Left arm stretched out above my head. Fingers wrapped around brass. Feel the long strip of armpit hair, smell the soap and lingering scent of sweat. Feel loosened skin wobble and roll like waves in the ocean. Little stretch cracks along the baggy surface. Pasty, dotted red and blotchy with bruises and a long history (you’re young, they tell me: thanks for the bullshit). Skin can only take so much neglect, so much apathy and ruin. Wonder, if the machine is perfectly functional, is it a machine worth saving? Old man’s rough hands, years of mowing and lifting and dust and grime. So many fine lines already. The sound of old leather accompanies every clenched fist. The fist I rarely wielded. Mean faces and big displays scare off the little ones. The few who stepped up got their hits in alongside mine. Attack me, strike me. I am built for it. I am old leather, coarse hair, padded and prodded and whipped and whipped and whipped into submission and now superiority. An animal, a meat bag, bones and muscles and fat. You try what you fucking want. But wise up: do not dare to even look at anyone I have chosen to protect. Do not fucking dare. An animal can be pushed too far. An animal can commit heinous things. An animal is weakness of mind and pure instinctive rage.
Month: May 2011
do not dare
Left arm stretched out above my head. Fingers wrapped around brass. Feel the long strip of armpit hair, smell the soap and lingering scent of sweat. Feel loosened skin wobble and roll like waves in the ocean. Little stretch cracks along the baggy surface. Pasty, dotted red and blotchy with bruises and a long history (you’re young, they tell me: thanks for the bullshit). Skin can only take so much neglect, so much apathy and ruin. Wonder, if the machine is perfectly functional, is it a machine worth saving? Old man’s rough hands, years of mowing and lifting and dust and grime. So many fine lines already. The sound of old leather accompanies every clenched fist. The fist I rarely wielded. Mean faces and big displays scare off the little ones. The few who stepped up got their hits in alongside mine. Attack me, strike me. I am built for it. I am old leather, coarse hair, padded and prodded and whipped and whipped and whipped into submission and now superiority. An animal, a meat bag, bones and muscles and fat. You try what you fucking want. But wise up: do not dare to even look at anyone I have chosen to protect. Do not fucking dare. An animal can be pushed too far. An animal can commit heinous things. An animal is weakness of mind and pure instinctive rage.
Ten things.
Joyce Carol Oates makes me want to get academic with her work. The big new bed I got when I moved is so awesome that I spend my downtime at home right here. My headboard’s got these sturdy bars and would probably hold up well but it squeaks like a monkey in heat. I keep buying books and bikes and things instead of a television and now I don’t care anymore. That’s bad because I was wanting to be a video game writer and video games are generally played on televisions. I’m going to east Oregon next weekend because I’m in the mood for desert. A few days after that I’m in Indiana to meet this girl who I’ll be mad about in all seasons. I keep telling myself to stop posting personal things. I haven’t showered since last night and my hair/beard’s got that greasy sheen to it that comes up when I’ve just been moving around to stretch after sitting for hours writing the most inane shit I can think of because solid blocks of writing are impossible to achieve. I’m the emotional equivalent of a giant ground sloth. I think that’s eleven. I’m getting really bad at the rules.
Ten things.
Joyce Carol Oates makes me want to get academic with her work. The big new bed I got when I moved is so awesome that I spend my downtime at home right here. My headboard’s got these sturdy bars and would probably hold up well but it squeaks like a monkey in heat. I keep buying books and bikes and things instead of a television and now I don’t care anymore. That’s bad because I was wanting to be a video game writer and video games are generally played on televisions. I’m going to east Oregon next weekend because I’m in the mood for desert. A few days after that I’m in Indiana to meet this girl who I’ll be mad about in all seasons. I keep telling myself to stop posting personal things. I haven’t showered since last night and my hair/beard’s got that greasy sheen to it that comes up when I’ve just been moving around to stretch after sitting for hours writing the most inane shit I can think of because solid blocks of writing are impossible to achieve. I’m the emotional equivalent of a giant ground sloth. I think that’s eleven. I’m getting really bad at the rules.
I Am Here
“I am here.”
“In the hallway?”
She laughs hysterically. “Not in the hallway.”
Her voice shifts and I know she’s moved. I feel compelled to charge around like a bull, swinging my arms and huffing big sighs everywhere. I would knock down the pictures hung in dark mahogany frames. The vase on the small table next to the kitchen entry would undoubtedly be shattered. I might clip my wrist against the low ceiling fan. These things I can live with. I don’t do it because I might accidentally hit her.
“You’re leading me into a wall. I’ll break through a wall if I have to.” I often think I can punch through things that I probably cannot. It happens when nothing of me has ever been broken.
