Tag: prose

Disclarity.

These last few years have been a matter of both physical and psychological winnowing. Nibbling away at the flesh to get to the bone.

It’s this thickness. It’s like standing in a vat of gravy. Wading in days-old soup. This sidewalk is walled in on both sides. Arms out, stout traveler. Cede your path to me. Rails press in until I’m through the door. These clothes, these fucking clothes. I kick my shoes off and step through the hallway into the large space I have allotted for music and books. Tearing the air apart with flails and hefty breathing. Out on the balcony I can still feel wood beneath my feet. I bend the front of my feet over the edge and it’s only one more step until I’m free.

I’ve never been good at countering baseless insults toward someone I care about. Any rationality I possess goes out the window and I get the urge to punch a motherfucker in the face.

No one discusses power. People fear it like the plague in an era that has seen officials take and wield the power that ought by rights come to the individual. This is as it should not be: in my hands.

Things mellow out when you accept that most of the people don’t care about you except for a small number who are inexplicably there for the rest of your life.

Someone explains a personal problem: “Alright. How do you plan to overcome this problem? What’s stopping you from overcoming this problem? How can I help you overcome this problem? If you aren’t happy with your plan it’s time for a new plan. Why haven’t you come up with a new plan? What do you want to do? Why aren’t you doing it? What will you do after you thought about it for a while?”

Just shut up for a moment. Can you do that? No one understands losing control of one’s mind. It’s this torture. It’s moment after moment of thoughts and fears that aren’t rational. This is what no one can grasp. Not even me. It’s fear of everyone, especially the people who love you.

Keenly aware of the risk with words. Fucking keen as a fiddle. Never know when a bunch of words said in earnest might be taken as a lie, do you? Nah. It’s bound to happen after too much saying. Tell me this, say that. Flat voice don’t make the words any nicer.

Contrapostal. You are fine. Let’s fuck.

I am not yet beyond hedonism.

No one believes when it happens again.

I suffer from this condition. Perpetually bad memory. I’ve forgotten many things. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to earn my first paycheck, money earned for my hard work. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be able to buy something for someone I love. I’ve forgotten the nervousness of that first time with a special girl. Holding her hand.

You like the things I write.

It’s the poet boys who ruin the women I love.

My initial problem with orgies, back in the olden days, was the awkwardness of it. The people who invited me to these things were friends. People I saw fully clothed on a regular basis. The thought of showing up, probably getting drunk and high, and then fucking some girl I’d be discussing U.S. History with the following week while surrounded by others who were also in the throes of coitus was too much for a repressed kid to handle. Now it seems like a healthy, zesty enterprise.

My father was never in a war, but he was shot in the back. He carries the bullet in his flesh to this day. He was beaten mercilessly as a child and forced to leave his home at the age of fourteen to look for work in a country that was unkind to foreigners and brutal to innocents. He could have died many times, he says. The only thing that kept him going was the drive to work and survive. Eventually, he became focused on family. His mother and once sadistic father occupied his thoughts. He sent them money as often as he could while he idled away in youthful indiscretions. These facts have been revealed to me slowly, timidly, with the passage of time. I do not know his purpose for telling me, but I suspect his age is beginning to catch up with him. He has to wear glasses, which he is not fond of; and his hands, the hands that kept him employed for decades, begin to fail him. Every now and again we discuss these matters of aging and adulthood. He interprets these discussions as self-doubt on my part. Searching for guidance from him, lost in a world he has never understood. He doesn’t know what I do, who I associate with, where I plan to go. He fails to understand the man I have become. The father becomes limited and human. The son asks the same questions of himself.

A man is always in the shadow of one who came before him.

Forceful, violent, and unwavering. The word no one likes to say is rape, and with good reason. Unwilling participation voids the intimacy and reduces one person to a loser, forced to copulate by any means necessary, and the other to a victim in a culture that supports guilt and shame for the victim but not the attacker. And yet that sense of “taking” is undeniable. It is a sexual tour de force.

