When I’m listening to music on my phone I sometimes find a track that reminds me of her, or her, or her. I think of using my bare hand, loading that vibrator app while I hold the phone. Nothing penetratory. Over her underwear, a dress. Warm and sometimes moist. Similarly, sometimes her hand on me. Pretending to be surprised or not, it’s the scene. Varying tracks produce varying effects, to be honest. ‘I’ll Stop the World and Melt With You’ is mischievous. It leads me down to a teenage girl’s bedroom in her parents’ house when she should be studying for a History final. The jukebox staple ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’: the road trip staple dirty sex—emphasis on the filth and sweat—in a motel room. All tracks on ‘The Chronic’ take me to my old pick-up truck, unsteady breathing, and a pair of fantastically thick brown thighs. Cocorosie, Dresden Dolls, and Jack Off Jill really do a number on me. They get me thinking about how easy it is to bruise a fair-skinned girl. And ‘Nightcall’, well, by that point I’m ready to pull the headphones out and turn the damn thing off, because unless there’s a nice girl wearing a nice set of panties that are ready to be rolled off in anticipation of receiving my mouth into the soft bush between her legs waiting for me at the end of the line, I’m safer in silence.
Month: January 2012
Of all the realizations, there’s a big one: my ma is frightened and withdrawn. She cared for us plenty but gave less than two shits about others. Once, as she backed the family van out of the driveway, we saw someone lying on the sidewalk. She told us to ignore it and get in the van. We saw another neighbor coming to investigate as we drove away. It turned out to be a woman who visited from time to time and annoyed my mother. She was too polite to ask her not to visit.
Another time—still during childhood—we were driving in the Impala to visit an uncle. We were on Crenshaw and an old woman approached the car to ask for a ride. She claimed to be lost and appeared quite feeble. My pop agreed to help her and my ma visibly sulked as she squeezed into the bench seat. We drove from street to street searching for the woman’s home. She continually said the next block, the next block. We eventually stumbled across a convalescent hospital and an orderly who explained that the woman suffered from memory loss and had wandered away. We dropped her off and continued to the freeway. My pop encouraged this sort of altruism, but my ma did not want to be involved. She wanted us to keep to ourselves.
“Your mother is an ill-tempered woman,” explained my pop, in Spanish. “It’s difficult to talk to her. She shuts me out. Do you know what I think? Forget it. I go to my room and watch television.” He also spends time in the garage, but he does not see work as an attempt to escape.
I sometimes think that they’re bound for a divorce. It’s inevitable, it has to happen. But I dig deeper into their story and see that despite their stubbornness and bitterness, they compliment one another. My ma requires stability and security so that she isn’t overwhelmed by the outside world, and receives this from my father, who is always working and receives his own comfort from providing for those whom he cares about. In short, they’ve attained a working balance.
Hell, man. Isn’t that something? Just finding a way to fit into someone’s else’s life is difficult enough.
The universe provides insight
My first wife was a gorgeous long-haired brunette with whom I lived in an apartment in a large city. She cheated and I ended it. I was left financially fucked. The second wife had a short haircut and seemed more mature than the last. We married in Atlantic City after a brief cocktail at a bar that overlooked the neon landscape. We did well for a while but we began to have fights that ended with me throwing televisions through the walls of a hotel room. We divorced. I kept all my money this time. The next wife was a blonde Norwegian woman who seemed quite kind and settled down in her ways. We lived together in a wine country. We planned to develop our own vineyard. I was away at work a lot and she seemed to feel I didn’t care. She left me. She didn’t want any of my scant financial holdings. The fourth woman to be my wife was vague in her appearance, but young and eager to please. I taught her things. She seemed genuinely interested in being with me. I painted nude portraits of her and wrote poetry. We lived on a boat until she met a young man at a South African port and ran away to be with him. I sailed as far south as the boat could take me and shot myself in the head. My body never decayed and the boat floated into a cluster of icebergs. I was pulverized.