I can feel that sunlight is streaming in, somehow, through the thicket of still bare branches that hover in air outside of our oversized living room window. My bare knee bumps the quilted arm of our corduroy couch, the one purchased from a couple who advertised on craigslist. We never met him, but she was there when we picked it up and loaded it onto the rented pick-up truck. She was very loud, joking bawdily the way I only know men to do. I imagined her working at a bar but I never did ask. When we dragged the couch out she didn’t mind that we knicked a doorframe with the wooden corner of the couch. We drove away sweaty, as this was in the summer, and took a nap on it together before it was even off the truck. We slept too long and I browned a bit while she tomatoed. I touched her even when she complained.
The couch was the thing we bought together. Everything else, furniture and electronics and even toiletries, belonged to one or the other. Even the bed was mine before it was ours. That kind of thing you just get so used to that you never want to change it.
I don’t walk with my arms out, like an idiot. I keep them low but do not stoop my back. I listen for little signs in the air, like feeling ripples in water. The bookshelf is on my right if the couch has just been on my right and I know that the bedroom is close, but she will not be there. Too obvious. I turn instead toward the garage. When I step inside I hear a shuffle and smile.
“You are predictable.”
“Am I?” It comes from outside. She’s in the yard. She wants to play outdoors.
Old oil and grit seep into the spaces between my toes until I am on the other side of the garage, by the door. I listen again. It is country silent. Bird calls and insect flight, but nothing else. I pause for a moment to consider the neighbors but overcome the nag to take a step onto the concrete. It is warm for a spring day. It feels moist. Still rigid in posture, I step out onto the path and listen again. I could walk straight ahead onto the lawn but feel threatened. It is more unpredictable outside. The lawn and its mushrooms, crab grass, dog and raccoon shit. Our dog might be around but he usually wanders into the field next to our property during the day. She knows this. Otherwise, he would give her away.
For now, I remain on the concrete. I follow the edge, feeling the drop-off into the grass with my toes. A breeze caresses the mane I’ve been threatening to cut for weeks to tease her. She prefers it long. In winter, when I stop shaving and allow my hair to become truly wooly, we pretend we live in Alaska. I step on a sharp rock and yelp out, “tshit!” She laughs again and now I know she’s out near the edge of the lawn, nearest to the field.
“I’m glad my pain amuses you!”
“Do you see me?” she asks, and I turn away from her obvious direction.
“I sense you.”
I hear her soft footsteps, each one further than the last. My arms tense as I step onto the prickly grass.
“Where you are is here. When you jump, I hear.” I say silly shit and walk toward her. The edge of the lawn is marked by a series of pink concrete blocks, and beyond them is rough grass, twigs, rocks, and probably dead things. Though consumed by darkness, I feel everything. She wanders into the field, where I know she will stay and wait. Knowing is the thing we give each other.
Every step is careful. I hope she doesn’t see me stoop a little as I step on some sharp things.
I Am Here
“I am here.”
“In the hallway?”
She laughs hysterically. “Not in the hallway.”
Her voice shifts and I know she’s moved. I feel compelled to charge around like a bull, swinging my arms and huffing big sighs everywhere. I would knock down the pictures hung in dark mahogany frames. The vase on the small table next to the kitchen entry would undoubtedly be shattered. I might clip my wrist against the low ceiling fan. These things I can live with. I don’t do it because I might accidentally hit her.
“You’re leading me into a wall. I’ll break through a wall if I have to.” I often think I can punch through things that I probably cannot. It happens when nothing of me has ever been broken.
I can feel that sunlight is streaming in, somehow, through the thicket of still bare branches that hover in air outside of our oversized living room window. My bare knee bumps the quilted arm of our corduroy couch, the one purchased from a couple who advertised on craigslist. We never met him, but she was there when we picked it up and loaded it onto the rented pick-up truck. She was very loud, joking bawdily the way I only know men to do. I imagined her working at a bar but I never did ask. When we dragged the couch out she didn’t mind that we knicked a doorframe with the wooden corner of the couch. We drove away sweaty, as this was in the summer, and took a nap on it together before it was even off the truck. We slept too long and I browned a bit while she tomatoed. I touched her even when she complained.
The couch was the thing we bought together. Everything else, furniture and electronics and even toiletries, belonged to one or the other. Even the bed was mine before it was ours. That kind of thing you just get so used to that you never want to change it.
I don’t walk with my arms out, like an idiot. I keep them low but do not stoop my back. I listen for little signs in the air, like feeling ripples in water. The bookshelf is on my right if the couch has just been on my right and I know that the bedroom is close, but she will not be there. Too obvious. I turn instead toward the garage. When I step inside I hear a shuffle and smile.
“You are predictable.”
“Am I?” It comes from outside. She’s in the yard. She wants to play outdoors.
Old oil and grit seep into the spaces between my toes until I am on the other side of the garage, by the door. I listen again. It is country silent. Bird calls and insect flight, but nothing else. I pause for a moment to consider the neighbors but overcome the nag to take a step onto the concrete. It is warm for a spring day. It feels moist. Still rigid in posture, I step out onto the path and listen again. I could walk straight ahead onto the lawn but feel threatened. It is more unpredictable outside. The lawn and its mushrooms, crab grass, dog and raccoon shit. Our dog might be around but he usually wanders into the field next to our property during the day. She knows this. Otherwise, he would give her away.