Sitting in a car not in my control, staring out the window. I am there a man in the sense that I am fully aware of the weather which I can feel on my crisp golden arm, see in each pair of bare female legs beneath khaki shorts and fluid floral dresses, and not feel a moment of hesitation nor florid thought about either. In that present I am aware of what is, and only now do I bother to interpret the scene.

All meaning can found in expunged fluids. Sweat, urine, shit, mucous, cum, and so on. I want to remember where these words came from.

In considering and writing about the past year (volumes at this point), I proposed that some people are little more than human databases. Anyone with working memory can remember facts, of course, but how to utilize them? How do we interpret the information and make use of it? In my case, the information is collected. Details that shouldn’t matter are filed away in a database for some future purpose that may never come and is almost never immediately accessible.

The valley between your hips and the wrinkles of your armpit. I could live here. I could dwell in this place, in the present, and forget the sunrise ahead. It could be lying in the darkness of blind certainty. The tremor of melancholy would do little to shake me.

Relax. It’ll better or it’ll get worse. You’ll find your way there regardless.

Disclarity.

These last few years have been a matter of both physical and psychological winnowing. Nibbling away at the flesh to get to the bone.

It’s this thickness. It’s like standing in a vat of gravy. Wading in days-old soup. This sidewalk is walled in on both sides. Arms out, stout traveler. Cede your path to me. Rails press in until I’m through the door. These clothes, these fucking clothes. I kick my shoes off and step through the hallway into the large space I have allotted for music and books. Tearing the air apart with flails and hefty breathing. Out on the balcony I can still feel wood beneath my feet. I bend the front of my feet over the edge and it’s only one more step until I’m free.

I’ve never been good at countering baseless insults toward someone I care about. Any rationality I possess goes out the window and I get the urge to punch a motherfucker in the face.

No one discusses power. People fear it like the plague in an era that has seen officials take and wield the power that ought by rights come to the individual. This is as it should not be: in my hands.

Things mellow out when you accept that most of the people don’t care about you except for a small number who are inexplicably there for the rest of your life.

Someone explains a personal problem: “Alright. How do you plan to overcome this problem? What’s stopping you from overcoming this problem? How can I help you overcome this problem? If you aren’t happy with your plan it’s time for a new plan. Why haven’t you come up with a new plan? What do you want to do? Why aren’t you doing it? What will you do after you thought about it for a while?”

Just shut up for a moment. Can you do that? No one understands losing control of one’s mind. It’s this torture. It’s moment after moment of thoughts and fears that aren’t rational. This is what no one can grasp. Not even me. It’s fear of everyone, especially the people who love you.

Keenly aware of the risk with words. Fucking keen as a fiddle. Never know when a bunch of words said in earnest might be taken as a lie, do you? Nah. It’s bound to happen after too much saying. Tell me this, say that. Flat voice don’t make the words any nicer.

Contrapostal. You are fine. Let’s fuck.

I am not yet beyond hedonism.

No one believes when it happens again.

I suffer from this condition. Perpetually bad memory. I’ve forgotten many things. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to earn my first paycheck, money earned for my hard work. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be able to buy something for someone I love. I’ve forgotten the nervousness of that first time with a special girl. Holding her hand.

You like the things I write.

It’s the poet boys who ruin the women I love.

My initial problem with orgies, back in the olden days, was the awkwardness of it. The people who invited me to these things were friends. People I saw fully clothed on a regular basis. The thought of showing up, probably getting drunk and high, and then fucking some girl I’d be discussing U.S. History with the following week while surrounded by others who were also in the throes of coitus was too much for a repressed kid to handle. Now it seems like a healthy, zesty enterprise.