The universe provides insight
My first wife was a gorgeous long-haired brunette with whom I lived in an apartment in a large city. She cheated and I ended it. I was left financially fucked. The second wife had a short haircut and seemed more mature than the last. We married in Atlantic City after a brief cocktail at a bar that overlooked the neon landscape. We did well for a while but we began to have fights that ended with me throwing televisions through the walls of a hotel room. We divorced. I kept all my money this time. The next wife was a blonde Norwegian woman who seemed quite kind and settled down in her ways. We lived together in a wine country. We planned to develop our own vineyard. I was away at work a lot and she seemed to feel I didn’t care. She left me. She didn’t want any of my scant financial holdings. The fourth woman to be my wife was vague in her appearance, but young and eager to please. I taught her things. She seemed genuinely interested in being with me. I painted nude portraits of her and wrote poetry. We lived on a boat until she met a young man at a South African port and ran away to be with him. I sailed as far south as the boat could take me and shot myself in the head. My body never decayed and the boat floated into a cluster of icebergs. I was pulverized.
It’s strange the ways memories and experiences pile up over each other, sometimes grouped into similar experiences or so overbearing that they repress the old stuff down into the depths. Some can monopolize the waking and dreaming hours with equal severity. The dreaming memories can extend to terrifying depths. I’ve dreamt of eyes and hair that tear me apart, as well as other, stranger things. The ones that bother me are usually old and dying guilts. The ones I like I keep.
This photo could remind me of much, but mostly it reminds me of a name: Danielle. It’s important that I write it because I recently discovered that the second girl I slept with—after Jackie, who I still can’t write about—is nearly lost to me. I forgot her name, her eyes, or the things she said. I do remember that I told her anything more than what we’d done was not in our best interest. Except, you know, more in line with something a clueless 18-year old might say. Or was I 19?
That’s the trick to aging, I reckon. Remembering enough of the past to put a name to a memory.
(Source: june1972)
It’s strange the ways memories and experiences pile up over each other, sometimes grouped into similar experiences or so overbearing that they repress the old stuff down into the depths. Some can monopolize the waking and dreaming hours with equal severity. The dreaming memories can extend to terrifying depths. I’ve dreamt of eyes and hair that tear me apart, as well as other, stranger things. The ones that bother me are usually old and dying guilts. The ones I like I keep.
This photo could remind me of much, but mostly it reminds me of a name: Danielle. It’s important that I write it because I recently discovered that the second girl I slept with—after Jackie, who I still can’t write about—is nearly lost to me. I forgot her name, her eyes, or the things she said. I do remember that I told her anything more than what we’d done was not in our best interest. Except, you know, more in line with something a clueless 18-year old might say. Or was I 19?
That’s the trick to aging, I reckon. Remembering enough of the past to put a name to a memory.
(Source: june1972)
Me, me, me.
I think to myself in certain terms.
No, honey. No, gray eyes. No, doll.
Is it the wind in my mane? The point of the beard? The knot in my chest?
The decisions—not resolutions—are as simple as live, fuck it all, live. It’s seven in the morning when I wake up and think I want sex, when, about a year and a half ago, I gave less than a damn. Once you start back up, I tell you. It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget and you remember how goddamn great it is. Otherwise, in the absence, I read like mad. I read books, I read tumblr posts, I read news articles. Give me, give me.
It’s the shaking, mostly. The soft tremble. That’s usually when I paused to look in her eyes. I wouldn’t make her cry—I’m really trying—but I would make her come, and her face is. Is. Is…
I’d hold her chin, if I needed it. She has a crooked lower tooth that points to her canine.
I see these kids walking around with their pants sagging halfway down their ass. I see myself ten, fifteen years ago. Quiet, saggy bastard. I want to tell them to wise the fuck up. No one tells these kids these things because they hear but don’t listen. I’m old anyway, why listen to me? But, damn. The things I could’ve done. The life I could’ve lived—
Stop there, if I’m smart.
