I’m buried beneath pillows and blankets. There’s no seeing me because I’m dead, you understand. I was killed generations ago. She sets up an iPod or something and plays the music from level 1 of Altered Beast. She yells “Rise from your grave!” and I emerge clothed. I let loose articles of clothing until I’m on her and in my most animalistic state.
Month: December 2011
It isn’t the going that gets me. I enjoy the going. It’s the waiting. The funneling. The sitting still. The being surrounded. If I were more susceptible I’d have panic attacks. As it is it’s simply annoying. Most things are these days.
If I can’t have the window I’m in a mood. Time does this, the nurturing of entitlements. I want it and I get it.
“Pardon me.” The man in the aisle steps out but the woman beside him—his wife—she picks her legs up and lets me pass. We discover that my shoulders prevent me from remaining entirely within my own seat.
“It seems to get worse every year.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” she says.
“You can cuddle up to me,” adds her husband as he returns to his seat.
“That’s an idea.”
We all buckle our seatbelts.
“Of course,” she says, “I’ll be cuddling up to you as well.”
“You’re right. It can’t be helped.”
We sit and wait when I start to get anxious. My hand clenches and unclenches. I glance to the left at the PULL TO LIFT sign.
“I’m glad you’re sitting there. I told her I can’t do this. I can’t open that if we fall in the ocean.” She shakes her head and her hands.
“That’s alright. I’ll rescue us.”
I reach for the emergency pamphlet and look over the passive faces of the characters in the panels. The panel about opening the emergency exit displays a white male with dark hair, and beside him a blonde woman. The white male becomes me. The blonde becomes older and her hair gets shorter. The plane suffers catastrophic engine failure. We don’t break apart but her husband dies. I remove the door and pull her out onto the wing of the plane. I assure her she’s safe. Everyone else is dying when I return, but they receive no assurances besides the certainty of their next breath of air. For them I do what I can.
It isn’t the going that gets me. I enjoy the going. It’s the waiting. The funneling. The sitting still. The being surrounded. If I were more susceptible I’d have panic attacks. As it is it’s simply annoying. Most things are these days.
If I can’t have the window I’m in a mood. Time does this, the nurturing of entitlements. I want it and I get it.
“Pardon me.” The man in the aisle steps out but the woman beside him—his wife—she picks her legs up and lets me pass. We discover that my shoulders prevent me from remaining entirely within my own seat.
“It seems to get worse every year.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” she says.
“You can cuddle up to me,” adds her husband as he returns to his seat.
“That’s an idea.”
We all buckle our seatbelts.
“Of course,” she says, “I’ll be cuddling up to you as well.”
“You’re right. It can’t be helped.”
We sit and wait when I start to get anxious. My hand clenches and unclenches. I glance to the left at the PULL TO LIFT sign.
“I’m glad you’re sitting there. I told her I can’t do this. I can’t open that if we fall in the ocean.” She shakes her head and her hands.
“That’s alright. I’ll rescue us.”
I reach for the emergency pamphlet and look over the passive faces of the characters in the panels. The panel about opening the emergency exit displays a white male with dark hair, and beside him a blonde woman. The white male becomes me. The blonde becomes older and her hair gets shorter. The plane suffers catastrophic engine failure. We don’t break apart but her husband dies. I remove the door and pull her out onto the wing of the plane. I assure her she’s safe. Everyone else is dying when I return, but they receive no assurances besides the certainty of their next breath of air. For them I do what I can.
I’m buried beneath pillows and blankets. There’s no seeing me because I’m dead, you understand. I was killed generations ago. She sets up an iPod or something and plays the music from level 1 of Altered Beast. She yells “Rise from your grave!” and I emerge clothed. I let loose articles of clothing until I’m on her and in my most animalistic state.
I don’t know where I got the notion, but I’ve been thinking about the need to divulge every detail of an experience and why it isn’t always necessary. Rarely, in fact, unless it serves a specific purpose in the piece. In my case it’s about a night with a girl and how fucking fantastic it was.
My first instinct was to sit and write out the whole night in detail. I’m not usually shy in that regard if I feel it’s something worth writing about. I even told her that I might feel inclined to do so. Unfortunately, I was immediately blocked. What exactly should I write about? Dinner? Bed? Champagne? Dark hair in my hands? The elasticity of her flesh? How much or how little should I divulge? And, ultimately, would it be more interesting to be sparse with the detail in favor of keeping it as a raw and fleshy memory as opposed to a soft and romanticized nostalgia trip? These were considerations. Questions. I’m usually over and done with those by the time I’ve had breakfast.
So, back to my point of refrainment. I’m foggy on my motivation to notwrite about this. I haven’t consciously decided that this is something to keep private, but that might be the case here. Perhaps it is too boastful to spill it all like so much champagne on goose flesh. Or, I suspect, I was so blown away by the experience that I simply have nothing to write about. The dial turned to 11 and there’s no use in putting something like that into words. It couldn’t possibly compare.
I’d lost the book. The goddamn book. It wasn’t in the first bookcase, on my desk, in the TV room, on or under either of the nightstands, in the second bookcase, or under the bed. It wasn’t on the microwave, either. It wasn’t in plain sight. I scanned the ground in case it might’ve somehow fallen but there was nothing. I searched the travel bag full of other books, the backpack I keep packed with rations and a med kit for emergencies, the giant hiking pack already bursting at the seams with gear. It might’ve been in the Jeep, but all I found was laundry detergent, a milk crate full of fluids and tools, and water bottles. No, it wasn’t on top of the fridge.