My father was never in a war, but he was shot in the back. He carries the bullet in his flesh to this day. He was beaten mercilessly as a child and forced to leave his home at the age of fourteen to look for work in a country that was unkind to foreigners and brutal to innocents. He could have died many times, he says. The only thing that kept him going was the drive to work and survive. Eventually, he became focused on family. His mother and once sadistic father occupied his thoughts. He sent them money as often as he could while he idled away in youthful indiscretions. These facts have been revealed to me slowly, timidly, with the passage of time. I do not know his purpose for telling me, but I suspect his age is beginning to catch up with him. He has to wear glasses, which he is not fond of; and his hands, the hands that kept him employed for decades, begin to fail him. Every now and again we discuss these matters of aging and adulthood. He interprets these discussions as self-doubt on my part. Searching for guidance from him, lost in a world he has never understood. He doesn’t know what I do, who I associate with, where I plan to go. He fails to understand the man I have become. The father becomes limited and human. The son asks the same questions of himself.

A man is always in the shadow of one who came before him.

Forceful, violent, and unwavering. The word no one likes to say is rape, and with good reason. Unwilling participation voids the intimacy and reduces one person to a loser, forced to copulate by any means necessary, and the other to a victim in a culture that supports guilt and shame for the victim but not the attacker. And yet that sense of “taking” is undeniable. It is a sexual tour de force.

Sitting in a car not in my control, staring out the window. I am there a man in the sense that I am fully aware of the weather which I can feel on my crisp golden arm, see in each pair of bare female legs beneath khaki shorts and fluid floral dresses, and not feel a moment of hesitation nor florid thought about either. In that present I am aware of what is, and only now do I bother to interpret the scene.

All meaning can found in expunged fluids. Sweat, urine, shit, mucous, cum, and so on. I want to remember where these words came from.

In considering and writing about the past year (volumes at this point), I proposed that some people are little more than human databases. Anyone with working memory can remember facts, of course, but how to utilize them? How do we interpret the information and make use of it? In my case, the information is collected. Details that shouldn’t matter are filed away in a database for some future purpose that may never come and is almost never immediately accessible.

The valley between your hips and the wrinkles of your armpit. I could live here. I could dwell in this place, in the present, and forget the sunrise ahead. It could be lying in the darkness of blind certainty. The tremor of melancholy would do little to shake me.

Relax. It’ll better or it’ll get worse. You’ll find your way there regardless.

I might be the demon you need.

I spend much time alone these days in spite of words about physical presence. I blow people off time and again and, realistically, I can’t expect them to be around forever. The expectations regarding my own loneliness, happiness, and sadness are adjusted accordingly. I am not in the kind of hope that causes a heart to rise and crash. My hope is a lingering thread, one I follow from day to day as I engage in my work and find contentment in simpler activities. I am obsessive about waste. Wasted time, wasted energy, paper and plastic I don’t need to throw away. I obsess about my power, who I can overwhelm and in what manner. I think of myself and write of the same.

“I,” like no other pronoun is important enough to write down. Most of the active names in my head are far from where I am.

I will not be published this year. Not for lack of submission (I’m not even there yet), but because the work is not good enough for my standards. All of this unfinished work reeks of a lack of social consciousness. I read instead. I think of Gogol (obsessed, perhaps) and his death from malnutrition at the age of forty-three. I wonder if I am too restrictive in my elimination of the unnecessary. I do not foresee this as a possible future, but I do reflect on alternatives. Fat sugar daddy dead from cardiac arrest at the age of forty-three. Father and husband dead from inhalation of carbon exhaust at the age of forty-three. Man reported missing and presumed dead in Aruba at the age of forty-three. Possibilities can make one’s head hurt. It is no wonder that I keep such tight reins on my destiny.

Reflecting on a social life: there are readings I’ve stopped attending. I derive genuine joy from seeing people stand up and read their creativity, or their honesty, especially the shy people or those who don’t know what to expect. The blood always races, even my own after all the times I’ve read or presented in front of crowds. I project certainty when I can. I’m listening to you, up there. Shaky hands are incredible. The pause to swallow a lump in one’s throat is a moment to reflect on what’s missing, such as a good friend or a cold hand seeking my warmth.

I have a rare headache. The balcony is covered in cobwebs.

I might be the demon you need.

