Busted knee, girl, hanging over the edge of the bed. I forgot to turn off the heater that’s been costing me a few dozen nice dinners with wine. Reminders of the usual: beautiful asses and hips, the mellow rhythm ofwhatever with a distinct lack of passion. Too quick to indifference for my commitment tastes. Reading up on public sex and, wham, a reminder of B’s fantasy. A hand between her thighs at dinner followed by a forceful fuck against the side of the car. “When you’re 18, and only if I never hear talk about this ever again.” I made no plans. When I fly it’s on a whim because costs are high these days due to fuel. ______’s expensive. I never plan to drive to the field and take a Cessna out, but when I do, it’s the highlight of that week. California is a dry, brittle landscape, marked by stark striations for mountain ranges. It’s looks as dust on my windshield. Oregon is softer, more green. The mountains roll and it’s like the sweeping cinematic shots of Canada and Alaska. I look forward to my time in the air over Vancouver. The Pacific coast is my kingdom. I saw a photo of a gorgeous Indian girl the other day and didn’t reblog, because an ethereal model’s photo is my artifact but a person’s photo has a sacred air to it. I settle for hearts. I don’t settle for this. She’ll get a call for a walk around downtown. “Your place.” Calls are for arrangements. My charm is leveraged for filthy lucre, red swell. My thumb and fingers are pincers; her eyes, glass; my heart, broken; the world, simple; my name, once more.
Month: January 2012
Busted knee, girl
Busted knee, girl, hanging over the edge of the bed. I forgot to turn off the heater that’s been costing me a few dozen nice dinners with wine. Reminders of the usual: beautiful asses and hips, the mellow rhythm ofwhatever with a distinct lack of passion. Too quick to indifference for my commitment tastes. Reading up on public sex and, wham, a reminder of B’s fantasy. A hand between her thighs at dinner followed by a forceful fuck against the side of the car. “When you’re 18, and only if I never hear talk about this ever again.” I made no plans. When I fly it’s on a whim because costs are high these days due to fuel. ______’s expensive. I never plan to drive to the field and take a Cessna out, but when I do, it’s the highlight of that week. California is a dry, brittle landscape, marked by stark striations for mountain ranges. It’s looks as dust on my windshield. Oregon is softer, more green. The mountains roll and it’s like the sweeping cinematic shots of Canada and Alaska. I look forward to my time in the air over Vancouver. The Pacific coast is my kingdom. I saw a photo of a gorgeous Indian girl the other day and didn’t reblog, because an ethereal model’s photo is my artifact but a person’s photo has a sacred air to it. I settle for hearts. I don’t settle for this. She’ll get a call for a walk around downtown. “Your place.” Calls are for arrangements. My charm is leveraged for filthy lucre, red swell. My thumb and fingers are pincers; her eyes, glass; my heart, broken; the world, simple; my name, once more.
They were obviously giving a large party, exactly the kind that Marta dreamed of ever since she was a child. Heaven help her if she missed it. Down there opportunity was waiting for her, fate, romance, the true inauguration of her life. Would she arrive in time?
She spitefully noticed that another girl was falling about thirty meters above her. She was decidedly prettier than Marta and she wore a rather classy evening gown. For some unknown reason she came down much faster than Marta, so that in a few moments she passed by her and disappeared below, even though Marta was calling her. Without doubt she would get to the party before Marta; perhaps she had a plan all worked out to supplant her.
Then she realized that they weren’t alone. Along the sides of the skyscraper many other young women were plunging downward, their faces taut with the excitement of the flight, their hands cheerfully waving as if to say: look at us, here we are, entertain us, is not the world ours?
Dino Buzzati, “The Falling Girl” (viamerelyhumanbeing)
The focus of my fiction has often been young women. Most of my early stories featured them. There could be a number of reasons, from seeking to understand them for my own purposes to my protective nature forcing itself upon my creativity. Mostly, though, I want to see these young women get through an ordeal. I see so many of them corralled into spheres of anxiety and self-doubt that does nothing for them besides make their youth and their lives thereafter unnecessarily difficult.
They were obviously giving a large party, exactly the kind that Marta dreamed of ever since she was a child. Heaven help her if she missed it. Down there opportunity was waiting for her, fate, romance, the true inauguration of her life. Would she arrive in time?