My heart’s as fragile as ever. Certain music really kicks my ass. Certain joy.
Stop here. The cucumber and farm cheese sandwiches make lunch. I’m sitting on a bench and it’s raining just for me.
Me, me, me.
I think to myself in certain terms.
No, honey. No, gray eyes. No, doll.
Is it the wind in my mane? The point of the beard? The knot in my chest?
The decisions—not resolutions—are as simple as live, fuck it all, live. It’s seven in the morning when I wake up and think I want sex, when, about a year and a half ago, I gave less than a damn. Once you start back up, I tell you. It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget and you remember how goddamn great it is. Otherwise, in the absence, I read like mad. I read books, I read tumblr posts, I read news articles. Give me, give me.
It’s the shaking, mostly. The soft tremble. That’s usually when I paused to look in her eyes. I wouldn’t make her cry—I’m really trying—but I would make her come, and her face is. Is. Is…
I’d hold her chin, if I needed it. She has a crooked lower tooth that points to her canine.
I see these kids walking around with their pants sagging halfway down their ass. I see myself ten, fifteen years ago. Quiet, saggy bastard. I want to tell them to wise the fuck up. No one tells these kids these things because they hear but don’t listen. I’m old anyway, why listen to me? But, damn. The things I could’ve done. The life I could’ve lived—
Stop there, if I’m smart.
My heart’s as fragile as ever. Certain music really kicks my ass. Certain joy.
Stop here. The cucumber and farm cheese sandwiches make lunch. I’m sitting on a bench and it’s raining just for me.
One of the best things I heard during my time in Alaska was, “No one ever comes here looking for something. They’re running away.” This was from a woman who moved from Nebraska—I believe—in order to be with her husband, who just a few months before our meeting had been flown to Anchorage via helicopter after an accident that left him in a comatose state. I met her along with her two companions during their annual retreat onto the Denali tundra.
It was just a hell of a thing to discuss with a stranger. She wasn’t upset or worried. Well, I’m sure she was, but she described the ordeal in such a rational, matter-of-fact fashion that it seemed like everyday trouble. This was the same tone with which she delivered that line about running away.
Sure, husband’s in a coma and everyone’s running away from something. It’s just what people do.
I hadn’t thought about Alaska or that conversation for a while, to be honest, but my ma went and asked me if I was planning on going again this year. I’d talked about dog sledding in the winter, but hadn’t found time to plan it out. It’s not much to it. This couple that run a lodge near Denali also offer dog sled escapades for anyone willing to spend a couple of weeks mushing across frozen tundra. The amount of space out there is refreshing.
Places to which I can run away. I suppose that’s what I seek. Large expanses that offer space to breathe in every conceivable direction and the full frontal view of the universe.
Once, after e-stalking and confessing about it to a girl, we joked that I’d be a good private detective. Since then I’ve considered that perhaps I do have a knack for digging up information I’m not supposed to have because, well, why the fuck not? Hell, it’s my job to pay attention and find defects in everything I see. If something’s amiss I’m going to research it and call it out until it’s resolved.
If you want to see me passionate, deny me the facts.
(This is how governments come to spy on their citizens, by the way. So I reiterate: never place me in a position of power. Simply hire me on contract when you need something dug up.)
Now obviously this is an image from Google Maps and I’ll posit that using Google Maps to zoom in on North Korea and check out their cities isn’t detective work. But it isn’t seeing the obvious that makes a good snoop. It’s about looking at the obvious and seeing what isn’t. To that end, I think using some of my sick time to look at satellite images of cities all over the world is time well spent. I see it as an outlet for a curious mind.
And the reason why, in the current conflict of relating to other people, I’d rather not get interested enough to want to look down on them as if they are a map on a table or a crime scene to examine. It’d be much easier—not to mention healthier—to just lay it all out there and let the mystery dissolve.