I spend much time alone these days in spite of words about physical presence. I blow people off time and again and, realistically, I can’t expect them to be around forever. The expectations regarding my own loneliness, happiness, and sadness are adjusted accordingly. I am not in the kind of hope that causes a heart to rise and crash. My hope is a lingering thread, one I follow from day to day as I engage in my work and find contentment in simpler activities. I am obsessive about waste. Wasted time, wasted energy, paper and plastic I don’t need to throw away. I obsess about my power, who I can overwhelm and in what manner. I think of myself and write of the same.

“I,” like no other pronoun is important enough to write down. Most of the active names in my head are far from where I am.

I will not be published this year. Not for lack of submission (I’m not even there yet), but because the work is not good enough for my standards. All of this unfinished work reeks of a lack of social consciousness. I read instead. I think of Gogol (obsessed, perhaps) and his death from malnutrition at the age of forty-three. I wonder if I am too restrictive in my elimination of the unnecessary. I do not foresee this as a possible future, but I do reflect on alternatives. Fat sugar daddy dead from cardiac arrest at the age of forty-three. Father and husband dead from inhalation of carbon exhaust at the age of forty-three. Man reported missing and presumed dead in Aruba at the age of forty-three. Possibilities can make one’s head hurt. It is no wonder that I keep such tight reins on my destiny.

Reflecting on a social life: there are readings I’ve stopped attending. I derive genuine joy from seeing people stand up and read their creativity, or their honesty, especially the shy people or those who don’t know what to expect. The blood always races, even my own after all the times I’ve read or presented in front of crowds. I project certainty when I can. I’m listening to you, up there. Shaky hands are incredible. The pause to swallow a lump in one’s throat is a moment to reflect on what’s missing, such as a good friend or a cold hand seeking my warmth.

I have a rare headache. The balcony is covered in cobwebs.

That final morning.

I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.

You think that way, after.

I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.

It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.

“I’m heading out,” I said.

He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.

“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”

I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.

“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”

“No. The plans didn’t work out.”

“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”

“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”

“Way out there?”

“Yup.”

“How about we fix you something to go.”

“No, thanks.”

You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.

I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.

You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.

On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.

I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.

Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.

Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.

“Do you have coins?”

“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.

“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”

“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”

“No one’ll notice.”

“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.

But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.

That final morning.

I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.

You think that way, after.

I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.

It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.

“I’m heading out,” I said.

He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.

“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”

I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.

“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.

“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”

“No. The plans didn’t work out.”

“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”

“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”

“Way out there?”

“Yup.”

“How about we fix you something to go.”

“No, thanks.”

You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.

I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.

You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.

On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.

I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.

Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.

Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.

“Do you have coins?”

“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.

“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”

“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”

“No one’ll notice.”

“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.

But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.

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.

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.

Vibration

Stillborn and never to be, I awoke in a silence, not alone. The bones in the ends of my fingers vibrated, eager to begin their lives independent of me. I rose my eyes. The room, green in complexion, smiled, and invited me to stand. My hands guided me up and pulled me toward the corner leg of the long dining table beside me.

“Hello,” as quietly as possible, as if to no one but the backs of my teeth, tongue, and roof of my mouth. The walls, green as velvet, absorbed it all. I lay and felt the desire to sob, but resisted, urged on by reality. This was not this place. I was not here. Grumbling, I stood.

The light from the outside broke through the seams along the edges of the thick curtains. I feared what I might find and left them to their task. My fingers rose and moved the hair from my face, over my forehead, left to lie along the crest of my skull where it gathered, waiting for the time to fall and lie over my face again. It was not cold nor hot. My skin felt dry. I remembered a rain I never felt but once considered in my rush to fate. My fingers urged me forward, to the small table beside the door.

“I know,” I said. They ceased to vibrate in acknowledgement.