She spitefully noticed that another girl was falling about thirty meters above her. She was decidedly prettier than Marta and she wore a rather classy evening gown. For some unknown reason she came down much faster than Marta, so that in a few moments she passed by her and disappeared below, even though Marta was calling her. Without doubt she would get to the party before Marta; perhaps she had a plan all worked out to supplant her.
Then she realized that they weren’t alone. Along the sides of the skyscraper many other young women were plunging downward, their faces taut with the excitement of the flight, their hands cheerfully waving as if to say: look at us, here we are, entertain us, is not the world ours?
Dino Buzzati, “The Falling Girl” (viamerelyhumanbeing)
The focus of my fiction has often been young women. Most of my early stories featured them. There could be a number of reasons, from seeking to understand them for my own purposes to my protective nature forcing itself upon my creativity. Mostly, though, I want to see these young women get through an ordeal. I see so many of them corralled into spheres of anxiety and self-doubt that does nothing for them besides make their youth and their lives thereafter unnecessarily difficult.
Schedule
For a time, I tried exercising in the morning. This was a short-lived and futile change in my schedule. It didn’t take long to switch back to working out late in the evening so’s I could then return home, take care of some odds and ends until midnight, and fall right to sleep. For too short a time, then, the only thing I had to look forward to in the early morning was wanton cravings for oral sex. Specifically, a certain indifference toward our need to sleep and a hushed agreement that one would lie there and accept the other’s hands and mouth greedily going down before dawn.
I am left with the insomnia of angst and the existential darkness of winter. If I’m fortunate, I wake up early enough to listen to the silence of rainfall and return to sleep for an hour or two, hushed by no one and allowed to be so lazy as to sleep right through a particularly carnal dream.
Schedule
For a time, I tried exercising in the morning. This was a short-lived and futile change in my schedule. It didn’t take long to switch back to working out late in the evening so’s I could then return home, take care of some odds and ends until midnight, and fall right to sleep. For too short a time, then, the only thing I had to look forward to in the early morning was wanton cravings for oral sex. Specifically, a certain indifference toward our need to sleep and a hushed agreement that one would lie there and accept the other’s hands and mouth greedily going down before dawn.
I am left with the insomnia of angst and the existential darkness of winter. If I’m fortunate, I wake up early enough to listen to the silence of rainfall and return to sleep for an hour or two, hushed by no one and allowed to be so lazy as to sleep right through a particularly carnal dream.
The past
The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.
The past
The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.
Secluded places
We used to hang out at the secluded places. It was easy to find them. There were more cracks to hide in than there were streets. There was a space next to the tennis courts at North Inglewood where we could watch others bomb the concrete after it had been painted over. People only played tennis on the weekends. Sometimes, in middle school, I’d go there with a girl to scam. It was nice, you know, our lives. Suburban safety with just the right amount of stupid risk.
We greeted each other with “What up, nigga.” Daps were given if you were cool with a homie. If it was boring and there was no one around, someone would pull out a shank, or a chain, or, rarely, a gun. I remember they always looked brand new or polished, unlike what you saw in the movies. They’d pass it around like a joint, giving everyone a chance to handle them. I knew we weren’t supposed to, but all the shit we weren’t supposed to do was left at the house.
Some dudes went all out. “My pop don’t know shit. Ridin’ mah ass, nigga! Like some fuckin’ faggot.”
What people who aren’t from Los Angeles can’t understand until they go there and move around is that Los Angeles is a plural. It’s a massive collective of cities and types of people for as far as the smog allows you to see. Things seem more diverse these days than they were in the 90s, but back before I had my first job (and thus exposure to varied individuals), I’d had very little exposure to the nature of that place. The attitudes, the acceptance and the segregation. We lived in a bubble. Granted, an American suburban bubble, but still a bubble. The only white person in the neighborhood was our next door neighbor, Mary, who was kind and crass and not a white person at all, just Mary. She was a notable exception. What it came down to was the white people over in West LA or Marina del Rey or Torrance, and for us there were riots driven by leftover racial tension between blacks and hispanics from the early 90s. Bullshit, of course, because all most of us wanted was excitement and to get out of class.
None of the distinctions mattered, in hindsight. We were a part of the plural. Beaners and wetbacks and niggas and scaredass white people. The words bother me now, more than they did then. I keep them with me, though, because forgetting’s an unwise thing to do.