For now, I remain on the concrete. I follow the edge, feeling the drop-off into the grass with my toes. A breeze caresses the mane I’ve been threatening to cut for weeks to tease her. She prefers it long. In winter, when I stop shaving and allow my hair to become truly wooly, we pretend we live in Alaska. I step on a sharp rock and yelp out, “tshit!” She laughs again and now I know she’s out near the edge of the lawn, nearest to the field.
“I’m glad my pain amuses you!”
“Do you see me?” she asks, and I turn away from her obvious direction.
“I sense you.”
I hear her soft footsteps, each one further than the last. My arms tense as I step onto the prickly grass.
“Where you are is here. When you jump, I hear.” I say silly shit and walk toward her. The edge of the lawn is marked by a series of pink concrete blocks, and beyond them is rough grass, twigs, rocks, and probably dead things. Though consumed by darkness, I feel everything. She wanders into the field, where I know she will stay and wait. Knowing is the thing we give each other.
Every step is careful. I hope she doesn’t see me stoop a little as I step on some sharp things.
goals
I posted a list of the top one hundred novels. I’ve only read four of them. I’m holding up that many fingers on my left hand. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. I have about twenty of them sitting on my book shelves. I’ve seen at least another ten of the novels as films. I’ve received general details about many more from friends or the Internet. This is not what a man who wants to write for a living should be doing. He, I, should be reading them. I speak passionately, sometimes frighteningly and confusingly, about writing, about creation and development and the birth of an idea. It’s usually the only thing I can be passionate about, that and the woman I’m with. I am a man of singular focus. It sometimes pains me, or angers me, or arouses me, especially when something I’ve written comes out better than I could have hoped. And yet, I don’t take time to read enough. Never enough. I focus too much on doing and speaking and not enough on paying attention.
Two of my goals this year are to read at least fifty books and get one short story published. Did you know it’s already the middle of May?
goals
I posted a list of the top one hundred novels. I’ve only read four of them. I’m holding up that many fingers on my left hand. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. I have about twenty of them sitting on my book shelves. I’ve seen at least another ten of the novels as films. I’ve received general details about many more from friends or the Internet. This is not what a man who wants to write for a living should be doing. He, I, should be reading them. I speak passionately, sometimes frighteningly and confusingly, about writing, about creation and development and the birth of an idea. It’s usually the only thing I can be passionate about, that and the woman I’m with. I am a man of singular focus. It sometimes pains me, or angers me, or arouses me, especially when something I’ve written comes out better than I could have hoped. And yet, I don’t take time to read enough. Never enough. I focus too much on doing and speaking and not enough on paying attention.
Two of my goals this year are to read at least fifty books and get one short story published. Did you know it’s already the middle of May?
old story
There’s a kind of an old story that goes: somebody loves somebody, and then somebody dies. Everyone’s heard this story. It’s a sad thing to think about. Worse for some than others, and maybe there’s more than sadness. Maybe it’s angry sad, or happy sad, or crazy sad, or peaceful sad. But, sad.
Let’s say the elephant Paul loves the elephant Ruth and vice versa. Paul and Ruth don’t know each other yet. Maybe Paul or Ruth aren’t born yet, or maybe Paul and Ruth are on opposite sides of the grassland. Paul loves Ruth and Ruth loves Paul is what I’m saying. They learn about loving in different ways and maybe it makes sense or it doesn’t, but they do, somehow. Love between Paul and Ruth is one of a kind of love just like every elephant who loves another elephant has it the one way. The point is they are born and live and eventually love each other until one of them dies. One of them is there to guard the other. It never matters how, in the end. Let’s say it was Paul. Ruth’s left with Paul in her mind because she loves him and his death came before hers. Her life is a burden because her love is going and going.
old story
There’s a kind of an old story that goes: somebody loves somebody, and then somebody dies. Everyone’s heard this story. It’s a sad thing to think about. Worse for some than others, and maybe there’s more than sadness. Maybe it’s angry sad, or happy sad, or crazy sad, or peaceful sad. But, sad.
Let’s say the elephant Paul loves the elephant Ruth and vice versa. Paul and Ruth don’t know each other yet. Maybe Paul or Ruth aren’t born yet, or maybe Paul and Ruth are on opposite sides of the grassland. Paul loves Ruth and Ruth loves Paul is what I’m saying. They learn about loving in different ways and maybe it makes sense or it doesn’t, but they do, somehow. Love between Paul and Ruth is one of a kind of love just like every elephant who loves another elephant has it the one way. The point is they are born and live and eventually love each other until one of them dies. One of them is there to guard the other. It never matters how, in the end. Let’s say it was Paul. Ruth’s left with Paul in her mind because she loves him and his death came before hers. Her life is a burden because her love is going and going.