When had I become so careless that I’d lose the book?
I was prepared to audit my entire apartment when I saw it sitting on the window sill in the bedroom, beside a boxed lava lamp, an empty seltzer bottle, and a dead smoke detector. It must have remained there after I set up the bookcases. It was safe.
It is the reason I read, write, and support creative diversity. It’s the reason I’m here and not someplace else. It is unforgiveable that such a token should be forgotten on the wayside amongst piles of other stuff that are nothing more than that. I don’t know what path I might have forged without this.
Jesus.
Take care of your books, will you? Especially the ones that have changed your life.
I don’t know where I got the notion, but I’ve been thinking about the need to divulge every detail of an experience and why it isn’t always necessary. Rarely, in fact, unless it serves a specific purpose in the piece. In my case it’s about a night with a girl and how fucking fantastic it was.
My first instinct was to sit and write out the whole night in detail. I’m not usually shy in that regard if I feel it’s something worth writing about. I even told her that I might feel inclined to do so. Unfortunately, I was immediately blocked. What exactly should I write about? Dinner? Bed? Champagne? Dark hair in my hands? The elasticity of her flesh? How much or how little should I divulge? And, ultimately, would it be more interesting to be sparse with the detail in favor of keeping it as a raw and fleshy memory as opposed to a soft and romanticized nostalgia trip? These were considerations. Questions. I’m usually over and done with those by the time I’ve had breakfast.
So, back to my point of refrainment. I’m foggy on my motivation to notwrite about this. I haven’t consciously decided that this is something to keep private, but that might be the case here. Perhaps it is too boastful to spill it all like so much champagne on goose flesh. Or, I suspect, I was so blown away by the experience that I simply have nothing to write about. The dial turned to 11 and there’s no use in putting something like that into words. It couldn’t possibly compare.
I’d lost the book. The goddamn book. It wasn’t in the first bookcase, on my desk, in the TV room, on or under either of the nightstands, in the second bookcase, or under the bed. It wasn’t on the microwave, either. It wasn’t in plain sight. I scanned the ground in case it might’ve somehow fallen but there was nothing. I searched the travel bag full of other books, the backpack I keep packed with rations and a med kit for emergencies, the giant hiking pack already bursting at the seams with gear. It might’ve been in the Jeep, but all I found was laundry detergent, a milk crate full of fluids and tools, and water bottles. No, it wasn’t on top of the fridge.
When had I become so careless that I’d lose the book?
I was prepared to audit my entire apartment when I saw it sitting on the window sill in the bedroom, beside a boxed lava lamp, an empty seltzer bottle, and a dead smoke detector. It must have remained there after I set up the bookcases. It was safe.
It is the reason I read, write, and support creative diversity. It’s the reason I’m here and not someplace else. It is unforgiveable that such a token should be forgotten on the wayside amongst piles of other stuff that are nothing more than that. I don’t know what path I might have forged without this.
Jesus.
Take care of your books, will you? Especially the ones that have changed your life.
Part of the pod
I don’t deny that all I do is pick up my roots and tread onward. It saddens me, sometimes, when I want to stay put and choose not to. It is an overestimation of my effect on people. A shedding of their effect on me.
It matters where I tread toward, of course. And who I tread with. These others whose roots are also capable of survival outside the soil are unknown to me. The most I get are fellow walkers in the night.
Everyone returns home.
My distances are getting better. A 13:47 mile. I’ve not heard of anyone who has walked around the world. There’s the problem of these gaps between continents, you understand. There are solutions to every worldly problem except death.
Urges of the past year:
Russia (Teased and unfulfilled. This trip has become a matter of principle.)
Iceland (I feel an affinity toward the Scandinavians and their myths.)
Argentina (Las pampas, el hielo, y Pilar.)
The long walk (Initially south-to-north, now west-to-east.)
Mexico (To see a grandfather now dead.)
New Zealand (A long drive around an island. Quite simple.)
Canada (Winter with the experts.)
(Source: thechibbsjermaine)
Sticky Is A Slut: Woman Haters…
He shared with me that, for a while, he was a woman hater. A woman hater is a man who seeks out women, dates them even, for the sole purpose of hurting them. A woman hater is not to be confused with a rebounder, or a player. A woman hater is a relationship masochist. He wants to make girls cry. He will see a girl regularly until he knows she likes him, then he disappears.
I was in Daly City the last time I became so angry that I couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Driving, that time. I wanted to rip the steering wheel out of its shaft and let my Jeep careen off the side of the road. I wanted fire to accompany my fury. I wanted blood.
I pulled over in a suburban neighborhood. I was still logical enough to know to stop. The walk home was long, as it required me to traverse through Daly City, South SF, and then turn north toward Brisbane. I wanted to find someone along the way and antagonize them. A woman, perhaps. Someone with her white skin and freckles. Dark, straight hair like hers. Nimble hands like hers. Confused soul like hers. I wanted someone to hurt and had no other way of letting it out. I made plans for myself to be better and excel for the sole purpose of revenge. I would unleash the pain on any woman who fell for me from then on. I was growing weary and ignored my aching feet. I raged in my mind and in my heart. The field of many broken hearts would sate me.
I walked for hours. The January rain poured and I marched on toward home. There was something pathetic and petty in me that screamed to be let out. I contained it so well that I lost all sense of passion, self, and love. It took years to recover a fraction of who I used to be.