I padded along the carpet. The legs I used led to this, and of this came my long ago realization. I would be in this room regardless of what I followed or who I became. Born to little and made to feel like less. This was where it led me. My fingers awoke, sensing loss of purpose. I continued to the table. Among the bills and catelogs I found a string, red as the sunset that witnessed me bare as the angels, on the eve of my time here. I sat in a field, felt the grasses lick at the invisible hair on my hips. I played with a thimble I had found on the road, where I had left my car. I ran it along my arm, felt its gritty surface lightly scrape my skin.

“It’s only growing pains. I know it’s nothing more. I tried, I think, I did. It was so trying. But, this is alright. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” I tied the string around the tip of each of my fingers, as tightly as I could. When I was finished, I they looked like berries held together by a crimson web.

I looked back at the room. It was noiser now. I could hear spiders hiding in the corners, spinning falsehoods that they used to catch a meal. There was heavy breathing. The velvet walls triggered a feeling of confinement. It felt like a basement a long time ago. It felt like a basement I should never have been inside of. It felt like fat, greedy fingers, and I stopped, just stopped, because it did not matter. This room was not a basement. No one else was here.

I approached the darkened door, outlined on all sides by a lightness, like the curtains. My hair began to fall again. Fearing little and knowing that it would all be gone, I opened the door and stepped outside. I was in the field again. Each step away from the room was a loss of another memory, one moment at a time. It was strange to lose what can seemingly never be lost. I walked further still. There was no guidance, nor encouraging come hither. I lumbered forward into the space that was not the room, wandering about, caught in the daze of some parhelic distraction.

Vibration

Stillborn and never to be, I awoke in a silence, not alone. The bones in the ends of my fingers vibrated, eager to begin their lives independent of me. I rose my eyes. The room, green in complexion, smiled, and invited me to stand. My hands guided me up and pulled me toward the corner leg of the long dining table beside me.

“Hello,” as quietly as possible, as if to no one but the backs of my teeth, tongue, and roof of my mouth. The walls, green as velvet, absorbed it all. I lay and felt the desire to sob, but resisted, urged on by reality. This was not this place. I was not here. Grumbling, I stood.

The light from the outside broke through the seams along the edges of the thick curtains. I feared what I might find and left them to their task. My fingers rose and moved the hair from my face, over my forehead, left to lie along the crest of my skull where it gathered, waiting for the time to fall and lie over my face again. It was not cold nor hot. My skin felt dry. I remembered a rain I never felt but once considered in my rush to fate. My fingers urged me forward, to the small table beside the door.

“I know,” I said. They ceased to vibrate in acknowledgement.

I padded along the carpet. The legs I used led to this, and of this came my long ago realization. I would be in this room regardless of what I followed or who I became. Born to little and made to feel like less. This was where it led me. My fingers awoke, sensing loss of purpose. I continued to the table. Among the bills and catelogs I found a string, red as the sunset that witnessed me bare as the angels, on the eve of my time here. I sat in a field, felt the grasses lick at the invisible hair on my hips. I played with a thimble I had found on the road, where I had left my car. I ran it along my arm, felt its gritty surface lightly scrape my skin.

“It’s only growing pains. I know it’s nothing more. I tried, I think, I did. It was so trying. But, this is alright. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” I tied the string around the tip of each of my fingers, as tightly as I could. When I was finished, I they looked like berries held together by a crimson web.

I looked back at the room. It was noiser now. I could hear spiders hiding in the corners, spinning falsehoods that they used to catch a meal. There was heavy breathing. The velvet walls triggered a feeling of confinement. It felt like a basement a long time ago. It felt like a basement I should never have been inside of. It felt like fat, greedy fingers, and I stopped, just stopped, because it did not matter. This room was not a basement. No one else was here.

I approached the darkened door, outlined on all sides by a lightness, like the curtains. My hair began to fall again. Fearing little and knowing that it would all be gone, I opened the door and stepped outside. I was in the field again. Each step away from the room was a loss of another memory, one moment at a time. It was strange to lose what can seemingly never be lost. I walked further still. There was no guidance, nor encouraging come hither. I lumbered forward into the space that was not the room, wandering about, caught in the daze of some parhelic distraction.