Senior year, we all volunteered for Earth Club. College loomed and most of our group was looking for ways to score easy points for our applications. We were driven out to Venice to pick up garbage. After the trash detail, and the free time on the boardwalk, we walked back to the beach and perched near one of the piers. One guy and girl—I forget who—started having sex. I noticed them and looked around because, fuck, who the hell starts having sex in the middle of Venice Beach in the afternoon? I was mostly worried for them, as I didn’t want them to get caught. One guy watched them fuck and I leaned against one of the pier struts to watch the waves. It reminded me of my break-up just a few months before then. It may have marked my first case of longing.
My pop and I used to drive along La Brea to get to West LA. He had a gardening route and paid me a whole thirty fucking dollars a week, until I got my own job. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I dragged ass in protest. There was one time when my eighty-some year old grandfather—his father—came with us to lend a hand, and I fell asleep on the drive there. I woke up when they were halfway done to see my grandfather raking the leaves I should have been raking. I pretended to sleep because, hell, I don’t know. I was tired. I was tired of doing things I didn’t want to do and feeling like nothing would ever change. I was angry that life seemed like one chain after another, whether it was class, race, sex, money, violence, drugs, or any of the things that I never bothered to think about until I had a mind willing to deal with it.
Secluded places
We used to hang out at the secluded places. It was easy to find them. There were more cracks to hide in than there were streets. There was a space next to the tennis courts at North Inglewood where we could watch others bomb the concrete after it had been painted over. People only played tennis on the weekends. Sometimes, in middle school, I’d go there with a girl to scam. It was nice, you know, our lives. Suburban safety with just the right amount of stupid risk.
We greeted each other with “What up, nigga.” Daps were given if you were cool with a homie. If it was boring and there was no one around, someone would pull out a shank, or a chain, or, rarely, a gun. I remember they always looked brand new or polished, unlike what you saw in the movies. They’d pass it around like a joint, giving everyone a chance to handle them. I knew we weren’t supposed to, but all the shit we weren’t supposed to do was left at the house.
Some dudes went all out. “My pop don’t know shit. Ridin’ mah ass, nigga! Like some fuckin’ faggot.”
What people who aren’t from Los Angeles can’t understand until they go there and move around is that Los Angeles is a plural. It’s a massive collective of cities and types of people for as far as the smog allows you to see. Things seem more diverse these days than they were in the 90s, but back before I had my first job (and thus exposure to varied individuals), I’d had very little exposure to the nature of that place. The attitudes, the acceptance and the segregation. We lived in a bubble. Granted, an American suburban bubble, but still a bubble. The only white person in the neighborhood was our next door neighbor, Mary, who was kind and crass and not a white person at all, just Mary. She was a notable exception. What it came down to was the white people over in West LA or Marina del Rey or Torrance, and for us there were riots driven by leftover racial tension between blacks and hispanics from the early 90s. Bullshit, of course, because all most of us wanted was excitement and to get out of class.
None of the distinctions mattered, in hindsight. We were a part of the plural. Beaners and wetbacks and niggas and scaredass white people. The words bother me now, more than they did then. I keep them with me, though, because forgetting’s an unwise thing to do.
Senior year, we all volunteered for Earth Club. College loomed and most of our group was looking for ways to score easy points for our applications. We were driven out to Venice to pick up garbage. After the trash detail, and the free time on the boardwalk, we walked back to the beach and perched near one of the piers. One guy and girl—I forget who—started having sex. I noticed them and looked around because, fuck, who the hell starts having sex in the middle of Venice Beach in the afternoon? I was mostly worried for them, as I didn’t want them to get caught. One guy watched them fuck and I leaned against one of the pier struts to watch the waves. It reminded me of my break-up just a few months before then. It may have marked my first case of longing.
My pop and I used to drive along La Brea to get to West LA. He had a gardening route and paid me a whole thirty fucking dollars a week, until I got my own job. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I dragged ass in protest. There was one time when my eighty-some year old grandfather—his father—came with us to lend a hand, and I fell asleep on the drive there. I woke up when they were halfway done to see my grandfather raking the leaves I should have been raking. I pretended to sleep because, hell, I don’t know. I was tired. I was tired of doing things I didn’t want to do and feeling like nothing would ever change. I was angry that life seemed like one chain after another, whether it was class, race, sex, money, violence, drugs, or any of the things that I never bothered to think about until I had a mind willing to deal with it.