Month: September 2011

plastic table

We were seated at a white plastic table. It had a big green umbrella posted right in the center and hovering over us, keeping moonlight out. It had begun to cool down after yet another unexpectedly warm day. I undoubtedly had a fine sheen to my forehead. There’d been too many glasses of beer (one passed around like a joint at some point). We discussed Obama’s forthcoming win as the lesser of two evils, or rather one evil and one fucking insane possibility of regressing to the most ridiculous rhetoric and policies I’ve heard in my lifetime. There was talk of period sex versus anal sex, and even those who were grossed out by talk of blood or shit had to admit one might be better than the other. We discussed fetishes and my lengthy monologue about the dangers of always going one step further, one rung higher, and why sexual satisfaction is the cornerstone of healthy adult relations, regardless of the extremity of said satisfaction. We discussed everything because I encourage it. No one wants to go too far, so I do.

Then we discussed love as it pertains to selecting a mate. It jumped back and forth across the table while I sat quietly and stared at the cars driving along the nearby street. It annoyed me that we’d selected that bar and that table, in a place less intimate than I like. We could see young couples pushing strollers just a dozen feet away.

I took a moment.

Someone encouraged me, finally. “You had a lot to say about girls who get off on violence. Nothing on love?”

I had a foolishly sophomoric thought just then: they wouldn’t understand. But, in the spirit of open communication, I spoke up.

“I don’t know. Love is fucked up and I feel I need it too much sometimes, so I never give it. Love is like a hunger. It’s like I want to eat every part of you, the feet and the eyes and the hair, and even the organs, even though I don’t like them. I want everything. Once I’m there, I don’t hesitate. I don’t understand how it builds up. For me, it starts here, when it seems like it should start down here, when it starts at all. It’s no different from fucking. I want and I take. Then, sometimes, I’m a stone.”

There was an awkward silence, typical after some of the things I say. Awkward for them, anyway. I was watching the neon lights of the plumbing store across the street. A wrench smiled at me.

“Anyway, I’m a fucked up case. What’re you gonna do?”

Someone laughed, finally, and said something. I made note of their reactions. I thought I might someday write about something like this. It would have been nice to remember the end of it.

Your interpretation is never objective.

Willingness to listen to the other side is diminished over time.

Your interpretation is never objective.

Willingness to listen to the other side is diminished over time.

Let my drafts go.

It’s a good experience or a bad experience. I think people know the difference between the two (relative to their interests), but are afraid to speak up or let go.

Dear lost girl,

Even as I move on, I want you. In my presence you would have found security. In my arms, branches to keep you aloft. In my thoughts the encouragement to continue to be who you will be. In my bed, and every place I please, you and I, our sweat, our cum, our every breath. Your innermost animal revealed to me, and mine, unchained, to you. The only chain that need remain is the one you wear for me.

Love,

A weathered oak

Some bedrooms are no different.

Does that invalidate friendship?

Odd is relative. I get off on fucking outdoors, like animals.

A (real) Mexican restaurant in New Zealand.

Survival of the fittest.

I am the only man in the universe.

language

You grow up in a certain way, speaking a certain other language, and you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. It’s there, damn it. It will always be there. This bothers you when you’re young because it’s not the language most people speak. It isn’t the language they speak in the cartoons. You get over this.

It weighs on your mind when you start to lose a native word here and there. It’s the, uh, how do you say it… The word exists, it’s on the tip of your tongue, but it just doesn’t come to you. The impossible begins to happen. Your language begins to atrophy. You wonder why, but you don’t speak it much anymore, do you? You certainly don’t think in that language, not since you were a child. The word for fork. It boggles you, and saddens you a bit. The language you railed against finally gives up on you. It will eventually lose the word for beautiful, or the word for love.

You read the signs and display the subtitles. You pursue feeble attempts at resuscitation.

circuit

I had a circuit. It started at my apartment in Brisbane, up the hill from the one main street in town, and wound down onto Bayshore. I followed that south to Sister Cities, in South San Francisco, where the road turned west. Sister Cities was all hill and dried grass for a ways but it eventually turned into more suburb and soon enough I was surrounded. I kept on it until the Hillside transition and on into Colma—city of the dead. It was actually quite scenic. There was a cemetery for all manner of dead person. The pet cemetery was nicer than some. This was the loneliest of places save for the odd shopping center. I kept on with Hillside until my arrival in Daly City where I sometimes broke circuit. West, I’d find the 280 and as dark a road as I could hope for, or the perennial long route south along El Camino. This was good for necessities. North, on Hillside or El Camino, would take me to the city. I sometimes did this, following the Mission trail into the heart of San Francisco. There were few people around at night at certain places. When I was hankering for a quiet beer I’d go to Irish Bank in Chinatown. When I didn’t break circuit, I turned east on Guadalupe highway. This route cut into the mountain and was a lot of grass and trees until it broke out back onto Bayshore. On a good night, or rather just a night that wasn’t foggy, I could make out Cow Palace and the lights beyond. Sometimes I’d break circuit here to go up to the 7 Mile bar and listen to music in a dank corner. When I didn’t, I’d turn south on Bayshore and pass all the industrial and office buildings to return home, grab a fruit or berries on the path up to my place on the hill, leave the curtains open to let in the maybe moonlight, and go back to bed.

circuit

I had a circuit. It started at my apartment in Brisbane, up the hill from the one main street in town, and wound down onto Bayshore. I followed that south to Sister Cities, in South San Francisco, where the road turned west. Sister Cities was all hill and dried grass for a ways but it eventually turned into more suburb and soon enough I was surrounded. I kept on it until the Hillside transition and on into Colma—city of the dead. It was actually quite scenic. There was a cemetery for all manner of dead person. The pet cemetery was nicer than some. This was the loneliest of places save for the odd shopping center. I kept on with Hillside until my arrival in Daly City where I sometimes broke circuit. West, I’d find the 280 and as dark a road as I could hope for, or the perennial long route south along El Camino. This was good for necessities. North, on Hillside or El Camino, would take me to the city. I sometimes did this, following the Mission trail into the heart of San Francisco. There were few people around at night at certain places. When I was hankering for a quiet beer I’d go to Irish Bank in Chinatown. When I didn’t break circuit, I turned east on Guadalupe highway. This route cut into the mountain and was a lot of grass and trees until it broke out back onto Bayshore. On a good night, or rather just a night that wasn’t foggy, I could make out Cow Palace and the lights beyond. Sometimes I’d break circuit here to go up to the 7 Mile bar and listen to music in a dank corner. When I didn’t, I’d turn south on Bayshore and pass all the industrial and office buildings to return home, grab a fruit or berries on the path up to my place on the hill, leave the curtains open to let in the maybe moonlight, and go back to bed.