of thunder.
***
My mother used to comb my hair after bathing. She would slick it back and tell me I was handsome; too handsome for love. "Love will steal your hair baby," she would say. "I’ll make sure you’ll never go bald baby," she promised. She would curl the ends of my black, shoulder length dew, and smooth out the top with her young hands. Then she would place both hands on my head and mess up my freshly combed hair until I cried. "This is how love hurts baby," she would say, and then comb it back to comfort until I stopped crying and eradicated the feelings that made me cry in the first place. After a while I stopped crying completely.
And how did this make you feel?
Unbeatable.
***
We sat in the closet with the light off. "I just don’t understand," she said- repeatedly. There was nothing I could do to explain. It couldn’t be explained. It wasn’t possible. Her hand nestled its way into the underside of my cross legged knee. Her phalanges protruded through the crease of my thigh and lower leg. My clammy skin couldn’t even detour her passion. I tensed up and waited for the darkness to save me. But it never did. I waited for something, for anything; for a tear, or a throb, or a skip of a beat from my heart. But I felt nothing. I couldn’t even apologize, because I didn’t care about hurting her. I was invincible, and unbeatable. "I never asked for you to love me," I said. "I never wanted you to love me," I was saying as the tips of her fingers touched my skin for the last time. She rose to her feet, pulling the yarn that filled the closet with light. A salty tear ran down my face but it wasn’t mine. I heard a soft whisper of words: I love you. The door opened and slammed, and a silvery shadow captivated my attention.
***
The thunder erased the sounds of the room. The swirly frames of colors stopped. My therapist’s tongue withered away into grain, resembling sand, and sprinkled the floor. The powerful rumble cracked the mirrored lenses, and his spotted brown frame cracked in half. The pen exploded and ink slowly dripped from his extended index finger- the finger that pointed at me. The thunder, still holding my hand, gently guided me to the window where the rain had subsided. The pane slithered up and showed me the clouds that rendered from blue to black. And then, as if it knew…as if it recognized my transformation- the universe sent a bolt of lightning that penetrated me.
***
On the last day my mother told me not to worry. She stroked my neatly combed hair as my head rested in her arms. "You’re so handsome baby," she said. "Just stay away from the day and love can’t hurt you," she promised. She released my head and adjusted my posture. "You can sit straight now baby," she said. "You can sit straight and comb your own hair. You can take your own baths and open your own doors. You can do all this without me. And you won’t need to cry when I’m gone. And you won’t have to worry about love, because love is just a myth baby." She said. "And now mama is going to take her own bath." The next night, when it was my turn to wash, I stood up by myself. I turned off the light and opened the door by myself. I walked down the hall and into the bathroom. The bath was already filled, waiting for me. It was filled with red water, and the lifeless body of my mother.
And how did this make you feel?
It didn’t.
***
I looked into the mirror; never before had I noticed its reflection. A small pellet of tear raced down my cheek to my mouth. My tongue forced its way through my lips and caught it. It tasted like her. Like what I would imagine her to taste. And then either the mirror, or my face, started to crack. At first it was a small crack with slow movement. I could follow the lines with my eyes, until my eyes started to breach. A small pellet of blood dropped down my cheek, and again my tongue forced its way out of my mouth and caught it. And again, it tasted like her. This aggravated something inside me. My splitting eyes started gushing red tears. I stood up and opened the door by myself. I ran down the hall, past the bathroom and opened the door to the outside. The day light hit me like a cannon, stealing the short breaths I exalted. I attempted to block the blinding sun with my forearm. Through the hazy illuminated blast I was presented with an outline of a figure. It was her- the girl I never wanted to love. I released my arm and lowered my gaze to the ground, where I was surrounded by a halo of hair. She screamed from a foot away.
How does this make you feel?
Loved.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Hindsight is a Swift Kick to the Sheild of Love
I think I get it!
You deserted me at the bar
and I stood helplessly alone
while you shouted
"Did you really think you had a chance?"
as you entered the taxi.
The wrong taxi.
You had me all wrong.
Taxi.
That other girl wasn't my girlfriend.
She was a mannequin- a decoy
a secondary option, a toy.
It was YOU, the coy fish
That I yearned to swim with;
and not entirely from your stunning, stinging beauty
but from the book in your purse.
(P.S. Oprah's Book Club doesn't impress me,
but one day I'll be on it
and I'll impress you).
I think I got it!
When you told me that one day...
before you die...
you want to write a novel.
I wanted to elaborate my endeavors
(That I'm DYING to write a NOVEL)
but thought maybe one day you'd find out.
And one day you WILL find out-
when I'm on Oprah's Book Club.
I just don't think I'll ever get over you
But I think I get it!
You were meant to inspire me;
To enhance my humanity;
To expand my knowledge of brutality;
To accept the reality of banal relations.
And now I get it!
The underlying message
The reason the universe crossed our paths-
the realization that
in just one shallow hour...one cursory minute
I can fall completely
head over heels
disgustingly, lavishly,
obsessively and beautifully
in love
with a stranger.
You deserted me at the bar
and I stood helplessly alone
while you shouted
"Did you really think you had a chance?"
as you entered the taxi.
The wrong taxi.
You had me all wrong.
Taxi.
That other girl wasn't my girlfriend.
She was a mannequin- a decoy
a secondary option, a toy.
It was YOU, the coy fish
That I yearned to swim with;
and not entirely from your stunning, stinging beauty
but from the book in your purse.
(P.S. Oprah's Book Club doesn't impress me,
but one day I'll be on it
and I'll impress you).
I think I got it!
When you told me that one day...
before you die...
you want to write a novel.
I wanted to elaborate my endeavors
(That I'm DYING to write a NOVEL)
but thought maybe one day you'd find out.
And one day you WILL find out-
when I'm on Oprah's Book Club.
I just don't think I'll ever get over you
But I think I get it!
You were meant to inspire me;
To enhance my humanity;
To expand my knowledge of brutality;
To accept the reality of banal relations.
And now I get it!
The underlying message
The reason the universe crossed our paths-
the realization that
in just one shallow hour...one cursory minute
I can fall completely
head over heels
disgustingly, lavishly,
obsessively and beautifully
in love
with a stranger.
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